Book of Heroes: George of Sedona I - 3. Chapter 3: The Book of Heroes

Chapter 3: The Book of Heroes

The town of Kirkwood lay in a hollow. The hills that surrounded the town were lush with spring foliage. A spur road led south toward the town. When Arthur and George reached the intersection, Arthur stopped his horse and dismounted. George dismounted and stood beside him.

“Remember what I said about destiny? That sometimes it forced me to make choices…or led me into places where I did not want to go?”

“Yes,” George replied. “Is it happening now?”

“Yes. I believe destiny has brought us here. There’s something in Kirkwood that we were meant to see, or do,” Arthur said.

“How do you know?” George whispered. “And how do you know it’s us, and not just you?”

“It is like the sounds you hear, George,” Arthur said. “Only this is what I see in the magic field. A path has opened. It leads to Kirkwood, and nowhere else. All other paths have disappeared. How do I know the path is for of both us, and not just me? I see you and me riding down that road toward the town.”

“How do you know you have to take this path?” George asked.

“Actually, I don’t, actually. I do know that when I see a path like this, if I don’t take it, something will force me to take it—often something unpleasant. Once, when I refused to take the path destiny showed me, and took another path, my horse stumbled. I was thrown, and hit my head on a rock. When I woke up, I was where the path wanted me to go…I had been carried there. It was an easy lesson, actually. Some of the others were harder. It could have been a lot worse. Sometimes I see two choices, and one is clearly disastrous, for me or for someone else.”

Arthur paused and pulled the boy into an embrace. “Are you sure you want to be my squire?”

“Yes,” George said, “and I hope that destiny wants it, too.” The boys mounted their horses, and turned south.

As Arthur and George rode toward the town, a spring thunderstorm boiled over a hill. Lightning flashed among the trees. Arthur carefully erected a shield of magic to protect them from the lightning. He did not, however, shield them from the rain, and by the time they reached the town gates, they were drenched. The rain was cold.

An elf stood in the shelter of the postern gate. He wore the same symbol that Worthen and Adrian had worn. George had learned that it was the symbol of the Lauden Sept: elves who were stewards of the land as farmers, foresters, and animal husbandrymen. The guard addressed them in Elvish, shouting over the din of wind, rain, and thunder. Arthur replied in the common tongue. “I’m Arthur; this is George. He doesn’t speak Elvish. We’ve just come from Ulan Woods. Can we find shelter and work here?”

The guard beckoned them to enter the postern gate and into a passage that zigzagged through the wall. They had to walk single file, leading the horses. Arthur saw the arrow slits high in the walls and in the ceiling. If the postern gate were breeched this passage would become a killing zone. Inside the town wall, a canopy protected them from the rain while the guard quizzed Arthur. “What sort of work? How long will you stay?”

“I can work as a private guard,” Arthur replied. “We will stay if we find work, or leave in a day or two if we do not.”

“There’s no Mercenary Guild chapter, here,” the guard said. “Notices for work are posted on the town square. I think a couple of people were hiring yesterday. You can check when the rain stops, if the wind hasn’t blown the notices down. There’s an inn, there, across the courtyard…you can leave your horses here, if you like, and dry at the inn until the storm stops.”

“We’re grateful for your kindness,” Arthur said as he tied the horses to a rail near the back of the shelter. “Are you sure this is no trouble?”

“Trouble? Oh, no,” the boy replied. “This may seem a silly question in all this rain, but do they want water?”

With the boy’s help, George toted a bucket of water from a tap to a trough, and allowed the horses to drink.

*****

The inn’s common room was full; George and Arthur weren’t the only ones who had taken refuge from the storm. Two elves near the fireplace moved to make room for the boys when they came, dripping, through the door. “Thank you kindly,” Arthur said as he and George sat down to warm themselves.

The elf said something in Elvish, to which Arthur replied in that tongue.

George looked at Arthur quizzically, and Arthur said. “He asked me what I said, and I thanked him, again, in Elvish.”

The publican’s boy came to ask what they’d like to drink. Arthur asked for mulled cider, fishing in his pockets to find a ha’penny to pay the boy when the hot drinks came.

“We’ve two horses, tied up by the gate,” he said. “Can you stable them, and do you have a room to let?”

“Aye,” the boy said, “There’s room. Two shillings a day will buy room and board, and for your horses, too.”

The storm was soon over, and the common room quickly emptied. The publican was glad for their custom. “We haven’t seen many travelers during the winter, and it’s too early in spring for most folks to be on the road. Market will pick up in another tenday, but until then you’ll pretty much have the place to yourselves.”

