“Some old enemy, caught up with you at last?” said the Administrator.
“Unlikely,” said Fisher.
The Administrator glared at both of them. “There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?”
Hawk grinned broadly, a sudden but very real moment of affection. “More than you ever dreamed of, old friend.”
“I think we should get back to the Millennium Oak,” Fisher said briskly. “We have to prepare for the Auditions. Get ready to sort out the potential heroes and warriors from the deluded and the wannabes. One last time.”
They turned away from the dead birds and made their way back down the stone ridge and onto the dry and dusty plain. The mystery of the dead birds would have to wait until after the Auditions. Because some things just couldn’t wait. But it was silently understood among the three of them that this . . . matter wasn’t over yet. The Administrator never let go of a problem once he’d sunk his teeth into it. Particularly if it posed any kind of threat to his beloved Academy.
“You don’t always produce heroes,” he said roughly. “Even the best students can let you down. The Black Prince of Land’s End—he was one of yours, wasn’t he?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” said Fisher. “Hawk and I had to go all the way down there to sort him out personally.”
“I know,” said the Administrator, just a bit pointedly. “You were supposed to bring back an erring student, not a collection of bits in a box! We’re still getting dunning letters from the Land’s End Council, demanding we pay for all the damage you caused, taking the Black Prince down!”
“You’re not actually planning on paying them, are you?” said Fisher.
“Of course not! I’m just making the point that your problems don’t always stop just because you’ve killed your enemy.”
“Exactly,” said Hawk.
The Administrator decided he really didn’t like the way Hawk said that.
• • •
Hawk and Fisher made a point of walking back through the middle of the tent city surrounding the Millennium Oak, instead of sticking to the main paths, so they could talk with the students one last time. The Administrator would have preferred to hurry back to the Tree so he could make his report on the dead birds and set wheels in motion. But he made himself slow his pace to that of Hawk and Fisher's because he wanted to hear what they had to say. It wasn’t that he suddenly distrusted them after so many years of working together; it was more that the Administrator didn’t trust anyone.
The tents came in all sizes and all colours, like a ragged rainbow lying scattered around the base of the Tree. There were small cooking fires all over the place, and the delightful smells of a dozen different cuisines wafted through the early-morning air. Heavily laden washing lines flapped between the tents, displaying more kinds of underwear than the mind could comfortably cope with so early in the morning. Students ran back and forth, laughing and chasing, or sat in small circles lacing up each other’s armour, or ran through exercise routines of exhausting thoroughness. No one ever missed first class in the Millennium Oak. They’d all worked too hard to earn their place.
Hawk and Fisher moved easily among the students, greeting a surprisingly large number by name, inquiring how they were doing and seeming genuinely interested in the answers. The Administrator didn’t join in. Partly because his people skills were strictly limited, as he’d be the first to admit, but mostly because he didn’t give a damn. He cared about the Academy’s successes only after they’d left and were off doing suitably heroic things at a distance and were no longer his responsibility. He had been heard to say, quite loudly and in all apparent sincerity, that the Academy would be a lot easier to run if it weren’t for all the damned students getting in the way.
Hawk and Fisher could feel his brooding presence at their backs but refused to be hurried. They kept moving, never actually stopping, because they knew if they did, a crowd would soon gather and they’d never get through. A large number of the newer students saw their presence as an opportunity to show off their various skills. An archer casually shot an apple off the head of a trusting friend, only to be immediately upstaged as another archer targeted an apple set between the thighs of an extremely trusting friend. The look in that particular young man’s eyes was frankly terrified, but give him his due—he didn’t flinch. Possibly because he didn’t dare to. The archer made his shot successfully, and the friend left the apple pinned to the tree and walked quickly away. Probably to have a nice lie-down. Hawk and Fisher made a point of congratulating him as well as the archer.
They did pause briefly to observe an exhibition bout between two top-rank swordsmen, who courteously stopped at regular intervals to explain to the watching crowd exactly what they were doing, and how.
