“I’m speaking to you, girl!” roared the bearded man when she didn’t respond.
“Technically,” said Xiro, “you were more speaking at her.”
The man swiveled his attention to Xiro, apparently seeing him for the first time. “What?”
“Well,” said Xiro matter-of-factly, “it’s fairly evident by her reluctance to make eye contact and the fact that she’s gone from conversational to taciturn so quickly that she has no desire to talk to you at all, for whatever reason. I mean,” he added hastily, “I’m sure that if she got to know you, she’d surely come to feel otherwise, but as it stands—”
“Get out of my way,” said the bearded man, “or I’ll kill you.”
“All right, then,” said Xiro, moving immediately to one side and deftly avoiding another small hole in the ground.
The bearded man nodded in approval, then strode right up to the candlemaker’s booth. “You, girl,” he said brusquely, “have caught the eye of Red Richard. That makes you very lucky indeed.”
The girl’s chin was quivering with fear. The bearded man cupped it roughly, but before he could say anything else, Xiro said, “Are you a friend of his? Or a herald?”
“What?” said the bearded man.
“Red Richard. You said that she had caught the attention of—”
“I’m Red Richard, you idiot!”
“Ah.” Xiro considered that. “So you were referring to yourself in the third person, then. That wasn’t the clearest way to—”
“One more word,” Red Richard said, “and I’m going to kill you. Is that clear enough for you?”
Xiro had been in midsentence, but upon hearing Red Richard’s words, he immediately clamped his mouth shut and nodded silently.
Turning away from Xiro, Red Richard reached forward and grabbed Beatrice by the wrist. “Come with me, girl. We’re going to have fun, you and I.”
“Let her go!” said her father desperately. “She’s barely an adult!”
“I know,” Red Richard lamented. “She’s a bit older than I usually prefer, but she’ll do.”
He reached over the counter of the booth with both hands before Beatrice could move and grabbed her under her arms. Without so much as the slightest grunt of effort, Red Richard yanked her over into his arms. She let out a screech that caught the attention of everyone in the marketplace, but no one made a move to intervene.
Her father cried out, begged for Red Richard to put her down, to spare her the gift of his attentions, and Red Richard ignored him. Beatrice struggled, but he held on to her effortlessly.
And then there was a soft sound of steel being drawn from a scabbard.
Red Richard looked down.
Xiro stood about four feet away. He had his short sword leveled, the blade visibly trembling—he was clearly nervous over the prospect of facing such a formidable foe. Nevertheless he fought to keep his voice flat and even. “The young lady doesn’t seem to want your attentions. In the interest of decency, I’m asking you to put her down and leave her be.”
“No!” Beatrice managed to say. “No, you’re only going to get yourself killed! Don’t—!”
“Too late for ‘don’t,’ little girl,” said Red Richard. He shoved her roughly over to his associate and yanked out his own sword. It was half again as long as the one that Xiro was holding. “This idiot has brought this on himself.”
He strode directly toward Xiro, who held his ground, grasping his short sword with both hands and waiting for the assault.
Suddenly Red Richard stumbled as the toe of his foot got caught in a hole in the ground, tripping him up. He threw his arms wide to balance himself but instead fell forward. His eyes widened as he saw the point of Xiro’s sword aimed straight at him, the point no longer quivering. He fell on to it, the blade sliding straight into his chest. Letting out a startled gasp as his breath rattled in his throat, Red Richard fell slowly like a tree. He was so heavy and hit the ground with such force that the sword was yanked out of Xiro’s grasp.
Panicked, Xiro rushed to Red Richard’s fallen body and grabbed at the hilt of the sword. The blade was wedged in, apparently lodged somewhere in Red Richard’s rib cage, and it resisted Xiro’s attempts to extract it.
Meanwhile, it had taken a moment for what had just happened to fully register on Red Richard’s companion. When he finally realized that his associate was nothing more than worm meat, he let out an infuriated roar. He shoved Beatrice aside and, as she landed hard on the ground, pulled out his own sword. Red Richard’s infuriated associate charged Xiro, shouting “For Richard!”
