The following spellbinder of a tale comes to us via one of my favorite fantasy authors, Barbara Tarbox. Lords of Swords readers relished Barbara's story,"Champion" and we have the letters and emails to prove it. I'm expecting similar fascination with the following story, which carefully bends, without ever breaking, some of the expected conventions of Sword and Sorcery fiction.
- Daniel

DETOUR FROM ABBINFORD
by
Barbara E. Tarbox

The girl who filled the patchwork of Saegar's memory was leaning over him, features half in shadow, mousy hair haloed gold by late sunlight streaming between weathered wallboards.

"Sir? Can you sit up, sir?"

"Don't know." The grinding pain in his joints was gone, and the hot confusion of his mind. He had dreamed he was there again, the fever turned to flames ten years gone. It would be good just to lie still, to sink deeper into the shiny yellow straw, to sleep....

"Sir?"

The urgency in the girl's voice drew him back. He levered himself from the improvised bed and shook his head clear of the faintness that threw dark blotches across his vision. His elbows locked well enough to hold him upright. "How long?"

"Two days. You should drink this." She pushed a cup at him. "It's the last of it."

The thick dregs smelled worse than the sour residue of his sickness and the rot in the old barn combined. "I thought I dreamt this foul brew."

"I put a lot of mint in it, but it didn't help much."

A hell of an understatement. Saegar tipped the fetid liquid from side to side. It clung to the cracks in the side of the cup. "What is it?"

"An infusion. From my book. You should drink what's left."

The urge to dump the cup into the dirt was strong, but the slop might just have some good in it. Two days ago, he had been bound for Abbinford, barely able to stay in the saddle. This colt-limbed scrap of a peasant child had pulled his wandering horse from the road. But for that, he might well be dead by now. Swamp fever seldom killed, but outlaw bands made short work of travelers they found helpless.

Compared to that thought, the mess in the cup was nectar. He held his breath, swallowed and gagged. He was wrong; no comparison could sweeten that taste. He wanted to spit this mouth clean, but the girl was watching. He swallowed again. "That's worse than I remember!"

"It brought down your fever."

"And wants my stomach up in return?"

"It was the best I could figure out to do. I'd better see to your horse."

The child was up, turning away. She might be crying. What did he know about children - especially girl children? The females in his life now were long past childhood and longer past innocence - no more than a chaser to a night of ale, something to help keep memories at bay for a few hours. "Don't cry over it, girl. You did fine."

She stood facing away, back rigid. Had he said something wrong, or not enough of something right? Did fine wasn't much of a thank you. Not that she had saved much of a life. "Don't mind me, girl. My fine manners rusted over years ago."

"You don't need manners for the likes of me."

"Not many like you - fever dreams who turn out to be real. What's your name, girl? What's this place?"

"Boughbridge is down the road. Not far. I'm Gren. Just Gren. I should see to your horse."

"You have him fetlock deep in hay already." The gelding, tethered in the far corner, raised his head, snorted chaff from his nostrils and went back to his meal. The girl didn't look half so prosperous. "When did you eat last?"

She turned back, head down. "This morning. I drank a little broth."

"Precious little, I'd warrant. Doesn't anyone look out for you, child?"

"My mother died when I was small; my father.... Everyone's dead."

Anger cut through the grief in the girl's voice and snagged the edges of his instincts. "How did your father die?"

Small hands bunched into fists. "Stoned."

He ran a hand over beard days grown past stubble. He could feel her pain now, on the surface, raw. It mixed with a churning in his gut that had nothing to do with fever or medicines. "Why?"

"You're a monk. I can't tell you."

"I'm no monk."

"Swear it?"

On what would he swear? The God that made him outcast, that wanted him flaming at a stake? "I swear."

It was enough to satisfy her. She lifted a flat rock not far from where he sat, pulled a book from the hole beneath and wiped dust from its cover with the hem of her dress.

"I'm hiding this from the priest. They burned the house. I told him this burned, too. He doesn't believe me."

Saegar turned one page, then another. "Magic," he breathed. "Sorcery."

"You'll tell the priest."

"No." He had met more than enough of the petty tyrants who built country-town kingdoms on the people's ignorance. One that countenanced stonings would get no help from him. "I won't tell your priest, but it might be best to turn over the book. If your father was convicted of sorcery..."

Gren snatched up the book and clutched it to her. "He wasn't convicted of anything! There wasn't any trial. They just came and - the people with stones - they broke in the door and...."

"You saw it, child?"

