Once In a Blue Moon (6 page)

“I see the magical tantric sex classes are still very popular,” said Hawk.

“For those who survive them, yes,” said Fisher.

They lingered for a while outside the door. They had no business there, but still . . . Sudden raised voices from the base of the Tree travelled up the open elevator shaft behind them and caught their attention, and they reluctantly decided that they’d better check them out. They shot down the shaft on the flat wooden slab, just a little more quickly than they were comfortable with, and made their way to the entrance of the Millennium Oak, where a Famous Name had turned up, demanding entrance.

The Tree’s security guards were blocking the newcomer’s way, politely but very firmly, with closed ranks and drawn swords; but Warren Wulfshead wasn’t the kind to be easily impressed or intimidated. He just stood there, his fists planted solidly on his hips, glaring right into the guards’ faces, loudly demanding to be allowed to enter. Demanding that he had a right to enter the Academy, because of who and what he was, and that he had every intention of tutoring all the students, teaching them everything he knew and recruiting the best of them for his own purposes.

Everyone had heard of the Wulfshead, of course, though for many this was the first chance they’d had to see the outlaw legend in the flesh. He was tall and darkly handsome, lithely muscled, and even standing still he burned with barely suppressed nervous energy. He looked like he’d much rather be killing a whole bunch of people, and only basic politeness was holding him back. He looked down his prominent nose at everyone present, his mouth set in a flat, determined line. He had a high, bony forehead, a receding hairline, and cold, cold eyes. It was hard to believe he could have done all the heroically violent things he was supposed to have done, and still appear to be only in his early thirties. Just looking at him, you got the impression he was quite prepared to walk through and over absolutely anyone who got in his way. You could also tell that he quite clearly saw himself as a Born Leader. Such men are dangerous. Especially to those they lead.

Warren Wulfshead, legendary bandit and brigand of Redhart, wore clothes of green and brown, for camouflage, so he could blend into the scenery and shoot his enemies in the back, from ambush. And then run away. Though that was rarely mentioned in the many widely circulating stories and songs based on his exploits. Warren Wulfshead was a professional outlaw, a renegade by choice, and if the rumours were to believed . . . he was also the author of most of the stories and songs about him.

Hawk and Fisher had heard of him. They didn’t approve of him at all.

They shouldered their way through the crowd that had gathered in the entrance hall, eager for a look at a living legend and maybe even an autograph, and then they eased their way through the ranks of security guards, to finally stand before the Wulfshead. Who looked Hawk and Fisher up and down, curled his lip briefly to show how unimpressed he was, and then went for the bluff and hearty approach. He gave them both a quick, manly smile, nicely calculated to demonstrate that he was officially pleased to meet the current heads of the Hero Academy but that they weren’t on his level and so shouldn’t use the opportunity to take advantage. The Wulfshead was always the hero of the story, wherever he happened to be, and no matter whom he was speaking to. But before he could say anything, Hawk got in first. Because he was never impressed by anybody.

“Yes, we know who you are, and no, we don’t care,” he said bluntly. “You’re not welcome here.”

“We don’t approve of you,” said Fisher.

“Whyever not?” said the Wulfshead, honestly taken aback.

“Because we’ve talked with people who’ve actually met you,” said Hawk.

He took a careful, deliberate step forward, so he could plant himself directly in front of the Wulfshead and block his entrance to the Tree. The Wulfshead didn’t budge an inch, and the two men faced off. The Wulfshead made a point of playing to the eagerly watching crowd. He was famous, or perhaps more properly infamous, for leading a pack of political outlaws that liked to be called the Werewolves, in the darker and more primitive woods of Redhart. The country was ruled by King William, who was, in turn, very strictly advised by the elected Parliament. But the Wulfshead saw growing democracy as too slow a process. There was a certain amount of support for his cause, but not for his methods. Which tended to be brutal, murderous, and self-serving. You were either on the Wulfshead’s side or you were dead. The Wulfshead had never actually said who or what should replace the King, but no one would have been at all surprised if Warren’s name turned out to be at the top of the list. He was, after all, a Born Leader.

“We’d heard you’d been doing badly,” said Hawk. “That your vicious activities had undermined your cause and turned most of Redhart’s population against you.”

