Hammer stood over the dead bodies, and watched expressionlessly as they quickly decayed and fell apart into dust. Within seconds, nothing remained but a few pieces of rusting armor and a slowly dispersing stench of corruption. Hammer tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. Wolf’s Bane. Bane, that which causes ruin and decay. It was just as he remembered from the Demon War, when Wolfsbane had cut a deadly path through the demon horde, and left nothing to show of its passing save a few moidering bones. Hammer looked down at the longsword glowing in the air before him. The hilt felt unpleasantly warm in his hand, and there was something sickening about the horrid yellow light that pulsed within the blade. It was like looking at the source of all the death and corruption in the world, and knowing it to be alive and aware and hungry. And then Hammer looked at the hand holding the sword, and felt a scream build in his throat.
The flesh of his hand was diseased and rotten. Dark patches spread across his skin, which cracked and fell apart to reveal the wet red muscles beneath. Maggots writhed in his flesh as the decay spread, fraying the blackening muscles and tendons and uncovering the discolored bones. Hammer shook his head slowly, watching in horror as the corruption spread remorselessly up his arm.
No! This didn’t happen!
Hammer tried to throw the Infernal Device away, and found he couldn’t. The rotting claw wrapped around the sword hilt wouldn’t release its grip. Hammer staggered unsteadily over to the stream, some inane thought about washing himself clean jerking unsteadily through his mind. At the water’s edge he looked down and saw his reflection staring back. A rotting corpse stood at the water’s edge, holding a sword that shone like the sun. The lich had no face left, and the gleaming teeth were bared in a mocking grin. The bony jaw gaped wide as Hammer finally screamed.
They’re still watching me. They look excited but embarrassed, like someone caught watching a freak in a carnival sideshow. Not so surprising, really. That’s all I am to them. A genuine hero, on display. Watch him walk and talk, almost like a normal human being. See him perform his entertaining little tricks with a bow and arrow. See him hit the target again and again, and pretend you can see excitement in his eyes instead of boredom. Come and see the hero, but don’t get too close. After all, he’s not a normal man, not really. Just another freak in the sideshow.
Edmond Wilde filled his mug and gulped the thick, sugary wine. It was far too sweet for his taste, but it was potent, and he’d settle for that. He looked around him, smiling slightly as people looked quickly away rather than meet his eyes. Peasants. Stupid, grubby peasants in faded clothes from stinking little towns and villages, come to gawk at the county fair, the one patch of light and color in their miserable, squalid lives. The same kind of life he’d left to join the guards …
The county fair was always the same, year after year. A handful of scruffy tents full of second-rate jugglers and acrobats, animals tamed to placidity, and games of chance rigged till the dice screamed. And a freak show, of course, hidden away around the back, so as not to disturb those with more sensitive natures. A gloomy little tent where you could pay to see a calf with two heads, a winged lizard in a bottle, and a wild man in a cage biting the head off a live chicken. There was even a skin show, for those whose tastes ran that way. Half a dozen aging fan dancers with bright smiles and dyed hair who might be persuaded to do more than dance if the price was right. All the fun of the fair.
And then there was the archery competition. That was why he was here, of course. Edmond Wilde, the master bowman. Come and see the man who stood beside the king in the last great battle of the Demon War. See the man who became a hero simply by surviving when so many better men died. Test your skill against the master bowman, and win a purse of fifty gold ducats if you can beat his score! Wilde smiled sourly. No one had beaten him, and no one ever would. He was the best. Wilde drank more wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He was the best bowman there was, and he made a living fleecing peasants in a traveling carnival. Being a hero was all well and good, but it didn’t put money in your pocket. When the Demon War was over, he was still nothing but a guard, living in a guards’ barracks and drawing a guard’s pay. He wanted more than that. After everything he’d been through, he deserved more than that. So he left the guards and struck out on his own, and little good it did him. His only skill was with the bow and the sword. He had no gift for business, and his savings didn’t last long. He lost it all in one tavern after another, and never missed it till it was gone.
