Once in a Blue Moon

Praise for The Adventures of Hawk & Fisher

Green’s very different approach to writing fantasy adventure—bearing a strong resemblance to the private eye novel—works surprisingly well.

—Chronicle

"Simon R. Green’s books are fun books that grab you, suck you in, and don’t let you go. They are always fun, and the Hawk & Fisher books are no exception. Hawk and Fisher are a couple of honest, straight-talking, tough-as-nails Guards who use steel as often as wits to keep themselves out of trouble. They bully their way through situations, often just letting their reputations work their magic. The plots are straightforward with just enough of a twist to keep you guessing until the end. If you’ve read and enjoyed Green’s other books, you don’t want to miss these books. If you haven’t read Green before, Swords of Haven is a good way to get a taste of his style of writing."

—SF Site

Green has a marvelous gift of leavening grim situations with wicked wit.

—Prism UK

Praise for Simon R. Green’s

Deathstalker novels

Deathstalker

A huge novel of sweeping scope, told with a strong sense of legend.

—Locus

Deathstalker Rebellion

Derring-do, space battles, and wry banter aplenty … an eminently satisfying space opera.

—Booklist

Deathstalker War

The action is fast and frenzied…. Manages to consistently entertain, with some wondrously quirky and warped characters.

—Locus

Deathstalker Destiny

Be prepared for an incredible romp through a wonderful universe … filled with outrageous and incredibly powerful heroes and villains, swords and disruptors, and more lethal creatures than you can imagine.

—SF Site

Deathstalker Legacy

Rip-roaring space opera with dastardly villains, exciting battles, nefarious plots, and strong-willed heroes.

—Chronicle

Deathstalker Return

Green ably juggles elements of sword-and-sorcery, high fantasy, humorous quest, and SF, with homages to authors such as Moorcock, Adams, Cordwainer Smith, and Zelazny…. A fun, twisty romp with surprises around every corner.

—Publishers Weekly

Deathstalker Coda

"Deathstalker Coda is the latest, last, and possibly even the best installment of Simon R. Greens sprawling space opera, a story overflowing with over-the-top action, memorable characters, bizarre twists, unexpected revelations, monumental battles, huge armies, and visceral fight scenes."

—SF Site

Praise for Simon R. Green’s novels of the Nightside

Something from the Nightside

The book is a fast, fun little roller coaster of a story—and its track runs through neighborhoods that make the Twilight Zone look like Mayberry. Simon R. Greens Nightside is a macabre and thoroughly entertaining world that makes a bizarre and gleefully dangerous backdrop for a quick-moving tale. Fun stuff!

—Jim Butcher, author of the Dresden Files novels

Agents of Light and Darkness

"The Nightside novels are a great blending of Lovecraft and Holmes. [Agents of Light and Darkness] is an action-packed thriller, a delightful private-eye investigative fantasy tale."

—Midwest Book Review

Nightingale’s Lament

Filled with supernatural creatures of various sorts, the action leavened by occasional bits of dry humor, the Taylor series has proven to be a welcome break from the endless quasimedieval intrigues that dominate contemporary fantasy.

—Chronicle

Hex and the City

"Green has a flair for character creation, and his knack for evocative, memorable names is tremendous. His postmodern mix-and-match style allows him to blend in a sizable Casablanca homage as well as quantum physics."

—SFRevu

Paths Not Taken

An entertaining adventure.

—Chronicle

Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth

No one writes like Simon R. Green. His style is infectious, energetic, over-the-top without the slightest hint of restraint. He writes large on a scale that refuses boundaries, turning even the slightest act into something grand and epic.

—The Green Man Review

Praise for Simon R. Green’s Secret History novels

The Man With the Golden Torc

"The Man With the Golden Torc is an enjoyable change of direction from sci-fi master Simon R. Green. The idea…has been tackled before, but Green has given the idea a new lease of life with Eddie Drood, a character as fresh and original as anything seen in fantasy for some time. This will appeal to readers of Terry Pratchett and Christopher Fowler, and should work outside the genre’s traditional fanbase."

—The Bookseller

Daemons Are Forever

A fantastic story. The action is fast paces, and the dialogue is clever and amusing. This book is a delight from beginning to end, and readers will eagerly look forward to the next in the series.

—Romantic Times,

4.5 stars of 4.5 stars and a TopPick!

