Forest Kingdom Trilogy 3 - Down Among the Dead Men

him, smiling slightly as people looked quickly away rather than meet his eyes. Peasants. Stupid, grubby peasants in faded clothes from stinking little towns and villages, come to gawk at the county fair, the one patch of light and color in their miserable, squalid lives. The same kind of life he’d left to join the guards …
    The county fair was always the same, year after year. A handful of scruffy tents full of second-rate jugglers and acrobats, animals tamed to placidity, and games of chance rigged till the dice screamed. And a freak show, of course, hidden away around the back, so as not to disturb those with more sensitive natures. A gloomy little tent where you could pay to see a calf with two heads, a winged lizard in a bottle, and a wild man in a cage biting the head off a live chicken. There was even a skin show, for those whose tastes ran that way. Half a dozen aging fan dancers with bright smiles and dyed hair who might be persuaded to do more than dance if the price was right. All the fun of the fair.
    And then there was the archery competition. That was why he was here, of course. Edmond Wilde, the master bowman. Come and see the man who stood beside the king in the last great battle of the Demon War. See the man who became a hero simply by surviving when so many better men died. Test your skill against the master bowman, and win a purse of fifty gold ducats if you can beat his score! Wilde smiled sourly. No one had beaten him, and no one ever would. He was the best. Wilde drank more wine and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He was the best bowman there was, and he made a living fleecing peasants in a traveling carnival. Being a hero was all well and good, but it didn’t put money in your pocket. When the Demon War was over, he was still nothing but a guard, living in a guards’ barracks and drawing a guard’s pay. He wanted more than that. After everything he’d been through, he deserved more than that. So he left the guards and struck out on his own, and little good it did him. His only skill was with the bow and the sword. He had no gift for business, and his savings didn’t last long. He lost it all in one tavern after another, and never missed it till it was gone.
    And then the carnival found him, and they needed a main attraction as much as he needed a job. As far as Wilde was concerned, it was better than nothing, but only just. The towns and villages came and went, and he lost track of their names just as he lost track of the days and weeks and months that slid past unnoticed. He used his bow when he had to, feeling the joy of bow and arrow and target coming together in a pattern of certainty of which he was only a part, knowing all the time he was wasting his talent but unable to think of anything better. He drank whatever wine was available, and never complained at the taste or the quality. Wherever he went there were always women, awed by his name and reputation, and so starry-eyed they never saw the contempt in his smile. He didn’t value himself and despised those who did. And so the days went on, becoming weeks and months and finally years. Wilde knew his life was drifting away but didn’t know what to do about it, or even if he cared much anyway. There was always another town, another bottle, another woman.
    Wilde emptied his mug, went to fill it again, and scowled as he saw the bottle was empty too. It was a good hour or more before the archery contest was due to start, and he was bored. He was also fed up with being stared at. He dropped the empty bottle and mug onto the ground, slung his bow over his shoulder, and wandered aimlessly through the fair. The sunny afternoon was full of the cries of the stall holders and the hawkers, loudly proclaiming the virtues of their wares, and the chatter of the bustling crowds. Women shrilled excitedly over brightly colored cloths and wool, and all but fought each other for new patterns and recipes and spices. Children ran screaming and yelling between the stalls, almost bursting with the excitement of it all, stopping now and again to stare wide-eyed at simple luxuries that were often far beyond the purses of their parents. The open-air bars did a good trade, and knife grinders and pot menders filled the air around them with flying sparks. And everywhere Wilde went the crowds parted before him, falling back to let him pass, mostly because they were awed at his presence among them, but occasionally because they could sense the directionless