*****

Arthur lay on his back while George gently rubbed his chest and stomach.

“Why did everyone in Ulan Woods speak this language—the human one—but not so many people here speak it?” George asked.

“Ulan Woods is on a trade road from the seacoast. There’s probably a lot of caravan traffic in the summer. It’s a bigger city, too. People tend to be better educated in bigger cities. And, most of the people we dealt with were the kinds of people who would need to know the common tongue: the guards, innkeeper, and tradespeople. Kirkwood is off the main road, and probably sees fewer travelers. If we’re going to be in Elvenhold for any time, you need to be able to speak modern Elvish,” Arthur said. “At least enough to get around. We’ll start with some basic words, like please, thank you, excuse me, and where’s the toilet.” George giggled.

Arthur uttered those phrases in Elvish. “Now, say them back to me, please.”

George stopped rubbing Arthur and struggled to say the words. Then he asked, “Why can’t you use magic to teach me, like you learned? Or like it taught me the common language when we came through the gate?”

Arthur rolled on his side and looked at the boy in the light of the single candle. “The magic that taught me Elvish nearly killed me and the prince, remember? That’s a risk I’d not like to take, even if I knew how to do it,” Arthur said. “And I don’t know how the gates teach language. I will use some magic to help you, but you’ll still have to work at it. I’m sorry, George. I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you.”

“Oh, no!” George said. “You told me I’d have to work. It’s been pretty easy, so far. This world hasn’t been nearly as bad as you said it would be, but I know that there’s work and hardship and danger waiting…” The boy gently touched a finger to Arthur’s chest, and then trailed it down toward his navel and beyond. “Besides, you never disappoint me, see?”

*****

That same day in Ulan Woods, Adrian and Worthen looked at the newest visitor to their town. They had never before encountered an elf so dark. His hair was black enough that the sun did not bring out the normal blue highlights. His countenance, while not black, was an unwholesome gray. His clothes were—if it could be so—shades of black. His horse was black. The two guards’ immediate personal dislike was not justification for refusing entry to the city. The Black Elf rode into Ulan Woods.

The publican at the Crystal Lodge was not comfortable with his new guest, but had no reason to refuse him lodging. The publican did, however, try to avoid the Black Elf’s questions.

“You’ve had human guests,” the Black Elf asserted, rather than asked.

“Can’t say that I have,” the publican said, not wanting to lie, but not wanting to tell anything to this dark person. “Not in a while. Why do you ask?”

“Just asking,” the Black Elf said.

*****

The storm had washed the air and the streets, and Kirkwood was particularly bright and clean when George and Arthur set out in search of work.

“I don’t understand why we need a job,” George said. “Don’t you have money? Or …” the boy paused, his voice caught, “… did you spend too much on the horse and clothes you bought for me?”

“Yes,” Arthur answered. “And no. Yes, I have money. No, I did not spend too much. Actually, Aeolia was a bargain. She would have cost a lot more anywhere else. The main reason for working is that we will likely find out more about the town if we are involved in some way, than if we aren’t. And, we will raise fewer questions.”

The guard had guessed correctly. The storm had carried off the notices posted at the town square. However, an elven boy had just finished pinning a new notice to the board. After he walked away, George and Arthur joined several loiterers to read the notice.

The Merchant Yorke requires the services of a night watchman. Five shillings per night. Supper provided. Non-Guild members must post a bond. Inquire at the Sign of the Bale and Basket.

The notice also bore a pictograph of a sword crossed by a dagger, and a cartouche with a bale of cloth and a bushel basket.

An elven tween, who appeared to be the only one who was literate, read the details of the notice for the others. They grumbled, and turned away.

“Please,” Arthur began, in Elvish, “Is this so bad?”

“It looks good,” the elf who had read the notice said. “But the last watchman had his throat cut by burglars. One before him lost his sword and armor when he fell asleep and the warehouse was burgled. He had to forfeit the bond. His sword was mithral.” The elf shook his head. “The pay isn’t worth the risk.”

“Thank you for your candor,” Arthur continued. “By the way, my companion is still learning Elvish. Do you speak the common tongue?”

“Yes,” the elf answered in that language. “My mother’s name for me is Jamey.”

“I’m Arthur, and this is George,” Arthur answered.

“The notice Jamey read,” Arthur said to George, “offers to hire a night watchman, but we’d have to post a bond. Jamey said that that the risk of having to forfeit the bond wasn’t worth the pay.”

