The Age of Heroes

  The Last Great Hero

  Book 1:

  The

  Age Of Heroes

  All characters and events portrayed

  in this book are fictional,

  and any resemblance to real people

  or incidents is coincidental

  (and, let’s face it, unlikely).

  Copyright © 2014

  2nd Release Mar. 2015

  For more information visit

  www.tengama.com

  or email

  scott@tengama.com

  Cover art by Jason Nguyen

  www.jasonnart.com

  A big thanks to Heather and Andy.

  And, as ever, Kelly.

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  The Age of Heroes

  Thersday

  Faraday

  Satyrday

  Sunday

  Munday

  Tewsday

  Wensday

  Thersday

  Faraday

  About the Author

  Other Books

  Thersday

  Rawk, the last of the great Heroes, wondered how long he should wait. It was a question that had been plaguing him for years, one way or the other.

  “There he is...”

  “He always looks smaller close up...”

  “He’s carrying Dabaneera...”

  If he entered the common room too soon, not everyone would notice. If he left it too long, he would just end up looking silly. So he hesitated in the doorway, hand on the hilt of his sword, then stepped into the room. It smelled of ale and greasy meat, which was better than a lot of other taverns. Sometimes they just smelled of ale.

  The owner of the Mason’s Hammer paid Rawk a few ithel to eat in the common room every Thersday. The crowds grew as word spread and everyone was happy. Except Rawk was just about ready to move on. There was a tavern further west that did some type of foreign food that looked interesting. They might be willing to pay for his services. He held back a sigh as he moved through the crowd. Once, kings and queens had paid him to eat at their table. They’d paid him to clear exotic creatures from hunting grounds and from dungeons. Now...

  He shook hands with a couple of men, returned random greetings, smiled and waved.

  Normally, the table in the back corner was vacant but Weaver was sitting there this afternoon. The prince obviously thought he was being inconspicuous. It wasn’t working. He was wearing a bad wig and a costume that had been rejected by second-rate street performers. Rawk completed his procession, finally letting out the sigh as he sat down. Except he was carrying Dabaneera, for some reason, and the sword was longer than his usual blade. The point jabbed the worn timber of the floor and the hilt rammed up into his kidney like a well-aimed punch. He grunted in pain, hoping nobody noticed above the general din, then stood back up and did some rearranging. The blade was stuck between two floorboards and took some freeing. Not quite the smooth, classy operation he’d been hoping for.

  “Nice entry, Rawk.”

  “Shut up...” Rawk bit back laughter as he rubbed his side and tried to remember this weeks’ name. Weaver’s terrible fake accent didn’t help, with either the laughter or the name. Neither did the outlandish clothes. Possibly both came from Cabalar but it was hard to tell. His red wig, clashing with his beard, sat crookedly under his floppy hat. “Nice to see you too, Gaspar.” He winced at the look on Weaver’s face, even as he remembered that the Prince had been ‘Gaspar’ last week. Oh well, too late now.

  “I’ve already ordered, seeing you were so late.”

  Of course he had. Two minutes late was late enough for Weaver to take control. If there was one thing Weaver liked, it was taking control.

  “That’s fine.” Rawk knew what the prince had ordered anyway.

  Before he’d even finished the thought, a maid bought two steaming bowls of potato stew and two big chunks of bread. The woman also handed Rawk a pristine white cloth before bustling away.

  “Thanks, Nibbi,” Rawk called after her as he took his steel, ivory-handled spoon from one of the pouches on his belt.

  Weaver grunted. “Are you really still afraid of being poisoned?”

  Rawk had never been afraid of being poisoned. Why would anyone poison him? And if they did, why wouldn’t they just put it in the food? The truth was, he just didn’t like the feel of timber in his mouth. But people didn’t need to know a thing like that; he had a reputation to keep. And the forks and knives found at taverns generally weren’t sharp enough to stab mashed potato so he had some of them as well. A matching set that had been with him for more than ten years. “Of course I’m not afraid. But you can never be too careful.”

  Weaver leaned across the table to whisper. “That’s why I only go out in disguise. The locals wouldn’t harm me, but you never know who might be about.” He smiled and dug into his stew with his timber spoon. Gravy dripped down his brocaded shirt.

  “You do know that everyone in the city knows who you are, right? You do know that they know the two of us meet a couple of times a week?” Rawk sighed and concentrated on his food. It was a wonderful meaty stew with thick gravy and just the right amount of potato and spice.

  The prince adjusted his wig, looking around to see who was watching. “Nobody knows, Rawk.” He stared suspiciously at a woman eating at the next table. “They may suspect, but they don’t know. If they knew, they would be coming to talk to me all the time.” The woman passed his inspection. “The people love me too much to sit by and say nothing.”

  Rawk was going to argue the point, but he didn’t. The people of Katamood did love Weaver and all that he had done for them and the city, which was why they let him have his little victories.

  “I can remember when the two of us could walk through a crowd unnoticed. Except by the women, of course.”