The Spy Who Haunted Me

Engaging, well-crafted quests take the team from Loch Ness to Roswell, where Eddie is forced to choose between saving humanity and recovering the information his family desperately needs. Though some supporting characters are clearly meant to be disposable, Eddie makes a likable hero, and fans will enjoy following him through this surprisingly complex mystery.

—Publishers Weekly

From Hell With Love

Gripping, fast-paced, emotionally intense … fans of the series will be delighted by the deft combination of urban fantasy adventure, sharp-edged sarcasm, and treachery upon treachery, which make this installment strong enough to stand alone as a great introduction to Green’s work.

—Publishers Weekly

For Heaven's Eyes Only

Witty urban fantasy … Series fans should enjoy this extended parody and the genuine storytelling skill that lies beneath it.

—Library Journal

Live and Let Drood

The usual pithy banter, and Green’s outrageously creative magic

—Romantic Times,

4.5 stars of 4.5 stars and a TopPick!

Casino Infernale

The bottom line is that if you are a Simon Green fan, you’ll enjoy this book. With its ties to the rest of his universe, and all of his other qualities present in abundance, it’s everything that’s made him a bestselling author and then some."

—Tor.com

Property of a Lady Faire

Tons of plot, nonstop semicomic action, and further revelations about the entire Drood brood and their mysterious mission—what’s not to enjoy? Close to the best of a fun series.

—Kirkus

From a Drood to a Kill

"From a Drood to a Kill is Simon R. Green’s latest entry in the terrific Secret Histories series, a literary love letter to the spy thrillers of the ’60s mashed up with every sort of paranormal weirdness under the sun. It’s sort of ‘James Bond Meets the National Enquirer,’ with an extra helping of weirdness and snark….a great addition to the Eddie Drood narrative and even puts things in place for the next installment…Highly recommended."

—SF Revu

ALSO BY SIMON R. GREEN

The Deathstalker Series

Deathstalker

Deathstalker Rebellion

Deathstalker War

Deathstalker Honor

Deathstalker Destiny

Deathstalker Legacy

Deathstalker Return

Deathstalker Coda

DEATHSTALKER PRELUDE

Mistworld*

Ghostworld*

Hellworld*

The Hawk and Fisher Series

No Haven for the Guilty

Devil Take the Hindmost

The God Killer

Wolf in the Fold (UK: Vengeance for a Lonely Man)*

Guard Against Dishonor*

The Bones of Haven (UK: Two Kings in Haven)*

The Forest Kingdom Series

Blue Moon Rising*

Blood and Honor*

Down Among the Dead Men*

Beyond the Blue Moon*

Once in a Blue Moon*

The Nightside Series

Something from the Nightside

Agents of Light and Darkness

Nightingale’s Lament

Hex and the City

Paths Not Taken

Sharper Than a Serpent’s Tooth

Hell to Pay

The Unnatural Inquirer

Just Another Judgment Day

The Good, The Bad, and The Uncanny

A Hard Day’s Knight

The Bride Wore Black Leather

Tales from the Nightside

The Secret Histories

The Man with the Golden Torc

Daemons are Forever

The Spy Who Haunted Me

From Hell With Love

For Heaven’s Eyes Only

Live and Let Drood

Casino Infernale

Property of a Lady Faire

From a Drood to a Kill

Ghost Finders

Ghost of a Chance

Ghost of a Smile

Ghost of a Dream

Spirits From Beyond

Voices From Beyond

Forces from Beyond

Standalone Novels

Drinking Midnight Wine*

Shadows Fall

Pit of Despair

The Dark Side of the Road

Short Story Collections

Tales of the Hidden World

*available as a Jabberwocky ebook in the UK

Once in a Blue Moon

copyright © Simon R. Green, 1991

All rights reserved

This ebook edition published in 2015 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

Cover design by Tara O'Shea

ISBN 978-1-62567-1-31-8

Contents

Praise

Also by Simon R. Green

Title page

Copyright

Introduction

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

ONCE IN A BLUE MOON, SOMETHING MAGICAL HAPPENS . . .

It’s been a hundred years since the Demon War. Since Prince Rupert and Princess Julia of legend rode into the Darkwood to defeat the terrible Demon Prince and banished him from the world of men. A hundred years since the Blue Moon shed its awful Wild Magic over the Forest Kingdom.

