They leaned morosely on the parapet, looking down into the white water.
"You know," said Cohen slowly, "I can remember when a man could ride all the way from here to the Blade Mountains and never see another living thing." He fingered his sword. "At least, not for very long."
He threw the butt of his cigarette into the water. "It's all farms now. All little farms, run by little people. And fences everywhere. Everywhere you look, farms and fences and little people."
"She's right, of course," said the troll, continuing some interior conversation. "There's no future in just jumping out from under a bridge."
"I mean," said Cohen, "I've nothing against farms. Or farmers. You've got to have them. It's just that they used to be a long way off, around the edges. Now this is the edge."
"Pushed back all the time," said the troll. "Changing all the time. Like my brother-in-law Chert. A lumber mill! A troll running a lumber mill! And you should see the mess he's making of Cutshade Forest!"
Cohen looked up, surprised.
"What, the one with the giant spiders in it?"
"Spiders? There ain't no spiders now. Just stumps."
"Stumps? Stumps? I used to like that forest. It was well, it was darksome. You don't get proper darksome any more. You really knew what terror was, in a forest like that."
"You want darksome. He's replanting with spruce," said Mica.
"Spruce!"
"It's not his idea. He wouldn't know one tree from another. That's all down to Clay. He put him up to it."
Cohen felt dizzy. "Who's Clay?"
"I said I'd got three brothers-in-law, right? He's the merchant. So he said replanting would make the land easier to sell."
There was a long pause while Cohen digested this.
Then he said, "You can't sell Cutshade Forest. It doesn't belong to anyone."
"Yeah. He says that's why you can sell it."
Cohen brought his fist down on the parapet. A piece of stone detached itself and tumbled down into the gorge.
"Sorry," he said.
"That's all right. Bits fall off all the time, like I said."
Cohen turned. "What's happening? I remember all the big old wars. Don't you? You must have fought."
"I carried a club, yeah."
"It was supposed to be for a bright new future and law and stuff. That's what people said."
"Well, I fought because a big troll with a whip told me to," said Mica, cautiously. "But I know what you mean."
"I mean it wasn't for farms and spruce trees. Was it?"
Mica hung his head. "And here's me with this apology for a bridge. I feel really bad about it," he said. "You coming all this way and everything"
"And there was some king or other," said Cohen, vaguely, looking at the water. "And I think there were some wizards. But there was a king. I'm pretty certain there was a king. Never met him. You know?" He grinned at the troll. "I can't remember his name. Don't think they ever told me his name."
About half an hour later Cohen's horse emerged from the gloomy woods onto a bleak, windswept moorland. It plodded on for a while before saying, "All right how much did you give him?"
"Twelve gold pieces," said Cohen.
"Why'd you give him twelve gold pieces?"
"I didn't have more than twelve."
"You must be mad."
"When I was just starting out in the barbarian hero business," said Cohen, "every bridge had a troll under it. And you couldn't go through a forest like we've just gone through without a dozen goblins trying to chop your head off." He sighed. "I wonder what happened to 'em all?"
"You," said the horse.
"Well, yes. But I always thought there'd be some more. I always thought there'd be some more edges."
"How old are you?" said the horse.
"Dunno."
"Old enough to know better, then."
"Yeah. Right." Cohen lit another cigarette and coughed until his eyes watered.
"Going soft in the head!"
"Yeah."
"Giving your last dollar to a troll!"
"Yeah." Cohen wheezed a stream of smoke at the sunset.
"Why?"
Cohen stared at the sky. The red glow was as cold as the slopes of hell. An icy wind blew across the steppes, whipping at what remained of his hair.
"For the sake of the way things should be," he said.
"Hah!"
"For the sake of things that were."
"Hah!"
Cohen looked down.
He grinned.
"And for three addresses. One day I'm going to die." he said, "but not, I think, today."
The wind blew off the mountains, filling the air with fine ice crystals. It was too cold to snow. In weather like this wolves came down into villages, trees in the heart of the forest exploded when they froze. Except there were fewer and fewer wolves these days, and less and less forest.
In weather like this right-thinking people were indoors, in front of the fire.
Telling stories about heroes.
THE TALE OF HAUK
by Poul Anderson
Chosen by Mickey Zucker Reichert
Choosing my favorite fantasy short story of all time turned out to be an astoundingly difficult assignment. In the time it took me to decide on Poul Anderson's "The Story of Hauk," I could have written several of my own stories, with less tooth grinding and hair pulling. I could not, in good conscience, take this duty Iightly. While I cannot say for certain that this story is "my favorite fantasy tale of all time," I do believe that Mr. Anderson deserves special recognition for the valuable contributions he has made to the genre.
Although I had read and enjoyed fantasy novels as a child, including the classics such as the complete Oz series, the Namia chronicles, and Tolkien's work, I did not become reacquainted with fantasy until college. After reading Dune, Michael Moorcock's Eternal Champion series, and any story I could find by Robert E. Howard, I rediscovered Norse mythology. A fellow medical student caught me reading it one day and recommended Poul Anderson's The Broken Sword. That book not only inspired me to leap back into fantasy reading, but also to begin writing my own stories.
Soon after my first book appeared in print, I had the opportunity to meet Mr. Anderson. I gave him a copy of Godslayer and told him how much his novels had inspired me. To my surprise, he ignored me, and I was positively devastated. It was only years later that I learned about his hearing impairment. The meetings that I have had with him since that time have shown him to be a kind and caring, as well as a talented, man. I hope to have the pleasure of his company again soon.
If you have a chance to pick up a copy of The Merman's Children, The Demon of Scattery, or any other of Poul Anderson's myriad fantasy and science fiction works, do so. You won't regret it. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy this story.
Mickey Zucker Reichert
A man called Geirolf dwelt on the Great Fjord in Raumsdal. His father was Bui Hardhand, who owned a farm inland near the Dofra Fell. One year Bui went in viking to Finnmark and brought back a woman he dubbed Gydha. She became the mother of Geirolf. But because Bui already had children by his wife, there would be small inheritances for this by-blow.
Folk said uncanny things about Gydha. She was fair to see, but spoke little, did no more work than she must, dwelt by herself in a shack out of sight of the garth, and often went for long stridings alone on the upland heaths, heedless of cold, rain, and rovers. Bui did not visit her often. Her son Geirolf did. He too was a moody sort, not much given to playing with others, quick and harsh of temper. Big and strong, he went abroad with his father already when he was twelve, and in the next few years won the name of a mighty though ruthless fighter.