  Rawk nodded, though it had never been like that. When they had started out, the women hadn’t noticed them either, two skinny teenagers with rusty swords and threadbare clothes. The women only started noticing after they became famous which took a couple of years. After that...

  It didn’t take long for a good Hero, a skilled Hero, to become public property. And that had been almost thirty-five years ago. That was a long time. He ate some more stew. “Do you ever wish we could go back?”

  Weaver sat forward in his seat and started to say something. He fiddled with his bowl, spinning it in place. “I have actually been thinking about that recently.” He sat back again and looked intently at Rawk. “I mean, what happened to us? I sit around in the palace all day balancing books and...” He waved his hand. “And princing. And you catch rats and help old ladies across the street.”

  Rawk didn’t say anything. He’d never helped an old lady cross the street, but it was bound to happen sooner or later.

  “Maybe not all the way back,” Weaver continued. “I don’t want to sleep under trees. Or raid chicken coops for eggs.”

  “Or wash dishes to pay for a room at night,” Rawk added.

  Weaver laughed. “Exactly. Just back to when things started to come together for us.”

  “Back to the glory days.” Back before my knees ached and my elbow clicked. Back to when I had hair.

  “Maybe after Falangoon? Or those mountain galangs?”

  “Maybe. But it doesn’t matter, really.”

  They both turned to concentrate on their stew.

  “We could go find a dragon to kill,” Weaver said eventually. He wiped gravy from his face with his sleeve. There were drops g
listening on the table like still-warm blood. “There must be some somewhere.”

  “Nowhere near here. And we know who to blame for that, don’t we?” They’d had the same conversation, in one form or another, a thousand times before. Weaver had outlawed magic, which meant there were no sorcerers who were willing to draw attention to themselves by opening ohoga portals. And if there were no portals then the supply of exots was always going to dry up. It hadn’t been too bad until other rulers in the area started following suit. Now, there wasn’t a land for more than five hundred miles where sorcery wasn’t banned.

  Weaver held up a hand and a half dozen gaudy rings flashed in the sunlight. “I know. I know. I stand by my actions, but it’s still nice to dream, isn’t it?” He sighed and sat back, a strange look in his eyes. “The two of us on the road like old times. Free to do what we liked when we liked. Sex whenever we wanted, with whoever we wanted. I would love to go back.”

  “So would I. What old man wouldn’t?” He rubbed at his chin beard. He still had some hair.

  “We aren’t old, Rawk.”

  “This year is thirty years since you proclaimed yourself prince. Thirty years, Weaver.” He shook his head as he sat back.

  “Well, if I hear any rumors about dragons or any other exots, you’ll be the first to know, old man.”

  “That would be great. Thanks.”

  When the flow of conversation in the room changed, Rawk looked up and saw a man from the City Guard hurrying towards their table.

  “Good afternoon, Waydin,” Rawk said.

  The other man tugged at his ear, as if he couldn’t decide if he should acknowledge Weaver’s presence or not. “Ahhh, can you come outside with me for a moment, Rawk?”

  “What for? Am I under arrest?”

  The crowd laughed.

  “We need to talk.”

  By the time Rawk came with up a witty reply, Waydin had grown tired of waiting. He gave an exasperated sigh. “Something has turned up.”

  Rawk gave that some thought and went through several possibilities, each as unlikely as the one before. “What turned up?”

  “A wolden wolf.”

  “Oh.”

  Waydin nodded. “A group of men saw it from Sparrow Tower about half an hour ago.”

  “Are they sure?”

  “Captain Lakin was there.”

  Nobody was going to question Lakin’s reliability as a witness. Not to his face, anyway.

  “Rawk,” Weaver said.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ve heard a rumor about an exot.”

  Rawk raised his eyebrows and looked at the Prince. “Really?”

  “Yes. A wolden wolf. Or so I hear.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Weaver smiled. “That happened quicker than I was expecting.”

  Rawk turned back to Waydin. “And... You want me to go and have a look at this wolden wolf?”

  The soldier’s eyes narrowed as if he didn’t quite understand the question. “Of course.”

  Rawk felt like saying, It’s only a wolden wolf, but the crowd was watching. If this one was only a wolden wolf then what about all the others he’d killed? They weren’t scary either? Besides, he hadn’t done anything even remotely Heroic for more than a month so a nice little outing with a relatively harmless exot might be good.

  “Should I go see to this beast?” he asked the audience.

  They let out a cheer and most of them surged upright. Some did nothing more, but a few headed for the door, keen to find the best vantage points before they were taken.

  “Right, then.” Rawk managed to avoid sighing, but only by an act of will he didn’t know he was capable of at that time of the day. As if he’d expected everyone to suggest he stayed right where he was and have a second course of stew. He turned back to Waydin. “Just let me...” But he already had Dabaneera, which had a nice long reach to get to the wolf before it closed too much. And there was nothing else he really needed. A loincloth might have been handy—people seemed to like that kind of thing—but he wasn’t going to walk back up the hill just for that.

  “Are you coming?” Rawk asked Weaver.

  “I don’t think so. I have things to do. Honey to sell. Things like that.”