Many things have changed, and many have not. But we all know: fate does so love an anniversary.

1

No One Ever Escapes the Past

The Dutchy of Lancre’s greatest pride, problem, and most profitable tourist attraction is the Hawk and Fisher Memorial Academy. Also known, less formally, as the Hero Academy. Founded some seventy-five years ago by Captains Hawk and Fisher, late of the City Guard in some less than salubrious city port down in the depths of the Southern Kingdoms. There are many stories about Hawk and Fisher, apparently the only honest guards in that city; all of the stories are of a resolutely heroic nature, though not always particularly nice, or suitable for mixed company. But apparently these two venerable warriors reached an age where they preferred teaching to doing, and so—the Academy.

Hawk and Fisher spent many happy and informative years teaching young men and women how to be warriors, got everything up and running, and then they moved on and were never seen again. Presumably they went back to being heroes, and died alone and bloody in some far-off place, fighting for some cause they believed in. Because that’s what usually happens to heroes. The Hero Academy kept their names, and many of the traditions they established, including that all the married warriors who came in to run the place took the names Hawk and Fisher for as long as they stayed. Out of respect for the original founders, or possibly to simplify merchandising rights. Either way, there have been a great many Hawks and Fishers through the years.

For decades, hopeful parents have sent their more troublesome sons and daughters to the Hawk and Fisher Memorial Academy, from all sorts of countries, cities, and stations in life. To learn how to be heroes. For a great many reasons—fame and fortune, of course, duty and honour . . . and sometimes just because the hopeful applicants feel they have something to prove to their parents. Of the many who feel called, only a few are chosen every year; but it doesn’t stop them from coming, by the hundreds and sometimes thousands. Some are hopeful; some are hopeless. The Academy holds regular Auditions at the beginning of each term to sort out the wheat from the chaff, in a similarly destructive process. The Auditions are bloody hard, and often very bloody, and no one gets to moan about the decisions. Even if the applicants leave with less dignity or fewer limbs than they arrived with. Because the Hero Academy believes that if you can be dissuaded or frightened off, it’s better to find that out right at the beginning. The Academy’s tutors are strict but fair . . . but strict.

The Hawk and Fisher Memorial Academy teaches people how to fight, and what to fight for, and how to stay alive while doing it. The Academy provides classes in weaponry, magic, lateral thinking, and really dirty tricks, and every year it turns out a whole bunch of highly motivated young people determined to go forth in the world and make it a better place. The world shows its appreciation every year by sending assassins to kill the current Hawk and Fisher and their staff, and if at all possible burn down the entire Academy and salt the earth around it.

But that’s politics for you.

* * * *

On a day that at first seemed much like any other day, Hawk and Fisher were out taking an early-morning constitutional, strolling unhurriedly across the great open plain that surrounded the Academy. Most of it was dry, dusty ground, studded with just enough awkwardly protruding rocks that you had to keep your eyes open and your wits about you, and punctuated here and there with optimistic outbursts of grey-green shrub. Thick woodland marked the western horizon, and the DragonsBack mountain ridges the eastern. Not much to look at, and even less to do, out on the plain, which helped concentrate the minds of the students wonderfully.

On that particular morning the sun was barely up, the sky was an overcast grey, and the air was so still that even the smallest sound seemed to carry forever. Hawk and Fisher wandered along, side by side, their movements so familiar to each other they were practically synchronised. They looked like they had a long history together, most of it concerned with organised violence. They looked like they belonged together, and always would be.

Hawk was well into middle age, a short and stocky man with a broad face, thinning grey hair, and a spreading bald patch he was growing increasingly touchy about. He wore a simple soldier’s tunic over smooth leather leggings, and rough, functional boots. His cool grey eyes were calm and steady, and gave the strong impression that they missed nothing. He limped slightly, as though favouring an old wound, but given that the limp had a tendency to transfer itself from one leg to the other and back again without warning, no one took it particularly seriously. He carried a great axe at his side instead of a sword, by long tradition. He studied the world with a thoughtful, watchful gaze to make sure it wouldn’t try to jump out and surprise him. Everything in the way he moved and held himself suggested he’d been a soldier or mercenary in his previous life, but he never spoke of it. Tradition demanded that all the Hawks and Fishers leave their pasts behind, along with their original names, when they took over control of the Hero Academy.