A young sorcerer, barely into his mid-teens, sat alone at a table, staring fixedly at the single piece of fruit set out on a platter before him. He concentrated, scowling till his eyebrows met and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and the apple before him changed into a lemon. And then into a pear. The piece of fruit transformed itself over and over again, but the student was clearly making hard work of it. Though basic transformations were always impressive, they often took more effort than they were worth. Practice does make perfect, however. Eventually. Hawk paid the young sorcerer a vague compliment, whereupon the sorcerer blushed happily, lost his concentration, and the apple exploded. Messily. All over him. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly on.
It seemed like everyone had some speciality they just had to show off. Students hovered uncertainly in midair, or juggled balls of flame, and one young witch danced a decorous waltz with an animated scarecrow. Hawk and Fisher smiled and nodded, and kept moving. They passed one young man struggling to set up his tent but making a real dog’s breakfast of it. He finally lost patience with the whole flapping mess, stood back, and snapped his fingers sharply. The tent immediately set itself up: canvas stretched taut, wooden pegs digging deep into the ground, ropes twanging into place. Hawk nodded to Fisher.
“He shows potential . . .”
The tent burst into flames. The student burst into tears.
“Or perhaps not,” said Fisher.
And that was when a cocky young bravo pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Hawk, blocking his way. The newcomer was a big, muscular sort, wearing chain mail that had been polished to within an inch of its life, and hefting a massive double-headed battleaxe. He struck an arrogant pose and looked Hawk up and down, his gaze openly contemptuous. Clearly he’d heard all the stories about Hawk and decided they were far too good to be true. He wanted to make an impression in a hurry.
“Time to show what you can really do, Hawk,” he said loudly. “I am Graham Steel, of the Forest Kingdom, warrior from a long line of warriors. I don’t need to hide behind the legend of another man’s name. You want me to Audition for you? Well, I say let’s do it right here, right now, where everyone can see.”
Hawk looked at him thoughtfully. People were already starting to back away, if only to make sure they wouldn’t get any blood on them. Hawk glanced at Fisher.
“There’s always one, isn’t there?”
“Make it quick,” said Fisher. “You don’t have time to play with him.”
Steel raised his axe and started to say something provoking, and Hawk lunged forward so quickly he was just a blur. His axe was suddenly in his hand, and he was upon his opponent before the young man could do more than lift his axe up before him. Hawk’s axe rose, came flashing down, and sheared right through the other axe’s wooden shaft. Steel’s hands were jarred open by the sheer force of the blow, and the two pieces of his axe fell from his hands and dropped to the ground. Hawk set the edge of his axe against Steel’s throat. Steel stood very still, his empty hands twitching, as though they couldn’t believe they were empty. His face was slick with sweat, and he would have liked to swallow, but he didn’t dare, not with the axe at his throat. He’d never seen anyone move so fast . . . He tried to meet
Hawk’s eyes, so close to his, but couldn’t. Hawk stepped back, put his axe away, and moved on, without saying anything. Steel flushed angrily at being so coldly dismissed. He whipped a slender dagger from a concealed sheath in his sleeve and went for Hawk’s turned back. Fisher clubbed him down from behind with one blow from her sword’s hilt. Steel crashed to the ground, and didn’t move again, and Fisher walked right over him to catch up with Hawk. Who hadn’t even glanced back. The Administrator hurried after them, shaking his head.
“Show-offs . . .”
