A World Without Heroes Read online

  Feracles barked once as Hermie yanked the door shut.

  He was alone.

  Gray predawn light glowed at one end of the sky.

  Jason took a deep breath, glancing back at the closed door. No doubts lingered that this was real. He was in terrible danger. As a friendless stranger in a foreign land, he had made himself the enemy of a mighty emperor. For the first time Jason fully accepted that he might never get home.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE BLIND KING

  As Jason hiked away from the Repository of Learning, he soon realized that the loremaster was right about at least one thing—those berries had really replenished his energy. He felt like doing karate or acrobatics or a decathlon. All drowsiness gone, he strode toward the rising sun, wrapped against the chill in his cloak, wondering how long it would take to leave the woods behind.

  All day he marched, traversing a rolling succession of forested hills, breaking only to snack on mushrooms. There was no denying anymore that somehow he really had been transported into an alternate reality. He could very well live out his life here without discovering a way back. There might not even be a way home. He had to focus on following the one lead the loremaster had offered, and pray the Blind King could help him get home.

  Eventually Jason’s thirst became irresistible. He stooped beside one of the cleaner-looking streams he had encountered and took a drink, trying to ignore the slimy moss coating the rocks and the bugs gliding across the surface where the water pooled. The cool water tasted good. He figured if he was going to get sick drinking from a stream, he might as well do it in style, so he drank until he was full.

  The sun sank behind him, casting a golden glow over the woods. The force of gravity seemed gradually to increase as Jason’s berry-induced vigor wore thin. When he crested a final hilltop and found more hills beyond, he spread out his blanket beside a tree and slept instantly.

  The following afternoon, with the trees thinning and the hills flattening, Jason found the parallel ruts of a cart track. The weedy track headed generally eastward, so he followed it until it evolved into a narrow lane.

  Glancing back at the last of the wooded hills, he froze, certain he had seen a form dive into the shadows a good distance up the slope. He stared at the spot where the half-glimpsed figure seemed to have landed. Leaves whiffled in the breeze. He saw no other movement. Finally he continued along the lane, occasionally stealing quick glances behind, but noticed nothing else out of the ordinary.

  After a time a strange cottage came into view, obnoxiously painted in many bright shades, with no length of trim or windowsill matched in color. Sequined curtains shimmered behind octagonal windows. Smoke twisted up from a chimney composed of yellow and blue bricks. A low green fence painted with innumerable flowers enclosed a spacious yard.

  “Pssst, hey, you, longshanks, step over here.”

  The harsh whisper came from a stand of low trees to his left, making Jason jump and turn.

  “Be quick about it,” the voice urged. Near the base of a tree, obscured by brush, squatted a disheveled man in layers of dark, filth-stained clothing. He wore fingerless gloves of gray yarn. A shapeless black hat sat on his head like a deflated basketball. His furtive face bristled with whiskers. “Come down here out of sight.”

  “Are you trying to rob me?”

  “I’m harmless. Be quick.”

  Jason complied, descending the shoulder of the lane to stand above the stranger within the cover of the trees and undergrowth. “What do you want?”

  “I know this community,” the man said. “You’re an outsider. What brings you this way?”

  “I’m looking for the Blind King,” Jason said.

  The man squinted up at him skeptically. “I suggest you move along. There’s barely enough pickings around here for one man to quietly skim the cream. Two would starve.”

  “I’m not here to beg,” Jason said.

  “Beg?” the man spluttered, obviously offended. “I’m no beggar! I live by my wits! And I don’t need interlopers stirring up the henhouse.”

  “Why are you hiding here?”

  “I’m taking measure of the situation,” he said. “Franny’s been baking. Mind crouching a little? Good lad. Name’s Aster.” He held out a hand. Jason shook it, certain the courtesy was transmitting fleas.

  “I’m Jason. I’m not here to cause trouble for anyone. Once I find the Blind King, I’m sure I’ll head elsewhere. I’ve got plenty of my own problems.”

  Aster gave a curt nod. “I believe you.”

  “You’re going to steal from that house?”