Fisher was also advancing into middle age, and with even less enthusiasm than her husband. She was of barely average height and more than average weight, with short-cropped grey hair, a jutting beak of a nose, and a brief, flashing smile. She wore the same simple tunic and leggings as Hawk, and carried a long sword in a rune-carved scabbard down her back. She studied the world with fierce green eyes, in a way that suggested the world had better not give her any trouble if it knew what was good for it. A potential student who claimed to be a Bladesmaster, and therefore unbeatable with a sword in his hand, once told Fisher to her face that a woman’s place was in the home, and especially the kitchen. Fisher laughed herself sick, and then duelled him up the hall and back down again, beat the sword out of his hand, kicked him in the nuts, and rabbit-punched him before he hit the ground. And then sent him home strapped to a mule, riding backwards.

No one messed with Hawk and Fisher.

Stumbling along behind them, grumbling constantly under his breath, was the Administrator. He was not a morning person, and didn’t give a damn who knew it. Normally at this very early hour of the day, he would have been sitting alone at a table in the kitchens, holding on to a mug of mulled wine with both hands, as though that was all that was holding him up, and giving the sudden-death glare to anyone who tried to talk to him. But it was the first day of the new autumn term, the Auditions were to be held at midday, and Hawk and Fisher had been very insistent that they wanted to talk to him somewhere extremely private; so here he was. Taking an early-morning stroll that was undoubtedly good for him, and hating every moment of it. Birds were singing happily in the sky above, and every now and again the Administrator would raise his weary head and look at them with simple and uncomplicated loathing.

If the Administrator had ever been blessed with anything as common as a real name and a proper background, no one knew about it. He’d arrived at the Academy some forty years earlier as just another student, bluffed and bullied his way onto the staff, and lost no time in proving himself invaluable at taking care of all the dull, soul-destroying but unfortunately wholly necessary administrative work that no one else wanted to do. All he had to do was threaten to leave, and he was immediately awarded a substantial pay increase and a straightforward assurance that no one gave a damn what his real name might be or where he’d come from.

The Administrator was tall but heavily stooped, and tended to stride through the Academy corridors as though he personally bore all the cares of the world on his narrow shoulders. And wanted everyone to know it. He wore stark black and white formal clothes, comfortable shoes, and an old floppy hat that didn’t suit him. Though given the appalling state of the thing, it would be hard to name anyone it would have suited. He was a long and stretched-out gangly sort, all knees and elbows. His face was grim and bony, he frowned as though it were a competitive sport, and on the few occasions when he was seen to smile, everyone knew it meant someone somewhere was in really big trouble.

He basically ran the Hero Academy, from top to bottom, and had done so under many Hawks and Fishers.

He raised the volume of his grumbling, just to let Hawk and Fisher know he hadn’t forgiven them, kicked noisily at the dusty ground before him, and scowled around at the world as though daring any of it to get too close. Hawk and Fisher finally came to a halt, at the top of a long ridge giving an uninterrupted view out across the plain. The Administrator crashed to a halt beside them, and let out a loud groan that might have been either simple relief or a plea for sympathy. He put both hands on the small of his back and straightened up slowly, while his spine made loud protesting noises. Hawk and Fisher exchanged amused glances. They made a lot of allowances for the Administrator. They had to; it was either that or run like fun every time they saw him approaching. The Administrator rotated his shoulders, slowly and individually, and they made ominous creaking noises.

All right, said Hawk. You’re just showing off now.

You know nothing about backs! Nothing! snarled the Administrator. They should give you a handbook, the moment you hit forty, warning you of all the terrible things that are going to go wrong with your body as you head into middle age. It should be full of useful diagrams and helpful advice, and detailed notes on which drugs are the best and have the least embarrassing side effects. I’m a martyr to my spine. He sniffed loudly, and looked coldly out across the open plain. Why are we out here, at this indecently early hour of the morning? God created hours like these specifically to break the spirits of people dumb enough to get out of bed before they were meant to. Everybody knows that.

There are things we need to discuss, you miserable old scrote, Hawk said cheerfully. Important things.

The kinds of things best discussed where there’s absolutely no one around to overhear, said Fisher.

You haven’t killed anyone important again, have you? said the Administrator, wincing. You know how much extra paperwork that means.