Turning to the elf, Arthur said, “Would you think badly of us if we applied for the job after hearing your warning? I’m confident that we’d not have to forfeit bond; and, we want work.”

“No, I’d not think ill of you. I’d even wish you well. Yorke’s warehouse is down that alley…you can’t miss the sign.”

The boys found Yorke sitting in the front room of his warehouse. He was something George had not seen before, a corpulent elf. He poured over slips of paper and issued orders to a tween and two boys who scurried in and out the entire time that he discussed the job with Arthur and George.

“I’m only looking for one person … a tween or man. If the boy wants to stay with you, it’s okay. Supper’s only for one, though.” Yorke said, before breaking off to issue instructions to his chief assistant, a tween. The tween frowned and whispered something to Yorke, who shook his head.

“Work is from dusk to dawn. Each tenday you get two nights off. No pay for them. My assistant … that was he … Brownlee … has been sleeping here at night. Too hard on him. I need him during the day.” Yorke paused to tell one of the boys to load the linen bales on the cart that had just arrived.

“All you have to do is sound the alarm if there’s a problem. The city guard will respond. No real danger.

“Bond is 20 guineas … or something worth that much. Your sword would be a start.”

“My horse is elven, and boarded at the inn by the north city gate. He’s worth 30 guineas, more, even,” Arthur said. Yorke nodded.

*****

The contract was simple, and sworn and witnessed at the temple. Arthur’s elven stallion was to be his bond. His oath of allegiance was made, and George—who would accompany Arthur—was likewise sworn. Arthur had negotiated the pay to include supper for George, explaining that with two people, the risk of falling asleep was less, “… and after all, that’s what you want, isn’t it? An awake and alert person?” Yorke had agreed.

*****

Arthur and George were relaxing in the soak tub on the morning after their first night at the warehouse. The inn maintained a public bath, so the water was hot all the time. At the moment, however, the boys had the bath to themselves.

“George, you know that I keep a journal—and that I write in it every day. I want you to keep a journal, too. There’s a reason … two, actually. One is that it will help you learn and remember language, and help you remember how to read and write. You won’t find many opportunities to do either.”

“I used to read a lot,” George said. “Fantasy stories, mostly. I don’t need to read those, anymore, though.” He giggled, and then continued. “But, I do miss reading. You said two reasons; what’s the second reason?”

“The second reason is that there aren’t many books in this world, except what you’d call text books of magic, healing, and natural science. The king had some history books. I discovered almost all of them were personal journals or diaries. I think your journal—and mine—belong in the elven king’s library, someday.”

“Do you really think that a story about a boy from another world and a human elven knight would even be believed?” George asked. “And, even if it were, what good would it do in a library?”

“People in World, perhaps because things change so slowly, don’t remember history, and don’t seem to pay much attention to it. Whatever the reason, history doesn’t seem real to them. For most humans, anyway, the Great Wars between Light and Dark are more myth than history. The elves remember—some very few of them were alive during the last war—but even for them, it’s a faraway thing. If the trolls that live in the Gray Mountains didn’t sometimes leave the mountains to pillage, I think even the elves might forget. I think that our journals might make history more real, and help people—humans and elves and dwarves—remember. Remembering might help them prepare for the next Great War and its aftermath.”

“Why do so few people read and write, anyway?” George asked.

“I have a theory,” Arthur replied, “which may be based more on my prejudices than on fact. Do you want to hear it?”

George nodded.

“On your world writing began so that overseers—government officials and tax collectors—could keep track of the owners of grain that was kept in common granaries. I also read that some of the earliest writings, the cuneiform of the Assyrians or Babylonians, were tax records.

“For some reason, people on your Earth tended to create governments that relied on taxes and the seizure of private property under one pretext or another.

“I also remember that the art of mapmaking and surveying got its greatest boost when King Henry VIII seized hundreds of monasteries and other church properties, and got rich selling them off. The buyers wanted to know exactly what they were buying, and needed surveys and maps.

“It seems that Earth humans’ greed was the greatest impetus behind their literacy,” Arthur concluded.

“Don’t they have taxes, here?” George asked.

“Not like on Earth,” Arthur said. “The king maintains his court from revenues from his own estates. The roads are maintained by the army, which is self-supporting—they have their own farms. Caravans pay a small fee to use the roads. That money goes to maintain the roads. Although the king owns all the land, he doesn’t charge people to live on it. In large cities, public spaces and public works, and some of the cost of the city guard, are paid by the people who live in the city, but it’s more often that people will work a few days for the city, rather than actually pay money.