The girl looked smaller than ever with her body pinched protectively around the heavy book. "He had more power than they knew. He could have killed them all, but he wouldn't. He'd made medicines for a lot of them, or told them the best time to plant - and they came with stones."

"And the book is yours now. Spells to kill the people who killed your father?"

"I can't use it, except for the herbs and such. I haven't the gift." She knelt, placed the book in its cache and dropped the stone cover into place. It shimmered and disappeared into the dirt. "You'll leave soon, won't you?"

Saegar pulled his attention from the seamless floor. The girl might not have the gift, but the book was heavy with power. "I have to. I have no money and Boughbridge doesn't seem like a place I'd like to linger in hope of work. I have boiled rabbit to look forward to for some time."

Gren swung toward him, eyes bright. "I could find things, wild Teeva roots and things. You could make stews. I can find things to eat all over."

What would happen when the ground froze to iron and the green things died? An old voice, long trampled to silence, nagged inside his head. He pushed it aside.

"You can't travel with me, child."

"I don't eat much."

"I can see that. It's not a matter of how much you eat."

"I could earn my way, take care of your horse. I took care of my father's horse before they stole her. I'm good at taking care of horses."

"It's not a fit life for a young girl."

Gren sat back on her heels and clamped her top teeth over her trembling lower lip. "I thought you had come for me. I dreamed you would come."

He studied the thin face, the dress already in need of mending. A small bundle of bone and rag who, perhaps, had a whisper more of gift than she knew. Enough, perhaps, to put her in danger.

"What was your dream, child?"

"That a man dressed in brown would come." She bent a yellow piece of straw between her fingers. "His hair was brown like his robe, his face almost as brown as that, but his eyes were like a sky in autumn when it gets so blue.." The straw snapped. "It was a stupid idea - a stupid baby dream. I'll see to your horse now."

He struggled to his feet and pushed watered-gruel legs to the corner where the big bay was standing patiently under a too-vigorous brushing. "Slayer likes you," he said.

Gren kept scrubbing. "Is that his name? He doesn't act like a 'slayer'. He's a nice horse."

"It's sort of a joke. Short for Dragonslayer, like in all the old stories." He turned the girl to face him. "They're not real. None of it is real. I'm not whatever you dreamt, girl. I am nothing; I have nothing. My life is tavern rooms if I have the coin, a blanket under branches in the woods if I don't - a dagger close to my hand in either case. It's dusty roads in summer and riding half-frozen in winter to shepherd fat merchants' shipments."

He rubbed the horse's withers. "Once I thought I would follow your father's path, but I hadn't the gift either, not enough of it, at any rate. I'm nothing but a mercenary, child. I live by my wits - my sword when need be."

"You were in my dream. It was you, exactly. I thought you were a monk in the dream because of the long brown tunic, but a monk wouldn't have so fine a horse."

"No, though some I've seen could afford the price better than I." He smiled at her puzzlement. "Never mind, child. It would be best if you were away from here. You need someone to shelter you, and a town that knows you come from magical stock can too easily remember it if a cow dies or a month passes without rain. I'll give you a ride to another town. You're a bright girl, maybe we can find an herbalist who needs an apprentice."

She met his eyes. "You said that in my dream."

The back of his neck prickled. The time to welcome the weaving of unseen forces was long dead, dead with those who had taught him the small bits he could absorb.

"Stranger!" The word drove through the wall and found its mark in the pit of his stomach.

Gren slipped behind him. "It's him," she whispered. "It's the priest."

"Stranger! The girl who pretends to befriend you is evil. Join me now against her."

Gren released her grip on Saegar's tunic and backed away. "It's not true! It's not!"

He searched the front wall for a protected vantage point. "How did he know I was here?"

"Sometimes.... Sometimes he knows things."

"Girl...."

"I.... Some boys in the market - they were throwing things, rotting things." Her voice became very small as he found a useable knee-high gap. "I told them they would be sorry when my monk - "

"Damn!" Saegar spun out of his crouch, face rigid. "It doesn't matter. You were right. He knows things. That's not a priest, girl."

"Stranger! The girl possesses a book of enchantments. Surrender her and her writings of darkness. You will be well rewarded by the good people of this town."

"The good people," Saegar muttered. "The good, virtuous, people with good strong throwing arms. That 'priest'," he said, so Gren could hear, "hasn't anyone noticed the scar on the left side of his face?"

"He said he got it fighting a demon."

"And they believed him? Child, is this place peopled by idiots? It's a ritual scar, an initiation sign."