We’ve been good, said Hawk. Mostly.

Right, said Fisher, scowling. It’s been ages since I got into a decent scrap. I must be getting old. Or civilised. Don’t know which of the two disturbs me more.

Then what is so important I had to be hauled from my nice warm bed and thoroughly disgusting dream? snapped the Administrator.

What brought you here, originally? said Hawk. And there was something in the way he said it that made the Administrator give the question more than usual attention.

My parents thought I had the makings of a master swordsman, he said gruffly, "because I had a habit of getting into trouble and then cutting my way out of it. They thought I might be Bladesmaster material. I knew better. I knew I wasn’t a warrior, let alone a hero—just a man with a short temper and no real sense of self-preservation. I said so, loudly, but no one listened. My father put me on a horse, handed me a bag of silver, and sent me out into the world to find my place. Maybe he did understand about me, after all.

I came here after I’d tried everywhere else. The previous Administrator had let things get into a real mess, so I pushed him down some stairs, several times, and took over. The Hawk and Fisher back then knew exactly what I’d done, but they gave me a chance. Told me I had six months to prove myself, or they’d have the Magic Tutor turn me into a small green hopping thing. Took me less than three. Now, some forty years later, I’m still here, and I’ll be here till they carry me out feet first.

Are you happy here? said Fisher.

The Administrator looked at her for a while, as though he didn’t quite understand the question. I never wanted anything else. I’m part of a legend, and that will do me.

Did you never want marriage, family, children—things like that? said Hawk.

Marriage isn’t for everyone, the Administrator said firmly. People just get in the way when I’ve got important lounging around to be getting on with. My fellow staff are all the family I ever needed, or wanted. He looked at Hawk and Fisher thoughtfully. You’ve been here, what, ten years now? As Hawk and Fisher? And you never once showed any interest in my personal life before. So why now?

Because it’s time for a change, said Hawk. He looked out across the plain. Look at the Tree. Isn’t it magnificent?

The Administrator felt like saying a great many things, but the conversation seemed important enough that he played along. For the moment. They all looked out across the open plain, at the one thing of importance it contained: the ancient and mighty Millennium Oak. The biggest tree in the world; a thousand feet tall and probably more, with a trunk very nearly half as wide, and massive layers of branches reaching out a lot farther than was naturally possible. Just one of many clues, if its sheer size wasn’t enough, that the Millennium Oak was a magical thing. Its cracked and crinkled bark glowed a dull golden, and so did its massive bristling foliage. The Tree dominated the landscape, as though its overpowering presence had sucked most of the life out of the dry and dusty plain. It rose up and up into the sky, its topmost branches disappearing into the clouds. There were climbers of renown who’d tackled every mountain in the world but who wouldn’t dare attempt an assault on the Millennium Oak. And not just because of its height. The Tree had a presence, and perhaps even a personality, and it didn’t want to be climbed.

You could tell.

All around the Millennium Oak, the plain swept away for miles and miles, alone and deserted and untouched. If you travelled far enough to the west, you reached the wild woods. Perfectly ordinary trees, packed closely together, all the natural shades of brown and green, slamming right up against the edge of the plain as though the trees had met an invisible fence. All kinds of wildlife roamed the wild woods, but none of them ever ventured out onto the plain. They knew it wouldn’t be healthy.

To the east, even more miles away, stretched the DragonsBack mountain ridge, tall and brutally ragged, marking the border between the Dutchy of Lancre and the Forest Kingdom. There were a great many stories about these mountains. Once, it was said, dragons made their homes in caves up and down the long ridge. Long and long ago. The caves were still there, unnaturally large and worryingly dark, but no one had seen a dragon in ages.

The first Hawk and Fisher made a point of checking out the caves, said the Administrator. They didn’t find any dragons. Looked rather disappointed, or so I’m told. Long before my time, of course. There are songs and stories from the Demon War that say Princess Julia rode a dragon into battle against the demon hordes. The last sighting of a dragon in the world of men.

You can’t trust minstrels, said Hawk. Never was a bard who wouldn’t sacrifice the facts for a better rhyme.