• • •
They went back into the Millennium Oak through the main entrance, a massive arch carved deep into the golden trunk. Centuries’ worth of intricate carving and decoration covered the inner walls, from a dozen countries and even more cultures, transforming the whole entrance hall into a magnificent piece of art. Other, less decorated arches and corridors led off to rooms and halls and storerooms. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all the same pear-coloured wood. No stone or metal had been used in the Tree’s interior. Like a single gigantic piece of intricate scrimshaw. Though in fact there was no indication of human workmanship anywhere—no signs of tools, no markings. The only human contributions were the carvings and decorations, and a few examples of human ingenuity. Like the single elevator that carried people from the base of the Tree to the very top, for when there just wasn’t time to take the curving wooden stairway that wound round and round the interior walls of the Tree. The elevator was just a flat wooden slab that rose and fell according to an intricate system of counterweights. No one had ever been able to find them. The Tree liked to hold some of its mysteries close to its chest.
The Administrator stomped off to his very private office, to rest his feet and his aching back, and prepare for the new term. He grumbled loudly about his workload every year, and didn’t fool anyone. Everyone knew he lived for his paperwork.
“You know,” said Hawk, heading straight for the elevator, “given that we will be leaving soon, I think it is incumbent on us to do one final tour of the various departments. Make sure all the tutors are up to the mark, all the students are working hard, and . . .”
“And just generally put the wind up everybody, one last time?” said Fisher. “Sounds good to me.”
So up the elevator shaft they went, standing right in the centre of the wooden slab because there weren’t any handrails. To discourage people from using the thing if they didn’t have to. Hawk and Fisher were looking forward to seeing how the many and various departments of the Academy were doing. The Hero Academy didn’t teach just the basics of soldiering—sword and axe and bow . . . There were also serious studies in magic, High and Wild, and all sorts of classes in such useful skills as infiltration, espionage, politics, information gathering, sneaking up on people, and general underhandedness. As Hawk was fond of saying, A properly prepared warrior has already won the fight before he’s even turned up. And as Fisher liked to say, When in doubt, cheat.
Hawk and Fisher started their casual and entirely informal inspection with the main training hall, on the second floor. A huge open area, with light falling heavily through the many circular windows. There was no glass in any of the Tree’s windows, just openings in the wood. But somehow the Tree was always cool in the summer and comfortably warm in the winter. Which was just as well, because no one was ever going to be stupid enough to start a fire inside the Millennium Oak. Except for the kitchens, on the ground floor. Where the cooks were often heard to murmur that they always felt like someone was watching them. When it got dark, foxfire moss lamps shed safe silver light.
Roland the Headless Axeman was in charge of Weapons Training. A tall man, originally, presumably; it was hard to be sure now that he didn’t have a head anymore. His neck had been neatly trimmed, just above the shoulders, and the tunic he wore had no hole for where the neck should have been. Roland was a large and blocky sort, with muscles on his muscles, and arms so heavily corded that he could crack walnuts in his elbows (for other people; he had no use for the things himself). He wore steel-studded leather armour that had been beaten into a suppleness smooth as cloth, over functional leggings, and battered old boots with steel toe caps. He had large hands, a soldier’s stance, and was so impressively imposing that he all but sweated masculinity. He had a deep, booming, authoritative voice. No one was too sure exactly where it came from, though people had come up with some very disturbing and even unsavoury possibilities. Roland may not have had a head, but he saw all and heard all, and absolutely nothing got by him. Unbeatable with his massive war axe in his hand, Roland was a patient and demanding and very dangerous tutor who never failed to get the best out of his students. Whatever it took.
Some say he cut his own head off . . .
Many sorcerers and witches had run extensive, though carefully unobtrusive, tests on Roland the Headless Axeman down through the years. From what they hoped was a safe distance. They were sure he wasn’t a ghost, or a lich, or an homunculus, or any of a dozen other unlikely things. But as to who or what he really was? No one had a clue. Not even Hawk and Fisher; or if they did, they weren’t talking. An awful lot of people had asked Roland, right to where his face should have been . . . but no one ever got the same answer twice. Roland always made a point of telling these people exactly what they didn’t want to hear, so they’d go away and stop bothering him. The Administrator made a point of asking each new Hawk and Fisher to get rid of Roland, because he wouldn’t take orders from the Administrator, and had been known to do very painful and destructive things to students who disappointed him. Usually for having the wrong attitude . . . The Administrator kept pointing out that Roland the Headless Axeman scared the crap out of the students, and most of the Academy staff; and every Hawk and Fisher in turn said the same thing: that this was the best possible reason for keeping Roland around.