And then the carnival found him, and they needed a main attraction as much as he needed a job. As far as Wilde was concerned, it was better than nothing, but only just. The towns and villages came and went, and he lost track of their names just as he lost track of the days and weeks and months that slid past unnoticed. He used his bow when he had to, feeling the joy of bow and arrow and target coming together in a pattern of certainty of which he was only a part, knowing all the time he was wasting his talent but unable to think of anything better. He drank whatever wine was available, and never complained at the taste or the quality. Wherever he went there were always women, awed by his name and reputation, and so starry-eyed they never saw the contempt in his smile. He didn’t value himself and despised those who did. And so the days went on, becoming weeks and months and finally years. Wilde knew his life was drifting away but didn’t know what to do about it, or even if he cared much anyway. There was always another town, another bottle, another woman.
Wilde emptied his mug, went to fill it again, and scowled as he saw the bottle was empty too. It was a good hour or more before the archery contest was due to start, and he was bored. He was also fed up with being stared at. He dropped the empty bottle and mug onto the ground, slung his bow over his shoulder, and wandered aimlessly through the fair. The sunny afternoon was full of the cries of the stall holders and the hawkers, loudly proclaiming the virtues of their wares, and the chatter of the bustling crowds. Women shrilled excitedly over brightly colored cloths and wool, and all but fought each other for new patterns and recipes and spices. Children ran screaming and yelling between the stalls, almost bursting with the excitement of it all, stopping now and again to stare wide-eyed at simple luxuries that were often far beyond the purses of their parents. The open-air bars did a good trade, and knife grinders and pot menders filled the air around them with flying sparks. And everywhere Wilde went the crowds parted before him, falling back to let him pass, mostly because they were awed at his presence among them, but occasionally because they could sense the directionless anger that burned within him, so close to the surface.
He walked on through the crowds, not knowing where he was going or what he was looking for, and not really caring. He just felt better when he was moving. At least then he had the illusion he was doing something. His feet finally led him past the last of the stalls and out into the edge of the fair. A few small tents stood huddled together, a dumping ground for carnival costumes and properties not in use. A girl was standing by one of the tents. She wore a low-cut dress of black and scarlet, and wore it well. She had a fine head of night-dark hair, and her eyes were a startling blue. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen, but she already moved like a woman. Peasants grew up fast. They had to, or like as not they didn’t grow up at all. A girl her age was usually married and starting a family of her own.
She looked away when Wilde met her gaze, but he didn’t miss the slight smile or the spark in her eyes. He’d seen them often enough before. He strolled unhurriedly toward her. She didn’t look to be wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean much in the poorer towns, and the last thing he needed was trouble with a jealous husband. But he was bored, and angry with himself and the world, and anyway, he had an hour to kill. He just hoped this one didn’t have fleas. He stood before her, and they smiled at each other and said pleasant things neither of them really meant, and then they went into the tent together. It was cool and pleasantly dim inside. The girl kissed him once, lingeringly, and then turned away and began to u
nbutton her dress. Wilde removed his bow and his quiver and his sword belt and put them carefully to one side, and then pulled off his shirt and dropped it on the floor. The girl waited until his trousers were down around his ankles and then spun suddenly around and pushed him over backward. Wilde fell awkwardly, the wine singing in his head. There was a brief flash of steel as the girl produced a knife from somewhere and cut the purse from his belt, and then she was running for the tent flaps.
Wilde roared with anger and threw himself after her. One flailing hand caught her around the ankle, and the girl lurched to a halt. She snarled back at him, her pretty face ugly with hatred, and stamped down hard on his hand with her free foot. Wilde didn’t let go. His fingers were screaming with pain, but he was too angry and too drunk to give a damn. He grabbed hold of her leg with his other hand and hauled her down beside him. She cut at him with her knife, but he caught her wrist and made her drop it. Her wrist was very small in his hand. She fought him silently, her face twisted with pain and fury, but he soon forced her onto her back and knelt over her, grinning harshly. Nobody robbed Edmond Wilde without paying for it one way or another. The girl cursed and spat at him, and he slapped her face to teach her some manners. She screamed loudly. Wilde put his hand over her mouth, and she bit it. He snatched his hand away, and she screamed again.
