Chapter Seven

On the Road to Hustingreen

Dobro was showing Percy basic tactics of feechie fighting when Aidan got back to the moss bed where he had left them. Given the head start Steren had provided, they agreed they no longer required the secrecy afforded by treetop travel. They could safely use the Overland Trail, and they would make much better time. Hustingreen was the nearest village. There they could buy supplies, even horses, for the rest of their journey to Sinking Canyons.

They hit the River Road just below Longleaf Manor, Errol’s lands, which now belonged to Lord Fershal of the Hill Country. The front fields, once so robust with wheat or sometimes corn, had gone to broomsedge and thistle. Even from the road, they could see that one of the shutters on the front of the manor house was hanging askew.

“Fershal doesn’t even live there,” Percy remarked. “Spends all his time in Tambluff.”

“What about all the farmhands?” Aidan asked. “How do they make a living now?”

Percy shrugged.

“And who’s growing food for the villagers in Hustingreen?”

Percy shrugged again. They quickened their pace, eager to put the sad sight of their old home behind them.

The travelers were almost in sight of Hustingreen when they saw the first of the Aidanites’ posters. Tacked to a tree on the side of the road, it read in thick, black letters,

“These foolish people,” Aidan grumbled. “They don’t know what they’re talking about. They don’t know what they’re doing to Corenwald.”

A few steps farther down the road, a second poster was tacked to a tree on the other side:

Aidan snatched the sheet of palmetto paper from the tree and ripped it in half, then half and half again. “How I’d like to rip the man who put these up,” he growled.

Dobro watched Aidan carefully, not sure what to make of his behavior. He couldn’t read and wouldn’t have recognized the Wilderking Chant even if he could read. He assumed this was a strange civilizer custom.

Aidan snatched the next poster:

And the next:

Aidan was furious. These meddlers, these Aidanites, couldn’t leave well enough alone, could they? They had to stir up trouble, had to force themselves on the ancient prophecies. Now Aidan’s family was outlawed and living in the most godforsaken patch of ground in all of Corenwald; the civilizers had narrowly missed all-out war with the feechies; Aidan was running for his life and would never see his beloved Feechiefen again—all because of his so-called followers and their posters.

Aidan snatched it down and stomped on it. “I’d like to silence a braggart or two,” he observed.

“Let me do this one,” Dobro suggested. He was eager to adopt the ways of the civilizers, however strange they seemed. He contorted his face into a fierce scowl, imitating Aidan’s expression. He ripped the paper from the tree, balled it up, and jumped up and down on it, bringing his knees almost up to his chin with each jump and flailing his arms. “I’ll bragger the silence,” he snarled. “I’ll fool the folks what don’t know what they’re doing.” Percy doubled over laughing at Dobro’s bad imitation of Aidan’s outbursts. “Looks like the Aidanites have a new enemy,” he said. Aidan couldn’t help smiling himself, in spite of his irritation.

Dobro was still jumping up and down on the Aidanites’ poster when three men emerged from the forest. They were older than the three travelers, well into their forties. Each wore a tunic of green homespun and a flattened black hat adorned with an egret feather. All three wore swords, though the swords looked like something they might have found in a grandfather’s old trunk. They looked familiar to Aidan; they were villagers he had seen at the Hustingreen market growing up, but he had never known their names. A red-bearded fellow appeared to be the leader of the trio. When he swaggered up to Dobro, the feechie stopped what he was doing and looked curiously at the red beard thrust within a foot of his face.

The villager looked Dobro up and down, from his matted hair (it hadn’t come clean during his bath in the Tam) to his one black eyebrow, to his gap-toothed mouth, receding chin, and prominent Adam’s apple to his thin, hard arms and legs and bare feet, and finally to the crumpled wad of palmetto paper beneath them. He had never seen anyone like this scrawny, pinch-faced lunatic defacing the poster he had hand lettered himself. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

Dobro looked down at his feet, a little surprised that the fellow had to ask. “I think I’m stompin’ on a piece of paper I snatched offa that there tree,” he answered, pointing a black-nailed finger toward the tree he spoke of. “Now that I think about it,” he clarified, “I know that’s what I’m doin’. And when I find the fool what tacked it to the tree, I’m gonna tear him into little pieces.”

“Well, you’re in luck, stranger,” said the red-bearded man. “’Cause you just found the man who put that poster up.”

“Haa-wee!” Dobro shouted, clapping joyfully. “That was a heap easier than I figured on!” He felt sure he would fit in fine among the civilizers if they were all like this red-bearded fellow. He hopped a circle around the Hustingreener with his fists raised. “Come on, civilizer,” he called, “let’s mix it!”

Dobro’s opponent looked at him with astonishment. “Who are you?” he asked. Dobro stopped hopping. Of course! A feechie fight had to start off with a rudeswap. A civilizer fight, apparently, had to start off with introductions. He was still learning civilizer ways. “I’m Dobro Turtlebane,” he said, “from Bug Neck.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, pointing southwest toward the swamp he called home.

“Bug Neck?” said the red-bearded man. “Never heard of it.”

“You know, Bug Neck,” Dobro repeated. “A day’s polin’ east of Scoggin Mound?” The villager still looked blank. Dobro was a little annoyed. “In the Feechiefen!”

The three Hustingreeners squinted at Dobro. “Feechiefen?” one of them muttered. Then it dawned on them. No wonder this fellow looked so strange and acted even stranger. “He’s a feechie!” one of the men gasped.