  Halben. From Rinton. Of course. “Well, good luck with that. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

  Rawk wiped his spoon with the pristine white cloth and placed it back in the pouch with his fork and knife. He stood up, checked he hadn’t forgotten anything, and followed Waydin out of the common room. The crowd came as well.

  The procession was stymied almost before it started. Outside, a dozen dwarves were working on a deep, sheer-sided ditch that was creeping down the street. There were a few more working a handle that lifted full buckets from below ground up to the back of a waiting wagon. And there were at least a handful standing around leaning on shovels and picks. To a man, they were dirty and stank like a week old breakfast.

  “Clear the way,” Rawk told them, though there wasn’t a lot they could do. The ditch was there now and would be until they put in the supports then laid the huge pavers over the top, then a layer of dirt, then more pavers. He could have followed the porch to the stairs at the end, but others were already heading in that direction and he didn’t want to follow. He wanted to lead.

  But the Gang Boss nodded and took off his wide brimmed hat to swat at some of his workers. “Won’t be long here, sir. You’ll be right as rain for breakfast tomorrow.” They managed to clear a foot of extra space.

  Rawk grunted. It would be a couple of hours at most. There was another crew just ten yards behind, lining the walls of the trench with grey slop. And ten yards behind them another work gang was closing everything back up. “You should be doing this at night when you won’t be disturbing people.”

  “Gangs are working around the clock, sir.”

  Rawk knew that. He could hear them singing their strange songs at all hours. “Well, just get on with it then.”

  “We’ve been getting on with these sewers for nearly two years.”

  “Well...” Rawk decided to just leave before the frustration and the stench overwhelmed him. He stomped down the stairs, sidled through the gap and out into the sparse traffic.

  The crowd behind him weren’t as polite. They swore at the workers as the passed. One man, perhaps emboldened by the people around him, shoved a dwarf out of the way. Nobody liked dwarves, but Rawk decided everyone would complain louder if they had to do all the extra work themselves.

  Despite the name, Runner Road wasn’t much more than an alley that twisted and wound its way along the lower skirts of Two Watch Hill. Most of Westside was similar—quiet, narrow streets with buildings looming close on either side. The residents probably didn’t appreciate the dwarves coming in with their wagons and their singing and they wouldn’t appreciate a Hero and a bunch of rowdy spectators either. The Mason’s Hammer and the surrounding buildings were three stories high with businesses at ground level and residences above. The plaster infill between the exposed frames of the half-timber walls was plain but clean and bright. The street was neat and tidy, though the dwarves were probably cleaning up any rubbish as they went.

  Rawk tried to get his bearings as he made his way westward. He and Waydin eventually turned right and followed Argent Road. The crowd seemed to pulse as new people joined to find out what was going on and others grew restless with the slow pace and raced ahead to find the best spots to watch the upcoming.

  A mile further on, Rawk turned away from the road, cutting down a narrow alley barely wide enough to fit his shoulders. He was on his own, now. Even Waydin had had excused himself a while earlier so he could search for the best view.

  The alley ended at a small courtyard at the base of the City Wall. Except the wall didn’t really protect the city. Katamood was on the outside. The wall protected the forest on the other side.

  Here, the wall was nothing more than a pile of cracked brown blocks that had long ago given over to gra
ss and weeds. Sparrow Tower stood forty yards to the north; a squat round affair that, on the other hand, looked like it was never going to fall down.

  Most of the wall was like that—long lines of ruins punctuated by the occasional upright stretch—but it was part of the city’s charm and allure. Katamood, the thriving city that had grown right beside the bones of some long forgotten civilization. The greatest city of the world living in the shadow of a very big, very real reminder of what could happen, what would happen, to everyone in the end. Or something like that, anyway. Rawk like to spin tales and wax lyrical as much as the next man but in reality he thought the ruins were just a city that was attacked and sacked and eventually died out. Nothing romantic about that. No lessons. Just life.

  -O-

  A rough trail lead up to a small, twisted apple tree at the top. A crow watched from the branches, talking in a harsh guttural language, complaining about something. Rawk went down the other side and a clatter of rocks followed. He didn’t look back until he’d gone another thirty yards, out into a sea of thigh-high grass. Further north, the forest lapped at the wall but here it hung back from the solid grey mass of Sparrow Tower as if it was up to no good and didn’t want to be caught out. There had once been dozens of towers along the five mile length of wall but now only four remained.

  Up on the top of the tower, Lakin pointed more to the north. Rawk couldn’t see anything interesting in that direction but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  He looked at his shirt. “Damn. I like this shirt.” But there was nothing he could do about it. With a sigh, he tore open the front of the shirt, baring his chest. The crowd cheered. There must have been a thousand of them clustered around the tower and at several other spots. They seemed to make more noise than they should. Maybe he imagined it. He ripped the shirt the rest of the way off and threw it to the ground as he gave voice to a wordless battle cry. The cheering grew louder. Applause washed over him. He drew Dabaneera and held it aloft, saluting those who watched. And the sound of the cheering pushed him onwards as he adjusted his course and headed for the trees.