There are a hell of a lot of stories concerning the origins of the Millennium Oak, said Fisher. "Some of them so old and so strange they might even have some truth in them. When the wind moves between the branches, the leaves seem to move with a life of their own, and sometimes it sounds like voices. Something the Tree heard, long ago. But the words are from a language no one speaks anymore, or even recognises. A language of a people who no longer exist. So no one now can understand what it is the Tree is remembering. The Tree is old . . ."

And birds of every species come here from all over the world, said Hawk. Every shape and size, and all the colours you can think of, including some specimens long thought extinct . . . just to perch on the golden branches and sing to the Tree. They sing a thousand different songs, yet somehow they’re always in harmony.

Though you never see a woodpecker, said Fisher. I think they sense they’re not welcome.

None of them are, when they’re sounding off outside my bedroom window first thing in the morning, growled the Administrator. Bloody dawn chorus. I’ve had to move my bedroom three times. I swear the bloody things are following me. He glared at Hawk. "Have we indulged in enough whimsy yet? Can I just say I don’t give a damn about any of this in a loud and carrying voice, so we can finally get to the damned point?"

The Millennium Oak is a wonder and a miracle, Hawk said firmly. Haven’t you ever wondered who it was that originally hollowed out the Tree’s interior, to make hundreds of rooms and halls and interconnecting corridors, so long ago that no one now remembers who or why? Seventy-five years the Tree has been home to the Academy, and we still haven’t occupied half the available rooms. A Tree with a city inside it. Who would have thought?

Not forgetting the city of tents that surrounds it, said Fisher. All the student population, set out in ranks and circles round the trunk. I can see a dozen different flags from here, from countries near and far, flapping proudly in the breeze . . . Though I’m glad to see everyone is following tradition, and no one flag is set any higher than any other. I’d hate to have to go down there and punch someone. I really would.

I did enjoy it when you set fire to the last flag that tried to flout tradition, said Hawk solemnly. And the way you set fire to the flag’s owner when he objected. In the end they had to wrap him in his own tent and roll him back and forth in the mud to put the flames out. He cried real tears.

The Millennium Oak has never flown a flag, said Fisher. The Tree is in the Dutchy, but not of it.

Go back a couple of hundred years, said Hawk, and there is the story of one Duke who tried to occupy the Tree. To make a point, over who was really in charge here. The Duke led his army of some three hundred heavily armed men inside the Tree; and none of them ever came out. We’ve never even found a trace of the bodies. The Tree’s roots dig deep, and no one has ever sought to discover how deep, or what nourishes them.

I think we should take a tour through the tent city on the way back, said Fisher. Show the students we take an interest. I mean, yes, they’re expected to provide for and look after themselves; that’s the whole point of not letting them take it easy inside the Tree. Self-sufficiency starts at home, and all that. But it wouldn’t hurt to remind the students we’re still keeping an eye on them.

Someone’s started a still again, haven’t they? said Hawk. What’s the matter? You not getting your fair share?

It’s the principle of the thing, said Fisher.

Won’t be long now before the Auditions begin, said Hawk. Look at the shadow.

The thousand-foot Millennium Oak cast one hell of a long shadow, and the tents that lay within it were always markedly cooler than those without. So the older and more experienced students struck their tents inside the shadow during the hot summer months, and outside it during the winter. All the newer students thus had no choice but to do the exact opposite, and dream of better times to come as they sweated through the summer and shivered through the winter. And of course once a year there was a mass migration and re-setting of tents, as the two sides swopped places to follow the shifting seasons. This usually involved a certain amount of armed skirmishing, as certain individuals disagreed as to which side they were properly a part of. It was all very good-natured, and usually ended at first blood. Because students who couldn’t or wouldn’t follow the rules and traditions of the Hawk and Fisher Memorial Academy didn’t last long. Hawk and Fisher saw to that.

It had to be said: the students didn’t seem to mind living in the tent city. It was all very communal, with lots of eating and drinking and singing, and giggling under canvas. There were the wild woods to hunt in, several streams in which to fish and wash and perform necessary functions (and woe betide anyone who didn’t keep those uses strictly separate), and several towns beyond the woods, for more sophisticated fare. Often at dirt-cheap prices—the merchants indulged the students because they attracted the tourists. Who were, of course, quite properly soaked for every penny they had. That was what they were for.

No tourists ever approached the Tree, or even the tent city. The Tree didn’t allow such over-familiarity.