The three men stared wide-eyed at one another. The sandy-haired one was the first to speak. He quoted a snatch of the Wilderking Chant: “‘Leading his troops of wild men and brutes.’” And together the three of them quoted the next line in reverent tones: “‘Watch for the Wilderking!’”

“This is a sign,” the red-bearded man said to his companions. “This fellow’s a sign, I’m telling you. If there’s a feechie in Hustingreen, Aidan Errolson can’t be far behind.”

“You said something there, feller,” Dobro said. “Matter of fact, he ain’t no more’n five or six steps behind.”

The Hustingreeners looked past Dobro to Percy and Aidan. They had found Dobro so peculiar that they had paid very little attention to the civilizers with him. Aidan’s looks had changed since he had last gone to market in Hustingreen, but now that they had a good look at him, the three villagers recognized him.

“Aidan Errolson,” one of them said in hushed tones.

“Hail to the Wilderking,” said another. His eyes were glistening with tears of joy.

The three Hustingreeners elbowed past each other to be the first to kneel at Aidan’s feet.

“Your Majesty!”

“Our king in exile, returned to us!”

“Command us, our sovereign!”

Their voices quivered with emotion.

“Get up! Get up!” Aidan demanded. There was anger in his voice. Embarrassed, he looked around to be sure no one else had seen this unseemly display. “Your king is Darrow, not me,” he said sharply as he waded through the kneeling Aidanites.

“Listen to him,” said one of the Aidanites as they scrambled to their feet to follow him. “He’s so humble.”

“Nothing like King Darrow. Not like King Darrow at all.”

“That’s what Corenwald needs in a king—somebody who’s not going to try to grab all the power for himself.”

Aidan stalked with long strides toward the village, and Percy and Dobro strode with him. The three Aidanites trotted to keep up.

“I’m Milum,” said the red-bearded fellow, “and this is Burson and Wash.” Aidan didn’t even acknowledge them and didn’t offer to introduce his brother Percy who, though he understood this was a serious situation, was finding it very hard not to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“We just knew you’d come straight to Hustingreen when you came back.” Milum had begun speaking so fast he could hardly catch his breath. “I remember when you were a boy. You probably don’t remember me, but I remember you. You’d come on market days, and one day you kicked a ball under my cart and I kicked it back. But you probably don’t remember.” He paused a moment to give Aidan a chance to say something like “Sure, of course I remember that,” but Aidan looked straight ahead as if he hadn’t heard anything. So this is what Aidanites look like, he thought. So these are the fools threatening to tear this kingdom apart.

They were within a hundred strides of the village of Hustingreen by now. Burson and Wash ran ahead shouting, “Aidan Errolson is here!” and “The Wilderking is returned!”

Meanwhile Milum continued his monologue. “Hustingreen’s a major Aidanite stronghold, you know. Of course you know. It’s almost your home village. Everybody in Hustingreen has an Aidan Errolson story. Every old lady in the village says she could tell, even when you were a little boy, you would grow up to do great things.”

Percy pinched Aidan’s cheek, a gesture that had always made him redden when he was a little boy. He slapped Percy’s hand away.

Milum yammered on. “Just yesterday an old boy at the militia drills was telling a story about the time you...”

Aidan stopped in his tracks. “Militia drills?” He looked hard at Milum. “What militia?”

Milum laughed a nervous laugh, not sure whether Aidan was putting him on. “Why, the Aidanite Militia, Hustingreen unit.” He stood up straight, raised his chin, and popped his right fist against his heart. This, apparently, was the Aidanite salute. He gestured to his green tunic and plumed hat. “This is the Aidanite uniform.”

Aidan could feel his face grow hot. “This militia,” he said, barely able to keep his voice down. “Whom do you propose to fight?”

Milum looked askance at Aidan. Surely Aidan was pulling his leg now. “Of course you know that!” he began. But seeing Aidan’s eyes narrow, he cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and recited the official answer: “The purpose of the Aidanite Militia is to stand in readiness to protect the motherland from all who would threaten the common good … sir!” He gave Aidan a knowing wink.

The impertinence on Milum’s face infuriated Aidan. “Don’t you know that this is treason?” he shouted.

“To train yourselves to fight against your king? If you think I would lead a revolt against King Darrow—my king, your king—you are mightily mistaken!”

Milum’s shoulders slumped and his head dropped. He was crushed by Aidan’s strong words. But Aidan didn’t care. He was furious. A traitor deserved much more than harsh words.

But neither Milum nor Aidan had long to reflect on the exchange. From Hustingreen they heard the peal of bells in the village square, and it looked as if the whole village was running out to meet them on the road.

Percy, Dobro, and Aidan considered running away, but the happy throng was on them before they could make a decisive move. People were shouting, dogs barking and children laughing. A pair of buglers played a tinny and off-key version of a local folk tune. A kind-faced old woman handed Aidan a pie that had been cooling in her window when the news came that the Wilderking was come at last. The village girls all kissed Percy and Aidan. A few of the brave ones even kissed Dobro.

In a confused moment, a group of men tried to hoist Percy onto their shoulders, mistaking him for Aidan. Wash straightened them out, and they scooped up Aidan in spite of his protests. Others lifted Percy and Dobro to their shoulders for good measure, and the whole procession marched back into Hustingreen, led by the red-faced, white-bearded village mayor, who swung his staff of office like a parade marshal’s baton.