“It’s a good system, since people who do some sort of work for the city have a greater interest in the city than someone who just pays a tax collector.”

*****

After they were locked in the warehouse on the second night, Arthur handed George a package. It was wrapped not in paper, but in cloth, tied with a colorful ribbon. George smiled and his eyes glowed when he opened the package to find a book. The leather-bound book was plain except for the title in gilt letters. George dredged up his schoolboy Latin to translate the Old Elvish: The Book of Heroes.

“For me?” George asked. When Arthur nodded, the boy hugged him. “Oh, thank you, Arthur. I have missed reading—”

The boy gasped. When he spread the covers, the volume fell open to an illustrated page. Four boys stood on a rocky slope. A dragon flew toward them. The sunlight reflected off the dragon’s scales and leapt from the page to illuminate George’s face. George stared in amazement. The flaming breath of the dragon rolled across the page toward the boys.

George snapped the book shut and looked at Arthur. “Will the dragon burn the boys?”

“You’ll have to read the story to find out. In the picture, he won’t. It just loops, as long as the magic is renewed. Look again,” Arthur said. He sat by the boy and put his arm around his shoulders.

George let the book fall open, again. This time the picture was of a small boat being beaten by a storm toward a rocky shore. Before the boat crashed on the rocks, however, the picture faded. When it reappeared, the boat was far from the shore, and moving under a gentle breeze. Arthur helped George translate the title of the story on the opposite page: “Swallows and Amazons.”

George closed the book again, and let it fall open, this time to a different picture and story. “I won’t wear it out, will I?” he asked.

“No. It holds many, many stories. I’ll show you how to open it to one you want, or you can let it open for you. I think it’s random, but I’ve never studied it.”

“Have you read it?” George asked.

“Some of it,” Arthur said. “Prince Aladil had a copy, and we used to read together.” What Arthur did not add was that the copy he’d given George was that very book, a parting gift from the prince. It’s fitting, Arthur thought.

*****

The first ten-day passed without incident. Each evening Arthur and George arrived at the warehouse before dusk. Either Yorke or Brownlee met them and locked them in. Supper was always the same: bread, cheese, fruit, and a flagon of water—boring, but good enough. Arthur and George quickly fell into a routine. George would sit up while Arthur napped. After two hours, and before the boy could get sleepy, he would wake Arthur. For the next two hours, Arthur would teach George modern Elvish. They’d share supper, and then George would go to sleep. Arthur kept the watch for the rest of the night.

Each morning the warehouse was unlocked by Yorke or Brownlee, and after a quick inspection, Arthur and George were free to leave. They would return to the inn for breakfast, a bath, and a nap. During the afternoon, they’d wander the town, visiting merchants and pubs, talking to people, and allowing George to practice Elvish, while Arthur searched for whatever it was that he was supposed to see or do.

*****

“Arthur,” George said, “Um … I think the innkeeper’s boy wants to share boy magic … but he doesn’t speak the common tongue, and I haven’t learned enough Elvish, so I really don’t know.”

“Do you hear this?” Arthur asked.

“Yes. And he’s always hanging around when I tend Aeolia…bringing hay, holding out the curry comb … finding reasons to touch my hand or my arm …” George answered.

“Would you like that … to share boy magic with him?” Arthur asked.

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Arthur said. “Why to you … oh.”

Arthur thought for a moment. Then, “I would never deny you something that would bring you happiness, and I would never be jealous of your friends or sexual partners. That’s not the way things are, here, and jealousy is not part of ‘cherishing,’ which is what I promised you. As long as I am responsible for you, you must ask me before you offer or agree to share with someone else. I would never refuse unless I thought the person was Evil or … dangerous, I guess is the best word.

“So, do you want to?”

“Yeah, I think so … I mean, yes, I would,” George replied.

“I guess we’d better learn some different words in Elvish, hmm?” Arthur said.

The next afternoon, Arthur occupied himself in the square in front of the inn, accepting an offer to play quoits with some of the men who were the square’s habitués. George went to the stable to tend the horses, knowing that the innkeeper’s son would be there, too.

While they went about their tasks, the two boys shared shy looks. George finally found the courage to say in the Elvish he’d just learned, My mother’s name for me is George; what is your name?

The elven boy smiled. My mother’s name for me is Acie. You have a beautiful horse…she’s elven. Where did you get her?”

George, flustered that he didn’t understand anything but the boy’s name, said I know only a little Elvish.

Horse, Acie said, touching the mare. Name?

“Oh!” George said, “Aeolia; wind.”