  Aster’s face split into a wicked grin. “More than likely. Not enough to do the owner any harm, mind you. Just pinch a pie or two.”

  “Do you travel much?” Jason asked.

  “Don’t have much use for it. Travel involves uncertainty. I found myself some well-fed gulls, so I chiefly stay hereabouts. Live off the surplus. Say, you don’t happen to have a morsel to spare? Not a handout, mind you. I’ll pay you back tenfold in meat pie if you’ll wait around for an hour or so. It’s just that all this waiting has teased my appetite.”

  Jason opened his food sack. “I guess I could spare a couple of mushrooms.”

  The vagrant pulled a disgusted face. “You must be in a worse fix than I am, if you’ve resorted to dining on fungus. And I honestly have no idea what to make of your outfit. But you strike me as a companionable fellow. Tell you what—sit with me a spell and I’ll snatch us a hearty meal. Assuming you’ll move along afterward.”

  The reek of the man alone was sufficient deterrent. “Thank you for your generosity, but I’d better keep moving. I actually meant to knock on the door to that cottage and ask directions.”

  The vagrant suddenly looked alarmed. “You won’t seek to spoil my raid, right, friend? I’ve been counting on this meal.”

  Jason wondered if the man could be dangerous. “I’ll do my best to repay your friendliness,” he replied ambiguously.

  “Fair enough,” Aster said. “Try not to cause a stir. Give my regards to the Blind King.”

  Jason returned to the lane, glad for the fresh air, and strolled to a sky-blue gate in the low green fence. “Hello?” he shouted. “Anybody home?”

  A moment later the front door opened, and an obese woman with a bright scarf tied round her head leaned out, a cheery smile spreading her cheeks. Her smoothly bloated features gave her face an ageless quality. The smile disappeared when she saw Jason. “What business have you here?”

  “I’m just passing through the area,” Jason said amiably.

  “This town has no use for drifters,” the woman warned, scowling. “Keep on walking.”

  Jason looked around. He saw no town. Her home must be on the outskirts. “I’m wondering if you can direct me to the Blind King?”

  Her scowl deepened. “Are you one of his misfits? You ought to know where to find him.”

  “I’ve never met him,” Jason said. “I need his advice. I’m Jason.”

  The woman sighed. “I don’t mean to be rude, Jason, but these are ugly times. Fair faces and kind words can disguise foul intentions.”

  “I’m only asking for directions,” Jason maintained. “I’m not trying to make waves.”

  The woman opened the door wider, and an enormous dog padded onto the porch. The beastly canine looked like a bulldog the size of a Saint Bernard. Its hair was short enough to imply it had recently been shaved bald. The animal shook its deeply folded face and emitted a brusque sound between a growl and a cough. Jason would not have been eager to steal anything from a house with such a monstrous guardian. Aster was apparently bolder than Jason had realized.

  “Puggles here would prefer if you stopped straining our hospitality,” the woman insisted. “I have an alarm beside the door. Don’t make me call the militia.”

  Jason glanced over toward where Aster was hiding. “Listen, lady,” Jason confided in a loud whisper. “I don’t really need anything from you. I have food in my bag and a
destination in mind. But I have important information.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean? Who sent you?”

  “Nobody sent me. I just happen to know about a thief who intends to raid your house.”

  Her expression relaxed, and she chuckled. “You mean Aster?”

  “You know him?”

  A smile crept onto her face. “That scoundrel takes food from me three times each week, like clockwork. I’ve known him for years. The loafer refuses to accept charity, but if I let him feel like he’s stealing, he’ll swipe whatever I leave to cool on the windowsill. He fancies himself a soldier of fortune. I would welcome him to stay in a guest room, but he won’t have it. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “How odd.”

  “Perhaps. But he keeps his pride, and I perform a service for a friend. He watches out for me. He’s run off troublemakers more than once.”

  “You’re a generous person.”

  Her smile widened, then faltered. “Funny he didn’t bother you.”

  “We spoke,” Jason said.

  She nodded. “He’s an able judge of character. You must have landed on his good side.” She looked Jason up and down. “You tried to warn me of trouble. You can’t be all bad. You wear strange apparel. Do you come from far away?”