"Stranger! Pestilence will fall upon this land if the wicked book is not burned to ash. Bring it out and you may go in peace."

Saegar turned to Gren. "Where are my things?"

She pointed to a blanket-covered heap against the rear wall. As he started to sort the jumble of weapons and tack, she took a turn at the viewing space. "There are people coming from the village with torches. He'll burn the book!"

He dragged the saddle and let it drop next to Slayer's front hooves. "He won't burn it; it would be better if he did. When did he come here?" Gren rubbed tear tracks into smears with the back of her hand. "The old priest died. The new one came the next day."

"How did the old priest die?"

"Drowned in the stream. I was sorry. He was nice."

"Then I'm sorry too. Was there anything - strange - about his death?"

"My father looked at his body. He said that there were too many bruises on the priest's head, that the stream there was mud and rushes, not rocks."

"And the new priest arrived the very next day?"

"My father said that something wasn't right, that we should send someone to the bishop."

"Your father was right. The nearest bishop is a good two day's ride from here. There wasn't time for news to reach him and a replacement to be sent." He lifted the saddle into place on the broad back and leaned against the horse's shoulder until the effort's weakness passed. There was no time for weakness. He pulled the girth snug and fastened it slowly. The church was, in truth, full of good men. But the cult with the brand of the eclipse had found ways to weave threads of darkness through the fine and the pure. He had seen the weavers before. That night. When the sorcerers who had taken pity on his eagerness to learn had died, had burned.

They had been there, watching, branded faces smug with satisfaction, red at the clandestine edges of the firelight.

"The girl claims you are a monk. If that is so, you will do what is right. The people will not abide evil in their midst."

Saegar laughed, low and husk-empty. "Evil in their midst. He plays the holy man well, don't you think?"

"Is he very bad?"

The depravity and death that marked the cult of the Dark Noon were not things to be described to a child. "Yes. Very bad."

Slayer snorted and pawed through the hay to the bare dirt beneath. "It's started," Saegar said. "We have little time, the summer has been dry."

Gren didn't seem to hear. She was standing with the heavy iron bit of Slayer's bridle balanced across her hand, staring at the thin smoke filling the cracks in the front wall. "They'll break in. They'll have stones - lots of stones - stones...."

"Gren!" He dug his fingers into the fragile upper arms and shook until the fear in her eyes transferred itself to him. "Could you put that bridle on Slayer? Do you know how?"

Gren nodded, her gaze slipping back to the door. "Then do it!" He released the girl and retrieved his sword and scabbard The smoke haze burned his fever-weakened lungs and he coughed heavily as he pulled straps through buckles, but his heart pounded like a battle drum and his sword grew lighter as he swept it through the air.

"He's ready, sir." Gren's voice was timid and she stayed well clear of the arcing steel. "Your horse is ready."

"The roof is alight, Stranger! Do you intend to die for the sake of evil?"

"Be ready to leave, girl."

Saegar tried to see through the curtain of smoke rising from dry grasses piled against the barn, but only the flicker of torches was visible. "Gren - all those people. Is there anything in your father's book that can make them stand aside?" He sheathed his sword, hoping no one would die for the crime of common foolishness.

She waved a hand over the hiding place. The hole appeared as though it had never closed. She hauled the book out and tipped it to catch what was left of the light. "Make them move.. Move...."

"Hurry, girl."

A section of burning thatch collapsed from between roof beams, sending a rush of sparks up through the chimney-hole it had left behind.

The crowd cheered.

Saegar pulled Slayer's tether loose and hauled himself into the saddle. "Have you found anything?"

The girl handed the book up to him. "Could you do this?"

He scanned the script, blessing the lost mages who had filled a poor boy's head with learning far beyond his station. "I don't know, child. May be I won't have to try."

The horse snatched against the bit; Saegar turned him in a tight circle and returned the book. "Put this back in its hole where it won't burn"

"It was my father's."

The anguish in her voice was only a fraction of the store she had hidden behind her wish to be brave. He could feel it there, as surely as he could feel the malevolence beating through the smoke. "Your father would want you safe. You'll have to pull the door bolt, then mount quickly. You can't do that with your arms full." It was a poor reason, but better than telling her the danger of carrying the book into the midst of their enemies.

"You won't leave me while I put it back?"

"By all that's truly holy, girl! You can travel with me until we find you something better."

"There won't be anything better."

The floor joined over the book once again. He wouldn't be able to find it and he prayed the beast outside also lacked the gift. "We'll worry about that when we're safely down the road."