Because if the students could face him, they could face anyone.
And it had to be said: Roland did turn out first-class warriors. All just packed full of the right heroic attitude.
Hawk and Fisher stood at the back of the practice hall just long enough to make sure all the students were giving it their best shot, and then they nodded to Roland. He made a brief movement of his shoulders that suggested he might be nodding back. (Hawk had once let his hand drift casually through the space above Roland’s shoulders, where his head should have been, just to assure himself that there really was nothing there. Roland let him do it, and then said, Never do that again. All the hairs stood up on the back of Hawk’s neck, and he decided right then and there that he had no more curiosity in the matter.) The students duelled up and down the hall in pairs, stamping their feet hard on the wooden floor, thrusting and parrying in perfect form. The clash of steel on steel was oddly muffled, as though the wood of the Millennium Oak absorbed some of the sound, to show its disapproval of so much steel inside the Tree.
• • •
Hawk and Fisher were heading unhurriedly down the long, curving corridor that led to the Alchemist’s laboratory, when there was a sudden and very loud explosion. The floor shook ever so lightly beneath their feet, and the door to the laboratory was blown clean off its hinges, flying across the corridor to slam up against the far wall, while black smoke billowed out through the open doorway. Followed by howls, screams, and quite a lot of really bad language. The Alchemist didn’t take failure well. The black smoke smelled really bad, and dark cinders bobbed and floated on the air. Hawk breathed in a lungful of the smoke before he could stop himself, and for a moment wee-winged bright pink fairies went flying round and round his head, singing in high-pitched voices a very suggestive song about someone called Singapore Nell. Hawk shook his head firmly, and the pink fairies disappeared, one by one. The last one winked, and blew him a kiss.
The fairies might actually have been there, temporarily. The Alchemist could do amazing things with unstable compounds.
“I see our Alchemist is still hard at work,” Fisher said solemnly, batting at the black s
moke with one hand as it curled slowly on the air, before being quickly sucked out the open corridor window. The Tree could look after itself, though the Alchemist tried its patience more than most. “Is he still trying to turn lead into gold? I keep telling him, if gold becomes as common as lead, it won’t be worth anymore than lead; but he won’t listen to me. I think it’s all about the thrill of the chase, myself.”
“A surprisingly good cook, though,” said Hawk. “I suppose all that messing about with potions gives you a feeling for combining the right ingredients . . . Is he still banned from the Tree’s kitchens?”
“Damn right he is,” said Fisher. “That macaroni pie of his had me trapped in the jakes for hours.”
“It was very tasty,” said Hawk.
“Strangely, that didn’t make me feel any better,” said Fisher.
“It cured your hiccups.”
“Only because I was scared to.”
Hawk sniffed deeply at the last evaporating swirls of black smoke. “I smell . . . brimstone, mandrake, and . . . is that cardamom? That mean anything to you?”
“It means we’re going to have to have another hard word with him,” said Fisher. “I don’t mind him blowing his lab up, because the Tree always absorbs the damage, and clears up after him, and the Alchemist always bounces back . . . but it does take a lot out of the students.”
“He doesn’t blow things up nearly as much as he used to,” said Hawk. “And it does do wonders for the students’ reflexes. They can duck and cover and jump out a window faster than anyone else in the Academy.”
“But when he does go wrong, it all goes very wrong,” Fisher said sternly. “And parents really don’t take kindly to having their loved ones sent home in a closed casket because we couldn’t find all the pieces.”
“You’re exaggerating now,” said Hawk.
“Only just!”
“All right, all right. We’ll pop in just long enough to put the hard word on him. But only because I hate having to write letters of apology to students’ next of kin.”