Xiro’s back was to his attacker because he was busy trying to yank the sword free. He placed one foot on Red Richard’s chest to brace himself and pulled as hard as he could. The sword came free abruptly … too abruptly, and as Xiro’s arm snapped back, he lost his grip. The sword flew out of his hand, pinwheeled through the air, and impaled his attacker’s head, cleaving his skull in half.
Shrieks erupted from around the marketplace. That Red Richard tripped and killed himself was startling enough, but Xiro’s inadvertent dispatching of Richard’s associate drew reactions from all over.
Time seemed to freeze as the man with the split skull stood there, looking ridiculously confused, as if he hadn’t yet realized that he was dead. Then he slowly pitched backward and hit the ground with the same sort of echoing thud as his associate.
The instant he did, the shrieks of terror changed to roars of joy. “He’s a Hero!” someone shouted, and others took up the chant immediately. “Hero! Hero! Hero!”
Xiro tried to shout above them, crying out, “No, I’m not a Hero! I swear to you! I’m no Hero!”
He turned frantically to Beatrice. There was nothing but idolization in her look, and clearly the first fluttering of love in her breast. “This kind of joy,” she whispered, “even Jack can’t destroy.”
“Yes, that’s a very nice sentiment,” Xiro said, trying not to sound impatient. “A more pressing issue is, what am I going to do about this?”
“You need to fight Jack of Blades!” said Beatrice excitedly. She gripped him tightly by the upper arms. “You can do it! You can get rid of him—”
“Are you insane? These were accidents! And if this Jack is everything you say, then …”
“If? He’s Jack of Blades! He’s everything and more.”
One of the children who had met up with Xiro earlier said, with what sounded like a touch of pride, “He hadn’t heard of Jack of Blades until we told him.”
“That’s absurd,” said Beatrice. “Every living person’s heard of Jack of Blades.”
“Yes, well, that’s as it may be,” said Xiro impatiently, “but I’d like to go on living, if that’s all right with—”
In the distance, the sound of horses’ hooves pounding along the road reached them. Xiro looked around frantically. “Is that—?”
“Some of his soldiers, yes, very likely,” said Beatrice. “He probably knows that you killed his men. He has eyes all over and his lair is not far from here. He knows everything.”
The bulge in Xiro’s throat bobbed up and down. “No … oh, no, no … you have to hide me …”
“Hide you?” asked Beatrice. “You’re our Hero. How can you—?”
Xiro did not bother to argue the point with her. Instead, he turned and sprinted down the street, legs pumping, arms flailing. There was no one in the world at that moment who looked less heroic.
The townsfolk stood there for a moment, bewildered, then someone cried out, “He intends to draw off Jack’s forces! To distract them so they won’t take revenge on us!”
This immediately prompted shouts of joy and celebration, and several townspeople came whipping around the corner. The foremost of them bellowed, “Jack of Blades approaches! He approaches!”
Everyone else turned in the direction of Jack’s arrival save Beatrice, who watched Xiro. At the far end of the street, beyond the end of the marketplace, was an old barn that belonged to the blacksmith.
Mostly it was used for storage, and on occasion it was used as a town meeting place. As Xiro ran past it, he stopped in his tracks and whirled to see the arrival of the dreaded Jack of Blades.
Four black horses appeared at the top of the street. In the forefront was the most formidable-looking individual Xiro had ever seen. He radiated power and confidence. His black armor was studded with points, and he was wearing a white skull mask—or was that his face?—partly obscured by a red hood and cowl draped over his upper body. A large sword was strapped to his back, and—as his name suggested—blades were strapped to his belt.
The three men who were with him were equally imposing. Their black horses were magnificent beasts that reared up, almost in unison, and pawed at the air with their hooves.
“Where is he!” thundered Jack.
Xiro hesitated a moment, then dashed into the barn. Beatrice was the only person who saw it; everyone else’s attention was drawn to the frightening vision of Jack of Blades, the incarnation of death itself, looming before them.