His hand moved to the hilt of his sword. He took a shallow breath of heated air. "Open the door, child."

Gren heaved the bolt free, pushed the door wide and was behind the saddle as though she had spent her life vaulting onto warhorses.

They charged into the dusk, scattering the closer villagers, stopping before a blaze of torches blocking the road, their bearers armed with pitchforks and scythes. The scarred priest regarded Saegar warily.

"You are no monk."

"You are no priest."

The false priest shuddered as his magic took the measure of Saegar's small gift and recoiled from its opposite. "Kill them!"he shouted. "They have the evil book!"

Saegar drew his sword. All but the boldest of the gathering crowd fell back. "You call for killing easily, False Priest. We have no book."

"Stones! Take up stones! Destroy them!" The priest scooped up a jagged piece of rock.

"Stones," Gren whimpered, and her arms tightened around Saegar's waist. "Stones ... stones...."

"Gren!"

"Stones...."

The priest's stone seared across Saegar's cheek. "Hold on," he said. "Hold on, little one."

He cut toward the priest as they passed within reach, but a mud-thick shield of air swallowed the force of his blade.

Saegar's teeth clenched. Alone, he would turn back to fight the spawn and wellspring of evil behind him, but he was not alone. Tonight, he would run.

"Stop them!"

A tangle of hands missed his reins. A man howled as an iron-shod hoof crushed his foot. Almost clear, just - Someone, invisible behind the flare of his torch, lunged, thrusting flame into the horse's chest.

Slayer reared and spun back toward the crowd.

"More torches! Burn the beast! Pull them down!"

The horse fought him for loose rein as the villagers circled closer. They had become a wall of fire, reinforced by newcomers who brandished torches of anything that would burn.

"Gren!" He prayed that the girl wasn't too numb with fear to understand. "Can you hear me? Can you remember the spell from the book?"

There was no answer.

He cursed silently, but if she truly had as little gift as he, her silence didn't matter. The words from Gren's book were clear in his mind, but he had so little power, so little..

Swords obeyed him, not spells.

He let the frantic horse spring forward, his blade raised like a dagger. The priest's hands became a purple-glowing blur and the weapon struggled in Saegar's grasp like a living thing.

Images came unbidden. Memories of screams and blood; of good men slain by those who thought they did the bidding of God. Years of nightmares rode the skewed path of his blade as it broke the priest's defenses and drew blood on one upraised arm.

Fear mixed with the hatred in the priest's face. No wonder he coveted the book of magic. Gift he had, but not the knowledge that would turn the gift to power. Steel would be enough. Saegar braced feet against stirrups and swung his sword, two-handed, above his head.

Gren stirred behind him. "Don't." Her voice was distant, but full of command that didn't belong in a child's voice. "Say the words. Make them see."

Before he could question, words of magic spilled from him. White fire engulfed his sword, his arms; spread until even the horse beneath them seemed a living statue carved of lightning. The cold light overpowered the glow of the torches and etched the cowering crowd in shades of gray and black.

"One among you bids you kill a child." Saegar meant to speak softly, but the people covered their ears as his words rolled over them. "One among you murdered your good priest. Ask how he came to you so soon. Take him before the bishop and ask if he is a man of God. Ask the learned the meaning of the mark of the hidden sun upon his face - the brand of the Dark Noon. If it is evil you seek, seek there!"

He turned Slayer slowly, each footfall distinct in the silence. The villagers stumbled backward to clear a path.

The brilliance faded and died as they passed the ragged edge of the crowd. Gren whispered. "You said the words. My dream was true." She hugged him so tightly that the bones of her arms found the hollows between his ribs. "Can we go now?"

They reached the road. Saegar looked over his shoulder. People were turning away; back to the priest.

They weren't seizing him to test before the bishop.

They were picking up stones.

Saegar's face set. "We can go. Now."

He rammed his heels into his horse's sides, and the pounding of hooves blended with the first blood-cries of the mob.

End

Obviously, Barbara Tarbox is one of the best fantasy writers around. But you won't find her fiction in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction. You won't find it in Realms of Fantasy. That's because they're sword and sorcery deficient! If you want more sword and sorcery fiction by Barbra Tarbox, plus a couple dozen other fantasy Masters like Tanith Lee, E.E. Knight, Harold Lamb, Howard Andrew Jones, as well as non-fiction by R.A. Salvatore and Ed McFadden go get a copy of Lords of Swords or Sages and Swords anthologies. Do it now!