time for good. And that night the buried king and his men
rose again and chased the clerics out.” Flint looked around
uneasily. “But the Curse of Carrion Land stayed. That’s why
Darken Wood is evil. And every night, the traitor king and
his men go hunting, with no rest for them until they redeem
their pledge somehow.”
The kender sighed loudly in the silence, making the
company jump. “But what about the stag? And doesn’t the
story have an end?”
Forget the stag, the listening animal thought. And no:
there is no end. There will never be an end.
“The stag. Right.” The dwarf thought a moment.
“There was something – ”
The listening stag was relieved when the dwarf
admitted, “I don’t know exactly what happened to the stag.
He died, too, and he had some kind of punishment for his
betrayal. He and the king are tied together, but the story is
all twisted up by now; in some versions the king and his
men hunt the stag, in some they hunt a unicorn, and in some
they hunt the Forest-master, whatever the Forestmaster is.
But I know that the stag is like the king; he’s punished every
night for being a traitor. He has to repeat the betrayal over
and over, and he and the king can break out of it only if they
fulfill their vows of service and loyalty to the Forestmaster.
Only they can’t. Somebody else is pledged to guard Darken
Wood now, and the story says that the stag is too proud or
angry or something to renew his vow of service. So there
isn’t an end. Yet,” he finished uncertainly.
“Not a good story,” the kender said firmly. “I’ve heard
better.”
“So have I,” Flint said. “The point is, which kind of stag
are we following? The one Huma saw, or the traitor in
Darken Wood?”
The stag barely listened to the argument. “Perhaps,” he
said to himself, “they are the same stag, servant and
betrayer. Have any of these fools considered that?” He was
relieved when the company, done debating his past and
intentions, chose to follow him. He led silently,
thoughtfully.
By night he watched the company discuss with the king
of the dead. “They are greatly afraid,” the stag observed.
“That must please the very-late King Peris no end.”
Later still, the stag watched them mount on centaurs,
who were the Forestmaster’s pledged guards, and ride to the
Central Glade. Two centaurs remained behind, guarding the
way. The stag, freed of his duties as guide, was about to
follow the riding company when he heard one of the
sentries sing, in a rough and uncouth voice:
THERE WAS A PROUD AND NOBLE STAG,
IN SHADOW WOOD WAS BORN,
AND THERE HE GREW, AND THERE HE MET
AND LOVED A UNICORN.
The stag froze, listening.
“There now,” the sentry said to his companion with
satisfaction, “years it’s been since I’ve sung that, but I can
still put it to the tune.”
The other centaur answered dubiously, “It rubs against
the tune, some places. Are the words right? I wouldn’t
know, it being new to me.”
“New?” the first one questioned. “New? Why, that’s the
oldest song I know. It was old when our folk fled to the
wood, in the time – what’s the name? When the seas shook
and rocks charged downhill like wild beasts – ”
“Cataclysm,” the other said.
“Cataclysm,” the singer said carefully. “Right. And
that’s when we were pledged to guard this place. The
Forestmaster, she had no living guard then, her own guards
being dead and a lot of traitors.”
“Traitors? Why?” the other asked.
The stag held his breath, thinking quietly, “Let them
not remember. Let it be lost in time. If I know, and if she
knows – and if the king knows – that is more than enough.”
The first centaur slapped his own bristly side.
“Why? The song tells why. Let me see if I can put
more
of it in mind. Somewhat about the stag serving the
unicorn – ”
He sang more hesitantly:
HE SERVED HER LONG, HE SERVED HER WELL,
HE SERVED HER, WHOLE AND PART
UNTIL ONE NIGHT IN SHADOW GLADE