The Administrator sighed deeply, and massaged his lower back with both hands. It was clear that whatever Hawk and Fisher had brought him all the way out here to discuss, they were determined to take their own sweet time about getting to the point. So he gritted his teeth, plotted future revenges, and played along.

I have often wondered why the original Hawk and Fisher came to the Dutchy of Lancre, he said, to set up their Academy. We’re not exactly a big or famous country, after all.

I think that was probably the point, said Hawk. The DragonsBack ridge does a very good job of separating Lancre from the Forest Kingdom, and there’s only an ocean on the other side.

Far from everyone else, and protected by perfect natural defences, said Fisher. They couldn’t have picked a better bolt-hole if they’d tried.

And that was when they both stopped and looked directly at the Administrator, who felt a sudden chill run through him as he found himself the target of their cool, thoughtful gaze. The Administrator decided that whatever it was they wanted to tell him, he almost certainly wouldn’t be better off for knowing.

It’s time, said Fisher.

Time we were moving on, said Hawk.

The Administrator nodded slowly. Of course. That’s what this has all been about. Looking at things for the last time, and saying goodbye.

It’s the first day of the new term, said Hawk. Which means the biggest Auditions of the year. Our last before we move on, to make way for the next Hawk and Fisher.

Will you miss us? said Fisher.

The Administrator did them the courtesy of considering the question. I suppose so. You’ve been here longer than most, almost ten years now. You’ve done good work. I was starting to think . . . Do you have to leave?

Yes, said Hawk. People are starting to get too used to us.

A new Hawk and Fisher will shake things up, said Fisher.

All these years we’ve worked together, the Administrator said slowly, and I can’t say I know either of you any better than the day you arrived here to take over from the previous Hawk and Fisher. Of course, I can’t say I really knew any of your predecessors any better. You always keep yourselves to yourselves.

All part of being Hawk and Fisher, Hawk said easily. We’re here to be role models, not friends or family. It would undermine the legend and authority of the names if people could see just how ordinary we really are.

And we did come here, after all, to leave our pasts behind, said Fisher.

Except . . . you never really do escape your past, said Hawk. It has a nasty habit of sneaking up on you from behind, when you least expect it.

Fisher looked at him. You feeling your age?

Hawk was looking out over the plain, his gaze far away. It’s cold early, this autumn.

Fisher moved in close beside him. Are you . . . feeling something?

I don’t know, said Hawk. Maybe.

Fisher waited until she was sure he had nothing more to say, and then turned back to the Administrator, her face artificially cheery. So, are you going to miss us?

Not if I aim properly, growled the Administrator. I’ve seen Hawks and Fishers come, and I’ve seen them go. And all that matters is that they leave me alone, to get on with the work that really matters. Running the Academy efficiently. I will say . . . you have been less of a nuisance than most.

Fisher surprised him then, with a sudden bark of genuine laughter. You soppy sentimental old thing, you. We know you do all the real work. And don’t think we’re not grateful. We’ll authorise another raise for you before we go. Throw you a party, with a barrel of ale and a whole bunch of loose women. What do you say?

The Administrator shuddered. No. Thank you. Really. And if I want a raise, I’ll just fix the books again.

We’ve already arranged for our replacements, said Hawk. They’re on their way. Fisher and I will be leaving at the end of the week. We wanted to break the news to you first, so you can set the necessary procedures and protections in place, before the news spreads all over the Tree.

Once the Auditions are over, we can start setting our affairs in order, said Fisher. And then we’ll be off. No point in hanging around. I hate long, drawn-out goodbyes.

We’ve been here too long, said Hawk. People are . . . getting used to us.

I trust you’ll make our replacements welcome? said Fisher.

Of course, said the Administrator, back on his dignity. I always do. Got a special speech prepared, and everything. Mostly about staying out of my way, and what forms they have to fill in whenever they find it necessary to kill someone. I pride myself on having a good working relationship with every Hawk and Fisher. Do you . . . know where you’re going?

We’re still working on that, said Fisher. But it’s time for a change. You’re right, Hawk. It is cold, for this early in the autumn. I can feel it in my bones.

Hawk and Fisher looked at each other, for a long moment. The Administrator could sense something moving between them that he wasn’t a part of.

I have this feeling, said Hawk, that something bad is coming.

Yes, said Fisher. Something really bad.