“Lies, spread by my enemies,” said the Wulfshead, still playing to the crowd.

“Most of your followers have been killed, arrested, or just deserted,” said Fisher. “Because you treat your people worse than the King does.”

“And because you don’t know a thing about strategy,” said Hawk. “Hiding in the deep woods, attacking from ambush and then disappearing, is all you know. Last I heard, you’d been chased right out of Redhart, with your few remaining followers. You tried to set up business in the Forest Kingdom, but since that’s mostly a democracy these days, with just a constitutional monarchy, your brand of outlaw politics never stood a chance. The Forest army kicked you out before you’d even had time to write a song about being there. And now here you are; with a mere seven followers, none too impressive, I might add, demanding the right to tutor my students in your own brand of extreme politics, so you can carry them off to be battle fodder in your own private war. Like I’m going to let that happen.”

“I need a new base, and a new army,” the Wulfshead said calmly. “And I have found them both here. You can’t stand against me. I have destiny on my side. They’re not your people anymore. They’re mine.”

“Over my dead body,” said Hawk.

The Wulfshead smiled happily. “That’s the idea, yes. A ship can’t have two Captains.” He looked at Fisher. “I’m here for him. The man in charge. You don’t get to interfere.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Fisher. “My Hawk may not be as young as he used to be, but there will never be a day when he needs my help to take out a jumped-up little turd like you.”

The Wulfshead gestured imperiously to his followers. “Seize her!”

Fisher stepped forward and glared right into the faces of the seven Werewolves. They backed away despite themselves, huddled together and shifted their feet uncertainly, and didn’t make a single move to go for their weapons. They didn’t know what to do with people who weren’t scared of them. Fisher let loose with a harsh bark of laughter and set herself firmly between the Werewolves and their leader. She nodded briskly to Hawk, who looked thoughtfully at the Wulfshead for a moment before drawing his axe and hefting it meaningfully. In a simple, straightforward way that showed it was something he did every day. Something he was very good at.

The Wulfshead stepped back, looked quickly about him, and realised he’d lost the attention of the crowd. He pulled open the front of his brown and green tunic to reveal a preserved wolf’s paw hanging on a silver chain over his very hairy chest. Some people in the crowd made impressed noises, but not many. They’d all seen stranger things, studying at the Hero Academy. The Wulfshead drew his long sword, making a real production of it. He swept the blade back and forth before him, the burnished steel shining bright and sharp in the golden ambience of the entrance hall. He smiled mockingly at Hawk, who hadn’t moved an inch.

“See the wolf’s paw, little man? I cut it off a werewolf I killed in Redhart, when I was just starting out. Hacked the paw right off and had it made into this useful charm, so I can share the wolf’s strength and speed. No one gets in my way and gets away with it. I have a destiny to fulfil! I’m going to carve you up and cut you into little pieces, little man.”

Hawk said nothing. Just stood where he was, in his experienced fighter’s crouch, axe at the ready, looking like the solid, skilled warrior he was. Students were running into the hall from all directions—not to interfere, but to watch and learn. News of the two clashing legends had spread quickly through the Millennium Oak, and now students and tutors alike were pressing forward to watch the fight. Because some lessons are best observed firsthand. Hawk didn’t move, or even look around, but he did smile briefly at the Wulfshead.

“Don’t mind them,” he said easily. “They just like to watch me work.”

The Wulfshead laughed theatrically, and swept his blade back and forth. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, flexed his muscles ostentatiously, and sneered at Hawk. “Pay attention, everyone!” he said loudly. “And I will show you how it’s done. And when it’s over, Fisher, you can take me on a guided tour of my new home.”

He surged forward while he was still speaking, an old trick, and Hawk went forward to meet him. The Wulfshead stamped and danced around Hawk, darting this way and that, moving almost too quickly for the human eye to follow. He laughed at Hawk, taunting him, darting in and out, his sword seemingly everywhere at once . . . without actually committing himself to anything, trying to provoke Hawk into making the first attack. But Hawk just held his fighter’s crouch, shuffling slowly round so he was always facing the Wulfshead, no matter how quickly the outlaw tried to catch him off balance. For all the much younger man’s speed and fury, somehow Hawk was always in the right place at the right time.

