“Of course,” she said with sudden show of hard pride.
“Would you try to protect it, if you could?”
Her eyes became startled. Her voice trembled. “Is… is that why you’re here?”
He studied her intently. “Yes. I need a messenger… one who will not act… who can not lie.”
Her teeth took hold of her lower lip.
“Yes, you. But do you know that soon more Kitzakks will come, and invade the forest?”
Robin gulped.
“Listen carefully. You have heard our song of the battle at Lemontree Crossing?”
She nodded.
“It is true. The song does not lie.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The defender of the bridge lives in The Shades, a man of incredible strength! And spirit! He, and only he, has the skills and power we must have to defend the forest, but he distrusts all men.”
“Gath of Baal! The Dark One!” She trembled.
His head bobbed. “He alone can stand against the Kitzakks, and save the tribes. I do not know if he will, but I know he can. And I can help him do it. But he will not cooperate with me. He does not trust my motives or see the value in my imagination. But you… you understand?”
She nodded, her breath racing.
“He must be made to understand the immense size of the danger, of the horror of the Kitzakk chains and cages. And he must be made to understand that they endanger not only the freedom and lives of the forest tribes, but his freedom! His life. Once he knows these things he will realize, as he is a man of keen intelligence, that he can not prevail alone. And that I can help him, provide him with the metal and weapons, and the army, he will need.” He looked off at the river. “I have tried to tell him this but he will not believe me.” He looked back into Robin’s eyes and smiled wisely. “But he will believe you.”
She grabbed a quick breath, stammered, “But… but how can I find him? And if I did, would… would he listen to me?”
“He can be summoned. And your beauty, your innocence, and honesty, they are powerful weapons of persuasion. When he finds you helpless and vulnerable in his domain, a place of beasts and demons, and for no other reason than to speak to him, you can not fail but to gain his attention. And hold it. At least for as long as it will take for you to deliver my words.”
She gasped. “And then?”
He hesitated, then said flatly. “I do not know.”
She shuddered, looked off at the flowing river. After a moment, she glanced back over her brown shoulder at him and said weakly, “He’ll hurt me, won’t he?”
Brown John shifted uncomfortably. “I do not know. I don’t think he will.”
Her head dropped so all she could see was the rock between her legs. From that position, she asked, “You’re certain he can save my people?”
Her head lifted. The question glistened in her eyes, but also a tentative commitment. Seeing it, an excited tremor shot through Brown John as he nodded. When he spoke it sounded as if he were the Lord God of Imagination.
“Child, the extreme, the immeasurable power of this man is beyond, our feeble contemplation. This is a man who can not only overcome the Kitzakks, but become the sword of justice itself. A man, Robin Lakehair, who can be the savior of our land, our people. Who can drive the nightmare from the children’s sleep… and fill their minds with soaring dreams worthy of the dreaming.”
Her lips trembled.
He lowered his voice. “The Kitzakks are not the future, child. We are. A time is coming when there will only be masterless men and women. When there will be no barriers across the trails except those placed there by the limits of our imagination.”
Robin began to glow.
“Soon, if we dare to make them so, all things will be possible. You and I, at this very moment, can take the first step into an age of adventure, into the childhood of a time made for legends. And he, Gath of Baal, he can be the first to walk them.” Her hands trembled as they held her knees. He placed his hands over hers, held them as he spoke. “But he is a prisoner of his pride. He is caged by it. And you… Robin Lakehair… can open the door of that cage. Set him free.”
She gasped, “Is… is this truly possible?”
“You be the judge of that. Have I lied?”
A rush of feeling left her breathless. Light leapt into her face. There was joyous surrender and resolute commitment in her voice.
“No.”
Brown John took her cheeks in his hands, lifted her to face him and looked into her eyes with an honesty that almost hurt saying, “I was right. You, little girl, are the one.” She nodded within his hands, and he continued. “Tomorrow morning, at the third hour, my sons will be waiting for you outside Weaver’s western gate. They will guide you to Calling Rock which is deep within The Shades, but they will not stay with you.” She nodded again. “There is a large blackthorn tree at the top of the rock. Concealed in its hollow is a horn we use to call him. You will blow it three times, two long and one short.”
Robin, whose eyes had not left his, nodded once more. “Two long and one short.”
Thirteen
A distant note, like the cry of an elephant, rose above the sounds of the wind in the trees and the dialogue of the crows and sparrows. Gath, standing in the clear track in front of his root house deep within the southern part of The Shades, heard it clearly.
His dark brow furrowed and his sweating face lifted slightly, but he did not turn in the direction of the sound. He was busy.
In front of him Sergeant Yat’s helmet was wedged over the stump of a root. Its wide brim had been hammered off. All that remained was the steel bowl. Attached to it by two bands of Kitzakk steel was his own crude iron mask. The iron was blunted and black. The new steel was grey-blue, bristling with highlights in the afternoon sun.
Gath looked down at the helmet, spread his feet.
He was wearing Yat’s forearm guards and chest- and back-plates. Like the helmet they had been hammered to raw steel and refitted to the Barbarian’s thick-muscled chest and back. Holes had been drilled through the sides of the plates, and hide thongs joined them. The plates, being too small, left wide unprotected areas at his sides.
He edged sideways to get the best angle from which to deliver a blow and test the helmet, then raised the axe high over his head. Determination drew down the sides of his upper lip, making short vertical lines. He struck, putting no more muscle into the blow than would be required to end the careers of three men and a wagon.
The axe caught the curved steel of the bowl, glanced off, buried itself in the dirt up to the haft. Gath shook from the impact. He rubbed numbed fingers, took hold of the axe and pulled on it. He had to wrestle with it some before the dirt was willing to let go.
A second distant note came out of the north but quickly lost force, sputtered to silence.
He glanced to the north, wiped the sweat off his lips with the strip of violet cloth which was now tied around his left wrist. Setting the axe aside, he plucked the helmet off the still-shivering root. The iron bands sprang loose from the bowl and fell to the ground.
That brought a scowl. He studied the steel bowl, found only a slight dent in it, and a grin replaced the scowl. He picked up his axe. A portion of the axe blade’s cutting edge was flattened, wide enough to reflect a bar of sunshine and a piece of clear blue sky. That brought the scowl back.
Gath put the helmet back over the stump, repositioned the iron bands. Using the blunt end of the axe like a hammer, he beat the bands down over the steel bowl until their studs locked in small holes rimming the bowl. This done, he sat down beside an uncorked wine jar, slid a thumb through the handle and held it in the cradle of his arm as if it were a girl instead of a piece of cold crockery. His eyes were steady, judgmental, as uncompromising as grey slate. Staring at his new helmet, he lifted the jar to his mouth and poured. Suddenly he lowered the jar.
The trumpeting sound had come again, a long note. It was now followed by a long wavering note, then by a short one. A stranger was blowing the bullhorn, and knew the signal.