The notes George heard from Acie were clear and pure, and the harmonic was one he’d come to associate with boy magic. Taking a deep breath, and speaking slowly, he asked, “Acie, would you share boy magic with me?”

The elven boy’s face lit up. “Yes, please,” Acie answered. The smile on Acie’s face made those words’ meaning very clear to George.

*****

A few days later, while George and Acie were engaged, Arthur visited the market. He examined a horse blanket offered by one of the many vendors. The blanket on his horse was nearly 20 years old, and was becoming threadbare, despite being reinforced with magic each time it was cleaned. The market square was crowded, and he was not surprised to be jostled. He turned and said, “Excuse me, please.” He realized that the face was familiar. “Oh, Jamey, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but may we speak the common tongue?” the elven tween asked. “I don’t find many opportunities, here. Oh, and please excuse me. That’s a nice blanket. What kind of horse do you have? I’m sorry … I’ve forgotten your name.”

“My name is Arthur,” replied the human tween. “My horse is Aurorus … he’s stabled at the inn by the north gate.”

“Aurorus … that’s an elven name. Is he elven?”

“Yes, I got him in Elvenhold some years ago.”

“My horse is a mare—Antlia. She’s about to come into season, but she is tractable. Would you like to go for a ride?”

“Yes, I would. And my friend … the boy you saw with me in the square … I’d like him to go, as well, and his friend. We try to ride every day, when the weather is good. We don’t have to work tomorrow night … perhaps tomorrow?”

*****

Acie’s father was glad for the boy to go riding with George, Arthur, and Jamey. The next forenoon the boys rode from the town. Following Jamey’s lead, they thundered across a meadow, down a trail, and into another meadow. Both the boys and the horses were happy to be running at the gallop.

“This is my favorite spot,” Jamey said, sweeping his arms to indicate the small mountain meadow. A spring bubbled from a pile of rocks on the south edge. Brilliant green grass sprinkled with wildflowers covered the ground. Tall trees—cedar and hardwoods—surrounded the glade. The boys dismounted, loosened the girths of their saddles, spread blankets on the ground, and unpacked a picnic lunch.

Arthur and Jamey could not help but notice George and Acie’s infatuation with one another, and the whispers they shared along with their food. “It’s pretty clear what they have in mind for after lunch,” Arthur said softly to Jamey. “What do you think? Will you share with me?”

“Yes, I would like that very much,” Jamey said.

*****

A few days after their ride with Jamey and Acie, George told Arthur that he thought Acie would like to share boy magic with him. “… but I think he’s shy.”

“Would you like to share with Jamey?” Arthur asked. George smiled and nodded. “Then, perhaps we could invite them to ride with us again,” Arthur said.

*****

The boys had just started their fourth ten-day cycle in the warehouse when their routine changed. After the Elvish language lesson, George pulled the basket with supper between them. Before he turned loose of the handle, he said, “That’s a funny sound.”

“Is something wrong, George?” Arthur asked. “Are you hearing The Sounds of Magic?” They had nicknamed George’s talent after a play and movie from George’s world.

George cocked his head, concentrated, and then said, “Yes. Like someone playing two notes right next to each other on the piano. They jangle.” He looked around, then continued, “It sounds like it’s coming from right here … between us …” The boy paused again. “Is something wrong with the food?”

Arthur concentrated until he could see the flow of the magic field. “There’s a tiny distortion around the cheese. It can’t have gone bad … it’s Limburger cheese … it’s supposed to be rotten,” he said. He looked closer, and saw an aura like a purple-gray surrounding the cheese. “It’s a poison … a very subtle one.”

He carefully scanned the bread, fruit, and water. “And not just the cheese. The bread and water, too. That can’t be an accident. Someone means to kill us.”

They put the rind of the cheese and a few crumbs and crusts of bread, with the pits from the fruit, on a napkin next to the basket. They poured the water into the privy hole. Arthur lay near the wall, with George between him and the wall. “Anyone who comes will not be able to get to you or my sword easily,” he explained. “Remain silent and still until I move or speak.”

Despite the tension, George had fallen asleep and was breathing softly and slowly in Arthur’s ear when a grating sound came from the warehouse. The noise was slight. It could have been a squirrel running across the roof, but it was not. Arthur nudged the boy awake. “Shhh … something’s happening.”

They had put the lamp on a shelf so that they were lying in its shadow and the light would fall on anyone coming in the door. Soft footsteps approached the room.

Relying on mage sight, alone, Arthur recognized Brownlee’s aura, and that of another person whom he did not recognize.