  “You have no idea,” Jason said. “Look, I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I could really use directions to the Blind King.”

  The woman paused, biting her lower lip. “I’m Francine. Franny. I hate to be unwelcoming. It isn’t my desire. You can come up to the porch if you like, Jason. I can at least offer you some bread.”

  “Would you rather I swiped it from your windowsill?”

  “Don’t try it. Puggles knows Aster. I’d end up finding pieces of you buried around the yard.”

  Jason held up both hands. “Okay. Maybe the porch would be best.” He reached for the gate, and Puggles barked. Jason paused.

  “Puggles, heel,” Franny ordered, slapping her thigh. She pointed for the dog to go back inside the house, and the bulky canine trundled out of sight.

  Jason let himself through the gate. Franny disappeared inside. By the time Jason had mounted the porch steps, she had returned with a loaf of bread wrapped in a coarse bag.

  “I have a weakness for the downtrodden,” she confessed. “But that doesn’t make me gullible. A word from me, and Puggles will tear you apart. If you know boarhounds, you know I’m not exaggerating. And we know Aster is watching as well.”

  “I hear you,” Jason said politely. “About the Blind King . . .”

  “It isn’t far. Continue down my lane to the crossroads and turn left. You’ll pass the Gamester’s farm, fork right onto the gravel road, and shortly come into view of the castle.”

  “So he’s a real king with a castle and everything?”

  “Not everything,” Franny clarified. “He’s the unofficial arbiter around here. It would be a stretch to label him a real king. Opinions about him vary. He settles disputes, offers advice. Some do his bidding, but he lacks real authority from the emperor.”

  “Will it be hard to get into his castle? Do I just knock?”

  “Speak with the gatewarden. The king grants audience liberally. You really know so little about him?”

  “I only know I need to have a talk with him.”

  “Your business is your business. By all reports he is a just arbiter. Some who surround him seem odd. You’ll have to form your own opinion.”

  “What do you think of him?” Jason asked.

  “He keeps a fairly high profile in a time when it might be more prudent to lay low. You should be on your way.”

  “Thank you, Franny.”

  “You seem very open,” Franny said sadly. “You should travel with more care. There are plenty abroad who would take advantage of you.”

  Jason descended the porch steps and backed toward the gate. “Thanks for the warning, and the bread.”

  “We never met,” Franny said, retreating into her multihued house and closing the door.

  Jason waved at the trees where Aster was hiding, then started down the lane. He opened the bag and tore off a chunk of warm bread, which tasted hearty. By contrast it made the bread back home seem ridiculously flimsy. Grateful to have something to eat besides mushrooms, Jason consumed almost half the loaf.

  Not long after Franny’s home passed out of sight, Jason reached the crossroads. A white stone obelisk marked the intersection. One side of the obelisk was deeply scarred, as if an inscription had been gouged away. Aside from the tall marker and the dirt roads, no evidence of civilization could be seen in any direction.

  Jason turned left, passing feral fields of tall grass interrupted by occasional copses of trees. He saw the charred remnants of a house, thorny shrubs growing up among the blackened wood, the scorched chimney still mostly intact.

  Presently he came upon tended fields where crops grew in long rows. A fenceless house came into view up ahead: a low, sturdy structure. Out front a burly, shirtless man in overalls sat on a short stool sketching on a large parchment propped on an easel. Another fellow sat nearby on the grass, fiddling with a series of interlocked iron shapes. On a nearby table rested a ceramic dome segmented by lines suggesting it was a complex three-dimensional puzzle. Farther back towered a bronze sculpture comprised of bizarre shapes balanced precariously. Certain portions of the sculpture were on pivots and swiveled lazily in the breeze, squealing faintly.

  “Hi, there,” Jason said from the lane. “Is one of you the Gamester?”

  “I am,” said the man in overalls. He stood, a husky man with arms like a linebacker. He seemed a tad wary, but unafraid.

  “Did you make that puzzle?” Jason said, jerking his head at the man trying to unlink the shapes.

