“There are many who would have done such,” Alain said grimly. “What harm could that arrogance have done to us, though?”
“It would have inclined us toward intolerance,” Gregory told him, “and toward the unjust use of force.”
“Becoming bullies, you mean.” Alain scowled. “Hazardous indeed, if we are on a quest to defend the land from those who would take it unjustly and for no better reason than that they are brutal enough to succeed.”
“Which means,” Gregory said softly, “that they are not so strong as to be able to triumph by force of arms alone.”
“No—they must corrupt folk here to become their allies in some fashion.” Geoffrey smiled. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“ ’Tis an old pattern,” Gregory said. “The Saxons might never have taken England if King Vortigern had not invited them to come and aid him against his rival Uther.”
“A legend only.” But the prince clearly found it unsettling.
“Other kings have found it expedient to ask for soldiers from a neighbor,” Geoffrey told him, “and found that when the war was done, the neighbor’s army would not leave.”
“I have heard of such.” Alain’s scowl was becoming darker and darker. “Some stayed to conquer. Others stayed only long enough to suck the lifeblood from the land, then marched triumphantly home, laden with spoils and captives.”
“Lifeblood!” Gregory stared at him. “How very like a vampire—who cannot enter a dwelling unless he is invited!”
The three young men stared at one another in horror. Then Alain asked in a low voice, “Is that the purpose of these monsters, then? To demoralize the peasants until one of them seeks to curry favor by inviting in whatever sorcerer lurks in the fog?”
“A sorcerer who can send his thoughts into our land to craft witch-moss monsters,” Gregory added, “but whose body cannot come without invitation?”
“His body, and his armies!” Geoffrey finished currying his horse and caressed the animal’s neck thoughtfully. “I think we must find this cloud of fog and put an end to this eruption of monsters quickly.”
“Quickly indeed, ere some greedy fool asks aid of the very ones who seek to slay him!” Alain shook his head. “I find myself yearning to travel onward this very night!”
“We cannot fight if we are tottering with fatigue and weak from hunger,” Geoffrey objected. “Every soldier knows he must rest and eat while he can.”
“So we shall, then.” Alain sighed. “But can we rise with the mist and ride with the sunrise, my friends? We may not have much longer to seek!”
• • •
They did indeed ride as the sun was rising. The first two hours passed without incident; the countryside looked peaceful and prosperous, the fields of grain ripe and ready for harvest. Then they came upon a covey of quail and Geoffrey took out his sling. He fitted a stone into the cup and whirled it around his head, but even as he did, a fox pounced from the underbrush and the birds scattered.
“Blast!” Geoffrey resisted the temptation to do just that to the fox and caught the sling-pouch with his left hand. “Ten seconds more and we would have eaten fresh fowl for lunch!”
“How can it be fresh if it be foul?” Alain asked, amused.
Geoffrey stared at him, for he’d never heard Alain make a joke before. Then he recovered and cried, “A riddle! How say you, Gregory—can foul be fresh or fresh be foul?”
“So said Shakespeare.” Gregory frowned. “No, that was fair and foul. May it be an apple that rots upon the tree?”
Geoffrey shook his head. “If it rots, it cannot be fresh even if it has not been picked.” He cocked an eye at Alain. “I do not suppose you know the answer.”
“Answer? Me?” Alain grinned. “I scarcely knew the question!”
So, chatting amiably about possible solutions to a paradox, they rode on through the morning. They found themselves riding uphill, so they weren’t too surprised when the trees grew smaller and smaller until they ceased completely, and the plowed fields gave way to a broad rolling expanse of land covered with heather and bracken.
Gregory breathed deeply, tilting his face up to the sun. “So much room, so wide a sky! I had not realized how the forest and fields can press in on one.”
“If you feel that way, brother, why did you build your ivory tower in the woods instead of out here on the moors?” Geoffrey asked.
“You know well—because I built where my site of power is. Besides”—Gregory grinned—“I would not want to dwell amid such a wide expanse of earth and sky forever.”
Alain nodded. “It is lonely, and a man here would feel very much isolated.”
“ ’Tis very refreshing, though,” Gregory said.
Geoffrey nodded. “A change, and a good one. We all need that now and again—and there could surely be no greater change from your forest, than these moors.”
They rode across the uplands, studying everything they saw, for none of them had spent much time on the moors. Finally they came to a brook, and Geoffrey suggested, “Let us fill our waterskins.”
“Let us indeed,” Alain agreed, “for who knows how long it will be till we find open water again?”
“There is not very much of it, on these moors.” Gregory dismounted, too, and came after Geoffrey as the older brother pulled the stopper and knelt on the bank, pushing the water-skin under—but before it was filled, Alain laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hist! Look up, but slowly.”
Geoffrey whistled as he lifted the skin, pushed in the stopper, and just happened to glance across the brook—straight into the eyes of the stunted, large-headed man dressed in faded tan smock and leggins.
“What be you staring at?” the stranger growled.
He was worth the stare. It was hard to judge his height when he was sitting on his heels, but his legs didn’t look to be very long at all, nor his arms either. His shoulders were broad—too broad for his size, though just right for his head. His face was deeply tanned, his moustache and beard dark brown, as was his frizzled hair. His mouth was wide, his nose large, and his eyes great and glowing, like a bull’s.
“I might ask the same.” Geoffrey felt the wolfish grin pulling at the corners of his mouth but fought it. “Indeed, you were staring at me even as I looked up.”
“And well I might wish to study the loathly lads who trespass on my land!” the stranger said with simmering rage. “What! Have you no courtesy, no charity, but you must go tramping about my moors and crushing my bracken with your great iron-shod beasts? Have you no compassion, that you are scarcely come upon my moors but you must seek to slay my grouse?”
“I would say you grouse well enough without us,” Geoffrey retorted, and when the man’s face turned darker and darker, he added quickly, “It was the fox who seized the bird, not I—and who said the fowls were yours?”
“All things upon the moors are mine,” the stranger bellowed, “even as I am theirs! I am grown out of the moors, I have the wide lands within me! I am the Brown Man of the Moors, as much of them as they are of me! How dare you seek to trample upon me with shoes of Cold Iron and think to slay my fox with your leaden pellet?”
“I withheld my bullet from the fox,” Geoffrey said evenly, “even as I withhold my hand from you.”
“Oh, you would seek to slay me too, would you?” the stranger roared. “Will nothing sate your appetite for slaughter?”
“I do like a bit of meat now and then.” Geoffrey ignored his brother’s frantic shushing motions. “From the look of you, you’ve dined on a hen or two yourself now and again.”
The Brown Man leaped to his feet. “He lies who says so!”
Sure enough, he was short and square—too tall to be a dwarf, though it was his arms and legs that were short and his torso long. His limbs were thick with muscle, though, and Geoffrey looked willowy and frail in contrast.