“Looks like they ate it all.” That was Brownlee’s voice. “If they’re not dead by now, they will be soon.

“Cut their throats, now,” a second voice said, “just in case.”

The thump of Arthur’s feet on the wooden floor drowned whatever answer Brownlee would have made.

Brownlee’s companion ran, slamming the door behind him. Brownlee froze long enough for Arthur to knock the elf’s dagger from his hand with the flat of his sword.

“No throats cut tonight, Brownlee,” Arthur said, pressing the tip of his sword at Brownlee’s navel.

Beside Arthur, George sheathed his dagger. Arthur, concentrating on Brownlee, did not hear the tremble in the boy’s breath, nor see the flash of relief that crossed his face.

“I told Yorke that he shouldn’t hire you,” Brownlee said. His voice was bitter. “The day you applied for the job. He wouldn’t listen. I knew something was wrong with you two.”

Now that Arthur knew Brownlee’s temperament, he could see the shadow that had fallen over his aura. “You killed the one guard, didn’t you?” Arthur asked.

The elf shrugged. “The semblers would get it out of me anyway … I’ll tell you. Yes. I did. I would have cut your throats, too. Who would look for poison where there was so much blood? It wasn’t just me. Yorke’s in on this, too. You don’t think I could do this all by myself, do you?”

*****

The reeve, summoned by the City Guard, listened to Arthur’s story, and then turned to Brownlee. “Is this true?” he asked. “Should I call a sembler?”

“It’s true,” Brownlee said. “Including the part about Yorke being in on it.”

*****

Arthur and George had finished their breakfast, but stayed in the inn’s common room. “Thank you for standing beside me with your dagger when we faced Brownlee,” Arthur said.

George hesitated, and then spoke. “I was scared,” he said. “What if the other boy hadn’t run? I don’t know if I could have helped you—”

“You helped me by being there … you helped me by standing beside me … I was so … I don’t know … proud? Happy? It felt very good knowing that you were there.” Arthur took the boy’s hand. “So, thank you, George.”

Tears welled in George’s eyes, but they were tears of happiness.

*****

That afternoon, the reeve visited the inn where Arthur and George had been asked to remain until the matter was settled. He greeted them pleasantly, and explained what had happened.

“… we found Brownlee’s accomplice hiding at his sister’s house. Yorke has admitted to his part, but he puts on Brownlee the blame for the one murder and on the attempt to murder you. It doesn’t matter, really. Yorke knew about it, and he profited from it. They will be treated the same.

“They got the idea after the first guard fell asleep. Yorke came by the warehouse and found him that way, and created a fake robbery. They tried it with the next one, but he caught them, and they killed him. I guess they thought it would be easier to poison you, first, and then kill you.

“Your contract with Yorke has been voided because of Yorke’s treachery. If Yorke owes you money, you could press a claim. It might take a day to settle, and you would be behind other people, including the family of the murdered guard. You no longer have a job, of course, but I would be pleased to endorse you when you seek work.”

“Thank you, Master Reeve,” Arthur said. George added a thank you in Elvish, which made the man smile.

“We were paid daily, and I’d not dispute the other guards or their families’ prior claims on any of Yorke’s resources,” Arthur said. “As for work … well, I think it’s time we rode west and south. The Gray Mountains should be passable in a tenday or so, don’t you think?”

*****

“We can’t leave, yet,” George said when the reeve had left. “We have to say goodbye to Acie and Jamie.”

“We’re not going to leave for a while. Did you see those cirrus clouds this morning? It’s going to rain soon, and probably for several days. We’ll have plenty of time.”

*****

Arthur and George were packing their few possessions in saddlebags and packs when Arthur asked, “George? Has your shirt shrunk? Or are you growing—”

“I can’t grow, remember?” George interrupted. “Hormones.” His face screwed up in pain. He turned his back to Arthur.

Instantly, Arthur gathered magic and looked closely at George, paying special attention to the ends of the long bones in the boy’s body: humerus, femur, and others. Then he stepped toward George and wrapped his arms around the boy.

“George, please forgive me. I should have looked sooner. But, you can grow … and you are growing,” Arthur said.

George twisted from Arthur’s embrace and turned to face him. “Huh?” Puzzlement had replaced the pain on his face.

“Do you know about ‘growth plates’ in the bones?” Arthur asked. When George shook his head, Arthur continued. “Children have growth plates near each end of the long bones. That’s where bone growth takes place. By maturity, on Earth about age 18 and here about when you become a tween, those plates have converted to bone, and no more growth takes place. George, you have epiphyseal plates—growth plates—and growth is occurring.”