  “I did, along with many others.”

  “I like that sculpture.”

  “It can be reassembled in many combinations.”

  “Do you sell your puzzles?”

  He shook his head. “I give them away.”

  “Do many people come by?”

  “Mainly just Jerome here. Most folks would rather not bother. Sometimes a few will come and watch Jerome solve a series of my toughest creations.”

  Jason gestured at the parchment. “Are you designing a new puzzle?”

  The Gamester nodded. “I permit no man to view my designs.” He rolled up the parchment, even through Jason could view none of the drawing from where he stood. “What brings you this way, stranger?”

  “I need to speak with the Blind King.”

  “How do you know the Blind King?”

  “Isn’t he famous?” Jason answered vaguely.

  “Locally, yes, to some extent. But you are not from these parts.”

  Jason was unsure what to say. “It might be best not to ask me too many questions.”

  “Fair enough,” the Gamester replied. “Safe journey.”

  Jason turned his back on the peculiar pair. The Gamester had not acted very welcoming and had seemed a little too curious. He walked briskly.

  After a few miles Jason stopped and stripped off his gray coveralls for the first time, revealing his T-shirt and jeans. A tentative sniff proved that his sweat-marked underarms reeked like unwashed monkeys. It was long past time to wash up and do some laundry. Maybe the castle would have someplace to bathe.

  Continuing on with cloak, blanket roll, and coveralls bundled under one arm, he eventually forked right onto a gravel road. Crunching along the gravel sapped more energy than walking on the hard-packed lane. The road wound around a hill, finally bringing him below the shade of broad-leafed trees.

  As he rounded the back side of the hill, the castle came into view, constructed atop a shallower hill behind the first. The massive stone complex looked abandoned. Sagging walls topped with crumbling battlements had collapsed entirely in some locations. Only two towers remained standing, one of which was so crooked and damaged it looked ready to topple at a cough from a butterfly. Jumbled heaps of
stone and rotted beams marked where other structures had already fallen. The decrepit castle looked like an ideal hideout for thieves or vagabonds. No wonder Aster had told Jason to send the Blind King his regards.

  Jason sighed. Had the loremaster misled him? Might he have sent him into a trap? Jason was quickly losing confidence that the Blind King would be able to help him. But with no apparent alternatives, what else could he do?

  The gravel path led Jason to a corroded, raised drawbridge with a small door built in its center. A plank led across the shallow, dry moat. Outside the door stood a grave, middle-aged man clad in mismatched armor and clutching a poleax. “Who might you be, sir?” the gatewarden inquired stiffly. Despite the ruins around him he apparently took his job seriously.

  “I might be anyone,” Jason said. “I’m searching for the Blind King.”

  “Have you scheduled an audience with His Majesty?”

  “No. I’ve recently arrived from a distant land.”

  “Do you come on an errand of royal consequence?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your name?”

  “Jason.”

  “Wait here while I inquire within.” The man unlocked the door using a key from his belt. Probably not the best defensive strategy to give a lone, exposed guard the key to the door he was protecting. Then again not the best idea to have huge gaps in your walls, either. The gatewarden disappeared through the door.

  A few minutes later he returned. “His Majesty bade me to admit you. Take care to show him the respect befitting a sovereign of his magnificence.”

  The gatewarden escorted Jason across a courtyard where weeds thrived between the cracks of uneven paving stones. They passed close by the precariously teetering tower. The entire complex appeared deserted. Nobody roamed the courtyard, and the windows in the surviving structures looked vacant. Motioning with his poleax, the gatekeeper ushered Jason through a set of double doors into the sturdiest building within the castle compound, which adjoined the only solid tower.

  The building housed a great hall. Birds roosted in the rafters, and white streaks of droppings marked the floor and trestle tables. At the far end of the room, upon a moldering dais, a shabby man sat upon a battered throne. A dingy rag bound his eyes, a tarnished crown rested upon his gray hair, and a grimy green robe edged in dirty white fur enshrouded his body. He looked like some old homeless guy playing the part of a wise man in a soup-kitchen Christmas pageant.