Finally the Wulfshead realised he was getting short of breath to no purpose. He roared deafeningly and hurled himself forward, his sword flashing in for the kill . . . and there was Hawk, waiting for him. His axe lashed out in one simple, brutal movement and buried itself in the Wulfshead’s chest. There was a loud cracking sound, as the heavy steel axe head slammed right through the silver chain holding the wolf’s paw, through the outlaw’s breastbone, and deep into his heart. Blood coursed down from the terrible wound, and the Wulfshead stood very still. His hand slowly opened, and the sword dropped from his numb fingers. The blade made a loud noise as it hit the floor, but neither Hawk nor the Wulfshead looked down. They only had eyes for each other.

The outlaw’s mouth moved. Blood came out of it, and spilled down over his chin. “How . . . ?”

“The High Warlock made this axe, for the original Hawk,” said Hawk. “It can cut through anything, including magical defences. Like the disguised charm hidden inside a wolf’s paw. This axe was handed down to me through all the other Hawks, just so I could deal with dangerous little shits like you.”

“Oh,” said the Wulfshead.

Hawk jerked the axe head out of the outlaw’s chest, in a flurry of blood, and the Wulfshead collapsed and fell to the floor, as though that had been all that was holding him up. Hawk looked down at him, and then raised his axe and brought it swinging sharply down again, to cut off the Wulfshead’s head. Just in case. There was a great burst of applause, and not a little cheering, from all those watching in the entrance hall, from students and tutors alike. Some money changed hands here and there, but not a lot; most people had more sense than to bet against Hawk.

“Nice work,” said Fisher, moving forward to stand beside Hawk. “I knew you could take him.”

“But you would have cut him down from behind, if it looked like I was losing?” said Hawk.

“Of course,” said Fisher. And they shared a quiet grin. Then they turned unhurriedly to look at the Wulfshead’s seven followers, standing very close together and doing their best to appear completely unthreatening.

“All right,” said Hawk. “There’s a place for you here, if you want it. Stay here as students, learn how to be real fighters, and how to atone for all the things you did before you got here. Or you can leave. Now. Your choice.”

“We’d like to stay,” said one of the former Werewolves, and the others nodded quickly in agreement. Fisher signalled the security guards, who moved forward and disarmed the outlaws.

“See they get a good meal,” growled Fisher. “They look half-starved.”

The guards led the ex-outlaws away. A student in the watching crowd held up his hand to ask a question, as though he was still in class.

“Excuse me, sir Hawk,” he said diffidently, “but according to all the old songs and stories we heard in the Forest Kingdom, the original Hawk’s axe, the one made specially for him by the High Warlock, was lost during Hawk and Fisher’s visit to the otherworldly realm of Reverie, home to the Blue Moon, where they finally confronted and destroyed the Demon Prince.”

Hawk waited a moment, to be sure the student had finished, and then nodded briskly. “Even that couldn’t keep the axe from its rightful owner.” He paused for a moment, to clean the last of the blood from his axe head with a piece of cloth, then tucked the cloth back into his sleeve and put the axe back at his side. He realised the student was still looking at him. “The axe turned up again, when it was needed. As such things have a habit of doing.”

“It just goes to show,” Fisher said cheerfully, turning her back on the dead body lying on the floor, “never believe everything you read in a story or hear in a song.”

“And never trust a minstrel,” said Hawk.

•   •   •

T
he Auditions started at noon, but long before then the massive Audition Hall at the heart of the great Millennium Oak was packed from wall to wall with willing hopefuls, heroes-in-waiting, and desperate last-chancers. They came from far and wide, from every country and background, and some from cities and cultures no one had ever heard of. There were no entrance fees and no conditions. By long tradition, if you could find your way to the Hero Academy, you would get your chance to show what you could do and demonstrate your worthiness to be accepted. There wasn’t even a limit to the number of students admitted to the Academy every year; if you could prove you had what it takes, the Academy would make room for you. Of course, every potential student had to show their stuff right there, when called on, in front of everyone, and tough luck if you froze. The Audition process wasn’t for the faint of heart, but that was part of the challenge. If you couldn’t deliver in front of an audience, what use would you be in a battle?