“But what about hormones?” George asked, unsure if he should believe what he was hearing.

“There are two kinds of growth,” Arthur began. “Most of the growth of an embryo and of a child is by cell division. The more cells, the bigger the body. When you did weight training, you created some new muscle cells, but most of the increased the size of your muscles was because existing muscle cells got bigger. Childhood growth is stimulated by hormones.”

“Sure,” George said. “Human Growth Hormone—HGH.”

“Um hmm,” Arthur replied. “But that’s not the only one.”

“Let me draw some of this,” Arthur said, reaching for foolscap and pen.

As Arthur lectured and sketched, George paraphrased what Arthur said, storing it in memory.

The hypothalamus is a group of nerves near the bottom middle of the brain. It monitors and regulates body functions. Some of the nerves—neurons—create hormones. I didn’t know that! I thought only glands produced hormones, but some nerves do, too. Most of these hormones affect the creation or suppression of other hormones. Some of the nerves control the pituitary gland, which is just under the hypothalamus. The pituitary makes more hormones.

One part produces oxytocin, which is associated with orgasm. So, that’s how it works!

One bunch of nerves regulates the production of dopamine…I remember reading about that. It’s a mood enhancer. I wonder if that’s why sex on World is so good! More dopamine?

One bunch of nerves is the biological clock that regulates the circadian rhythms. I think that’s part of why I stay awake so late after we have sex. I wonder if the oxytocin part and the clock part got mixed up.

One bunch of nerves has something to do with memory. I’ve got to ask Arthur more about that one. I’ve got so much to learn.

One bunch of nerves produces hormones that regulate the pituitary, which then regulates growth, reproduction, and stress response—growth! That’s it!

“Arthur,” George interrupted. “Can you fix what’s wrong with my hormones?”

“George, there’s nothing wrong with your hormones. Your hypothalamus and pituitary are working just fine.”

Arthur paused, and then continued. “George, I forgot what you told me about your hormones, back at the faire … I shouldn’t have forgotten, and I should have examined you—and treated you—the minute we arrived. Please, forgive me?”

George hugged Arthur, and pressed his head against the older boy’s chest. “If I remember right,” he said, “the minute we arrived we were about to run into a tree. After that, you were busy just teaching me enough to survive on this world.

“You know,” George continued, “I’d forgotten about it, too, until just now. Of course I forgive you.”

“Um …” George continued.

“What?” Arthur asked.

“Except that I’m a little short of oxytocin, I think …”

“Well,” Arthur said, bending down to kiss the boy’s upturned face. “We’ll just have to do something about that.”

*****

The four friends rode one last time to Jamie’s meadow. It was a long afternoon, and all four were exhausted, but glowing, when they rode back to town. Arthur could not help but notice the kiss Jamie and Acie gave each other before Jamie rode away from the inn. I think Acie’s made a friend, he thought. I’m glad it’s Jamie.

*****

His black clothes served to hide his movements. The black bandana across his mouth and nose may have disguised his appearance, but did little to disguise the smell of the rubbish heap downwind of Ulan Woods. A lambent blue, had it been visible beyond the hole he had dug in the rubbish and in which he poked and prodded, would have shown him to be a mage. Another person might have found the task distasteful; the Black Elf’s nose and soul were inured to much worse, and he methodically examined every item, every piece of filth, every bit of cloth…there…an odd, tiny pair of pants in which were sewn the runes …ockey …Made in US…no, not sewn, embossed in some way. This was what he wanted; this would lead him to the human mage who made so much noise traveling between worlds.

The next morning, before most of Ulan Woods were awake, the Black Elf rode out of the city with pieces of George’s faire costume tucked into his saddlebags.

*****

Arthur and George rode from Kirkwood, traveling west on the Royal Road. The weather had not gotten noticeably warmer during the time they’d stayed in Kirkwood, but the trees were considerably fuller.

“I’m glad that Yorke and Brownlee and the other one were caught, but, well, that was pretty tame…I thought being a Warrior of the Light would be…a little more, you know, important,” George said, hesitantly.

“Well,” Arthur answered. “I’m not complaining. We were able to bring justice to two murderers without too much danger to ourselves. Neither of us was hurt. We made a couple of good friends. And Acie and Jamey are becoming friends, too.” And you met your first crisis, and learned from it.

*****

If god is omnipotent, he is not good;
if he is good, he is not omnipotent.
—Epicurus of Earth, c. 300 BCE

An eddy of buzzards marked the otherwise pristine sky. “Something dead,” George said, pointing. “Not likely road kill,” he added. “We’re the fastest thing on the road. In fact, we’re the only thing on this road.”