Beatrice returned her gaze to Jack, and to her horror he was looking directly at her. She realized that, by being the only one who hadn’t been watching him, she had caught his notice. “You, girl.” He raised one gloved hand and pointed at her. “Where is he?”
“I … I …” No matter how much she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to get any words out.
Jack of Blades was not of a mind to wait around for her to find her voice. “Believe me, child,” he said, every word rumbling, “the very last thing you want is to attract my full and undivided attention. And that is what you will have if you prolong this. I can look into your mind, pluck the knowledge from you as one would an overripe date, and leave nothing within. Is that what you want? Is it?”
She barely managed to shake her head.
“Then tell me now. This is your last—”
She heard her own voice saying, “He’s down there,” and pointed with a trembling finger. Her panicked mind forced her to speak when she should not have said a damned word. “At the old barn. I saw him, he—” Beatrice bit the inside of her cheek to shut herself up.
Jack of Blades inclined his head slowly in acknowledgment of the information. “Gentlemen,” he said to his men. “Bring him to me.”
The other three snapped the reins of their horses and galloped forward. The crowd broke apart quickly lest they be trampled as the horses charged down the street, covering the distance in a matter of seconds. The riders dismounted, drawing their swords, and strode in, their leather armor slapping loudly around them. Only Jack himself was outfitted in metal, which gleamed in the noon sun.
“You were wise to be honest, child,” Jack of Blades told her. “You have not only saved your own life, but the lives of your family … for the moment, in any event.”
The barn door hung open. As they entered, one of the soldiers reached behind himself and pulled it shut behind them. The door closed with a foreboding creak, like the top of a coffin being lowered.
When she heard it thud shut, Beatrice trembled. Her eyes began to tear up. She had betrayed the Hero. She had willingly turned him over to the most evil creature in Albion, and she’d put up no fight whatsoever. Everything she wanted to say to Jack of Blades, the defiance that she would have liked to hurl in his face, had instead died in her throat. Beatrice was forced to face the reality of her own cowardice, and it was a terrible burden to carry.
Why, she wondered, could she not be heroic? Why could she not be more like Xiro?
Jack of Blades, meanwhile, rode his horse forward and studied the two corpses on the ground. He shook his skull-faced head. “This is intolerable. One single sword thrust in both cases. I thought they were far better than this. You simply cannot get good minions anymore. The problems that—”
Suddenly the horse whinnied, its head bobbing up and down. It cantered back several steps and its nostrils flared as it appeared to notice something no one else yet had.
“What in the world—?” said Jack of Blades, sounding slightly puzzled for the first time.
“Look!” Beatrice’s father shouted, and pointed to the far end of the street.
Flames had erupted on the side of the barn and, an instant later, the roof began to blaze as well. Within seconds, as the townspeople stood there in shock, the entire barn became an inferno.
Shouts of “Bucket brigade!” echoed up and down the street. Quickly the villagers charged toward a narrow river that threaded its way near the barn, the men grabbing buckets from their booths along the way. Minutes later they were throwing water on the fire as quickly as they were able, passing along buckets of water with impressive efficiency.
Jack of Blades remained astride his horse, not moving so much as an inch from where he was. It was impossible to tell what the expression on his face was beneath his mask, but it was doubtful that he was smiling.
The townspeople were beginning to realize that their buckets were having no effect whatsoever. The fire was beyond their control. They were going to have to let it burn itself out, and instead of dousing the flames they started concentrating on soaking nearby buildings and the immediate ground to make certain it didn’t spread. Beatrice had run down to the barn and watched in distress as black smoke spiraled skyward like some sort of unholy offering to beings that she could not envision and didn’t truly believe in. For if something like Avo existed, how would He allow something as malevolent as Skorm, the god of evil, to rain destruction upon humanity in the form of such monsters as Jack of Blades?