The tent flaps burst open as a man charged in with a sword in his hand. Wilde swore quickly and threw himself away from the girl, clawing for his sword belt. Bastard must be the girl’s protector … her sort always had a protector… . Wilde drew his sword and regained his feet while the newcomer’s eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, and he thrust out his sword in a perfect lunge. The sword grated briefly against the newcomer’s ribs as the blade slammed home. He groaned once and fell limply to the floor. The girl made a run for the tent flaps, and Wilde cut her down without thinking.
He looked at the two bodies lying twisted and bloody on the tent floor, and the last of the drink burned out of his mind, leaving him sober at last. He bent down and reclaimed his purse, and thought frantically on what to do. The girl and her would-be rescuer were bound to be locals, and their fellow villagers would hang him for a murderer without even bothering to hear his side of the story. He was a carnival man, an outsider… . Already he could hear feet running toward the tent as people came to investigate the girl’s screams. He pulled up his trousers and grabbed his bow and quiver. He kicked the dead girl in the side. Bitch. All your fault. He moved quickly over to the tent flaps and looked out. Half the county fair were heading toward him. He ducked back into the tent, ran to the rear, and cut himself an exit in the thick canvas wall.
The edge of the Forest wasn’t too faraway. If he was quick on his feet he could lose himself in the trees before the villagers could catch him, and then they’d never find him. The cry went up as they spotted him again, and he ran for the trees. It didn’t take him long to realize he wasn’t going to make it. He was out of shape, and the villagers were gaining on him. He stumbled to a halt and glared back at his pursuers. It took only a moment to draw his bow and nock an arrow to the string. The pursuers were being led by a guard. Wilde hesitated. I can’t shoot a fellow guard. I can’t … He cursed calmly. He couldn’t let them take him. He shot the guard in the throat, and the impact of the arrow threw the man backward off his feet. The running crowd began to stumble to a halt. Wilde shot two more of them, just to be safe, and then turned and headed for the trees again. He’d almost got there when his foot caught in a concealed hole, and he fell heavily to the ground. He heard as much as felt the bone snap in his leg.
He tried to get to his feet again and couldn’t. It was an effort just to get air into his lungs. He looked dazedly around for his bow, but it had fallen out of reach. And then the villagers arrived. The first to get there kicked Wilde in the ribs, and the bowman fell backward, too short of breath even to cry out. The villagers crowded around him, screaming Rape and Murder until their voices merged into a single harsh rhythm ugly with bloodlust. They took turns kicking Wilde and beating him with sticks, until they grew tired and he no longer had the strength to do anything more than moan. And then one of them produced a rope.
No… .
They dragged Wilde over to the nearest tree, laughing and cheering. Nothing like a good hanging to liven up a fair. Someone threw the rope over a high branch, and the noose dangled before Wilde’s face. He fought then, lashing out at the grinning faces with desperate strength, but there were more than enough men there to hold him securely while they tied his hands behind his back. Someone put the noose around his neck and pulled it tight. The coarse rope bit into his skin.
No … This isn’t what happened. I got away. I ran off into the Forest and became an outlaw, and everyone feared me and my bow.
A dozen men took hold of the rope and slowly hauled Wilde off the ground until his dangling feet were a good yard above the grass. He wriggled and twisted as he choked, and the crowd cheered every kick of his feet. Wilde knew he was dying, and suddenly realized he didn’t really give a damn after all. It wasn’t much of a life he was leaving. He’d been a hero once, and it had spoiled him for everything else. Even death was better than a life of boredom and emptiness based around a fleeting moment of glory. And besides, he had fouled his own legend and deserved to die. His breathing grew ragged as the rope tightened, and the darkness gathered around him in welcome.
Scarecrow Jack lay on his back on a low mossy bank at the edge of a Forest glade. Sunlight fell between the great trees in shafts of golden light, thick with swirling dust motes. From all around came the rich, familiar scents of earth and tree and leaf and flower. A butterfly lurched through the air before him, and Jack watched entranced as it fluttered confusedly on its way like a scrap of animated whimsey. Birds were singing all around—everything from simple stabbing rhythms to long and complex full-blooded songs. Jack stretched lazily. The grass and the mosses were firm and dry, and the late summer day was pleasantly warm.