Arthur looked sharply at the boy, but bit his tongue before replying. He’s not being callous, at least, not by his standards. Nor does he know that these meadows and copses hold no large animals, and that whatever’s dead is likely two-legged, not four.

The stench caused Arthur’s stomach to lurch; George was in obvious distress. A low copse of brush and spikes of tall grass hid whatever the buzzards were eating. “I’ve got to see,” Arthur said, and turned Aurorus’ head toward the spot below the circling birds.

The bodies had been savaged by animals—feral dogs, perhaps opossums, Arthur thought—before the carrion birds had begun their feast. Elves, Arthur thought when he spotted three skulls with almond-shaped eye sockets. One ribcage was small. A child, perhaps a boy, Arthur thought. The other two were tweens or adults. Behind Arthur, George hurled his breakfast onto the ground.

*****

Arthur had led the ashen boy back to the road and then a mile away from the smell before helping him from his horse. “Here,” he offered George his canteen. “Rinse your mouth, and then take a sip—just a sip!”

“Arthur…Arthur…” the boy babbled and sobbed, “That was awful. How…who…who were they?”

Arthur put his arms around the boy. “Who? I don’t know, George. Boys who had been kidnapped and who were being taken to a slave market? Boys wandering from town to town looking for work and adventure? I don’t know, George.”

“You said this world was dangerous. Is it really that dangerous?”

“Yes, George, I’m afraid it is,” Arthur replied. “And I think it’s getting even more dangerous. I would guess that nowadays fewer than half the boys live to become adults. When boys become tweens, many will leave home. They may join the army or the temple. Most of them go on the road, looking for work and adventure. That’s where they are most likely to be killed.”

“It’s so ugly,” George said. “The elves are beautiful! This world is beautiful! Why are there such ugly, such awful, ugly things?”

Can there be beauty without ugliness? Arthur thought to himself. This is not the time for that! George needs comforting, not philosophy. He hugged the boy closer.

“George, I’m sorry you had to see that,” Arthur began, “I should—”

George interrupted, “Oh, no! It wasn’t your fault—”

Arthur shushed the boy with a finger to his lips. “Yes,” he said. “I had a good idea of what I would find. I knew that you would follow me. I knew that you weren’t prepared for this—”

George took Arthur’s finger from his mouth and kissed the palm of the older boy’s hand. “May we talk about something else?” he asked.

*****

A summer storm sent thunder booming through the foothills of the Gray Mountains. The echoes and a cold, soaking shower reached the piedmont through which the boys rode. The wind that blew from the mountains was chill. Arthur called a halt.

“We’ll stop here,” he said, indicating a glade through which a stream ran. “We can dry out…and warm up.”

As the boys lay in the blankets, warmed by their sharing and the embers of the fire, George asked, “Arthur, what will happen to Brownlee and Yorke and the other one?”

“Brownlee murdered one guard and tried to kill us. Certainly, he will be executed. Yorke was an accessory to murder and attempted murder. Certainly, he will be executed. The other one? I’m not sure. He didn’t get involved until after the first murder. He was an accessory to attempted murder, and that can be sufficient to execute him.”

“I’m not sure I like someone being killed just because he tried to kill me but didn’t succeed,” George said. “Wouldn’t something else serve to warn other people?”

“I’m glad you don’t like it, George, but in Arcadia and Elvenhold, people aren’t executed as a warning to others. They’re not executed as punishment. They’re executed to remove them from the world, so that they cannot hurt anyone else.” At least, not in this lifetime, Arthur thought.

*****

Days behind them, the Black Elf cursed. He had fashioned a magical compass from the piece of cloth containing the runes, …ockey…Made in US…, and had followed it, expecting it to lead him to the unknown mage. But it had led him to a dead end—the place where the gate had been. The runes were more strongly drawn to the world on which they were fashioned than to the person who wore them, he thought. I’ve lost several days, and he may be too far away for another compass to work.

Nevertheless, he tried. He wrapped several bits of a different material into a tiny ball. This material was neither cotton, nor wool, nor linen. George and Arthur would have recognized the white silk of the army-surplus parachute from which George had fashioned the full sleeves of his costume jacket. The finished bundle was no larger than the tip of an infant’s little finger. The Black Elf suspended the bundle from a thread, and concentrated magic on it, willing it to seek its former owner.

The compass moved—slightly, but enough. To the west, the Black Elf thought. He’s gone toward the west.