There was a loud, sharp series of cracks and moments later the entire barn was collapsing. People ran back to make sure they were clear of it, then—just as the building fell apart—a speeding form burst through one of the doors, breaking it easily since the fire had eaten away most of it. The figure was draped in a horse blanket, which absorbed most of the flames. The moment the survivor was clear of the building, he tossed aside the blanket …
“It’s the Hero!” Beatrice was unable to stop herself from crying out in joy.
“The Hero!” “The Hero!” others began to shout.
He looked as bedraggled as any individual ever had, his face and clothing covered with soot. One of his eyebrows was partly singed away. He was hunched over, gasping for breath when he wasn’t coughing, his hands resting on his knees as he desperately tried to compose himself.
Cheers of “The Hero” continued right up until Jack of Blades, still on horseback, trotted slowly up to him, the cries of heroism diminishing steadily with every clip clop of the horse’s hooves.
“What happened here?” said Jack of Blades, his voice icy and deathly.
Xiro stared up at him, tried to speak, and coughed instead. When he managed to find his breath, he said, “I … those men were chasing me … y-your men, I guess … and I … I knocked over a lantern, and the hay caught, and things began falling, and—”
“Where are my men?”
“I …” He gulped. “They … didn’t make it out …?”
There was a deathly silence then, hanging like a shroud over them. Xiro couldn’t even find the words. He just shook his head quickly, then coughed a few more times, unable to control himself.
Looking down at him from on high, Jack of Blades said, “Who are you?”
“I … my name is Xiro.”
“Xiro.” Jack of Blades didn’t laugh. Jack of Blades never laughed. “Xiro … the Hero? How adorable.”
“I’m no Hero. That’s what I keep telling them. That’s what no one seems to believe.”
“You have been responsible for the deaths of five of my men. Yet you insist that you are not a Hero.”
“Yes. That’s exactly right. I’m …” Xiro licked his lips, which didn’t do much to moisten them, as dried out as they were. “I’m not a Hero. I keep telling them this. And yet …”
“Yet they do not believe you. Imagine that.”
Jack of Blades swung his leg over and dismounted. Everyone within proximity backed up. Slowly, he unshea
thed the glittering sword from his back and brought it around and angled its naked blade right at Xiro. Xiro’s eyes widened and beads of sweat ran in rivulets down his forehead, leaving small paths behind them on his blackened face.
“Draw your sword, Xiro,” said Jack of Blades. “Draw your sword or die.”
“Is … is there a choice?” Xiro said, his voice filled with hope. “I mean, if I draw my sword, does that mean I won’t die?”
“No. You will simply die like a man.”
“I’m … I’m sorry, that just doesn’t work for me.”
“Defend yourself. Now.”
All eyes were upon Xiro, all held their breath. Slowly, Xiro withdrew his sword. But his hand was shaking so violently that he was unable to hold on to it and it clattered to the ground.
Instantly, Beatrice understood. It was a trick. Xiro was somehow going to trick Jack of Blades into dropping his guard, then Xiro would have him through some clever strategy or … or …
Xiro shook his head so hard that it could have tumbled off his shoulders. “You’ll kill me.”
“That will happen either way.”
“Please … I’m begging you, please … I’m no one … I’m nothing …”
Jack’s hand lashed out, grabbing Xiro by the throat and slowly lifting him off his feet, dangling him, shaking him, like a mother cat worrying its kitten. Disappointment registered on the faces of the townspeople
Jack of Blades glanced around and apparently liked what he saw. Disdainfully, he lowered Xiro until his feet were touching the ground, then released him with a shove. Xiro stumbled backward and banged up against a broad-shouldered man wearing a black leather apron.
“You’re the blacksmith,” said Jack of Blades. “I believe that’s your barn that’s just burned to the ground, yes?”
The blacksmith nodded.
“This nonhero was responsible for it. What are you going to do about that?”
For a moment the blacksmith hesitated, then he slammed Xiro to the ground. Xiro struck headfirst and cried out in pain. The impact split his lip, and when he tried to lift his head there was dirt from the road all over it.