Scarecrow Jack smiled sleepily and was content. He was home.
The birds fell silent. Jack raised himself on one elbow and looked sharply around. A sudden silence usually meant an intruder, a stranger in the Forest. And yet though the silence lengthened, Jack heard no one approaching, and for all his senses could tell, the nearby Forest was empty of any man save him. Jack frowned. The Forest was too silent. There were no birds, or flies buzzing on the air; even the butterfly had vanished. Jack got quickly to his feet, suddenly disturbed. Something was wrong in the Forest. Very wrong.
Dark clouds covered the sun, and the golden shafts of light disappeared. Jack shivered uncontrollably as the warmth of the day died away. The air grew heavy and oppressive with the vague pressure of an approaching storm. Jack glared about him, searching for the source of his unease. Nothing moved in the glade or among the trees, but the surrounding shadows were very dark. Jack reached out for the communion of the Forest, but his inner sense was ominously silent. Something had come between him and the trees. It was out there somewhere, watching him. He could feel it. Something slow and determined was stirring in the darkness, gathering its strength. It watched with a predator’s eyes and bided its time. Jack drew the knife from his boot. And then, finally, he looked up.
The clear blue of the sky was darkening into night. The sun grew dim and red and faded away. Night fell. Jack whimpered softly. Day couldn’t turn so quickly into night; it was impossible, unnatural… . A new light fell across the Forest, heavy and foul, as the full Blue Moon rose on a starless night sky. Jack shook his head dumbly, trying to deny the evidence of his own eyes, but already he could feel the Wild Magic beating on the air like a never ending roll of thunder, free and awful and potent once again.
Jack shrank in on himself. The Forest he knew was suddenly gone, corrupted into Darkwood. The life he had loved was gone forever, and he was nothing more than a man named Jack—an outlaw and lier-in-wait. He swallowed hard, fighting down the panic that threatened to unman him. He clutched the h
ilt of his knife tightly, and drew comfort from the simple familiar weight of it. The Forest might be dead and gone, but it could still be avenged. He was Scarecrow Jack, and nothing and nobody could ever take that from him.
He looked away from the Blue Moon. The open glade seemed suddenly bleak and menacing. It was too open, too vulnerable to attack. There was nowhere to hide if … if he needed to. He started to run and head for the trees, and then discovered that he couldn’t. He looked down and found that the grass had grown up over his feet and ankles, wrapping its long, wiry strands into unyielding grassy chains. Jack tugged at his feet with all his strength, but the grass wouldn’t break or give. He bent down and slashed the verdant chains with his knife, and they parted reluctantly under the sharp edge. Panic was gnawing at his mind again, and it was getting harder all the time to hold it off. He finally pulled his feet free and ran for the trees. The grass was growing taller all around him, throwing bright green streamers up into the night sky. They swayed constantly, though no wind blew, and the thicker strands reached out to snatch at his legs as he ran through them. The trees loomed up before him, and Jack felt his heart leap. He would be safe among the trees, as he always had.
It was dark beyond the glade. Out in the open, the air danced and shimmered with the Blue Moon’s unhealthy light, but in the Darkwood there was only the eerie light of the phosphorescent lichens that spotted the tree trunks. Jack stumbled to a halt and searched with his inner sense for the source of his magic, but the trees were silent. He leaned against the nearest tree for support, and the bark sagged inward under his weight. He stepped quickly back from the tree, and on looking at it closely discovered it was already dead and rotten, eaten away from within. The ever present stench of corruption lay heavily on the air, thick and suffocating. The tree’s gnarled and twisted branches suddenly writhed like twitching fingers and reached out for him. He jumped back, and the tree behind him wrapped its branches around him in a deadly embrace. Jack struggled fiercely, but the branches closed ever more tightly around him, crushing the air from his lungs. He tried to cut the branches with his knife, but couldn’t apply enough leverage to do more than notch the bark. The branches lifted him up into the stinking air, and his feet kicked helplessly as the ground fell away beneath him.