Well, yes, said the Administrator. New students.

He didn’t normally do jokes, but he felt a sudden need to change the mood.

They all managed a quiet laugh. Only to break off abruptly as a whole flock of dead birds fell out of the sky, plummeting to the ground all around them. The soft, flat sounds of small dead bodies hitting the ground was like a round of heartless applause. The Administrator almost jumped out of his skin as he realised what was happening, and then his heart lurched again as Hawk and Fisher drew their weapons with almost inhuman speed and moved to stand back-to-back, weapons held out before them, at the ready. But there was no attack, no obvious enemy. Just dead birds, dropping out of a calm and empty sky for no obvious reason. And then that stopped and all was still and quiet.

The Administrator realised he was wringing his hands. He could feel his heart beating painfully fast. Hawk and Fisher looked carefully around them, and only when they were sure there wasn’t an enemy anywhere in sight did they relax, just a little, and put away their weapons. The Administrator got down on one knee, painfully slowly, ignoring the harsh creaking sounds from his joints. He was careful not to look at Hawk and Fisher. He tended to forget, until it became necessary for them to demonstrate, just how fast and dangerous they could be. That they were, in fact, highly experienced trained killers. He made himself concentrate on the bodies of the dead birds before him. He sniffed the air carefully but couldn’t detect any scents out of the ordinary. He leaned forward and looked the small bodies over as thoroughly as he could, while being very careful not to touch anything. Their eyes were open, dark and unseeing, not a breath of movement anywhere, not a mark of violence on any of them.

Not predators, said Hawk.

Not natural predators, anyway, said Fisher.

It’s almost like someone’s gone out of their way to give us a sign, said Hawk.

They didn’t have to shout, said Fisher.

I’ll send some of the witches out here to take a look, said the Administrator, straightening up again with a minimum of fuss. Exaggerating his various infirmities seemed small-minded in the face of so much casual death. As though some force or power had reached out and slapped the birds out of the air. Just because it could. He looked out across the plain, at the city of tents grouped around the Tree. It could be one of the students, I suppose, showing off, but . . .

Yes, said Hawk. But.

Let some of the more advanced magic students investigate, said Fisher. Be good practice for them. If nothing else.

The Administrator looked around him, at all the dead bodies scattered across the stony ridge. Dozens of the things. And then he looked sharply at Hawk and Fisher.

Is there any chance this could be connected with your decision to leave so suddenly?

I don’t see how, said Hawk. Which wasn’t really an answer, and they all knew it.

Some old enemy, caught up with you at last? said the Administrator.

Unlikely, said Fisher.

The Administrator glared at both of them. There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there?

Hawk grinned broadly, a sudden but very real moment of affection. More than you ever dreamed of, old friend.

I think we should get back to the Millennium Oak, Fisher said briskly. We have to prepare for the Auditions. Get ready to sort out the potential heroes and warriors from the deluded and the wannabes. One last time.

They turned away from the dead birds and made their way back down the stone ridge and onto the dry and dusty plain. The mystery of the dead birds would have to wait until after the Auditions. Because some things just couldn’t wait. But it was silently understood among the three of them that this . . . matter wasn’t over yet. The Administrator never let go of a problem once he’d sunk his teeth into it. Particularly if it posed any kind of threat to his beloved Academy.

You don’t always produce heroes, he said roughly. Even the best students can let you down. The Black Prince of Land’s End—he was one of yours, wasn’t he?

Unfortunately, yes, said Fisher. Hawk and I had to go all the way down there to sort him out personally.

I know, said the Administrator, just a bit pointedly. You were supposed to bring back an erring student, not a collection of bits in a box! We’re still getting dunning letters from the Land’s End Council, demanding we pay for all the damage you caused, taking the Black Prince down!

You’re not actually planning on paying them, are you? said Fisher.

Of course not! I’m just making the point that your problems don’t always stop just because you’ve killed your enemy.

Exactly, said Hawk.

The Administrator decided he really didn’t like the way Hawk said that.

* * * *

Hawk and Fisher made a point of walking back through the middle of the tent city surrounding the Millennium Oak, instead of sticking to the main paths, so they could talk with the students one last time. The Administrator would have preferred to hurry back to the Tree so he could make his report on the dead birds and set wheels in motion. But he made himself slow his pace to that of Hawk and Fisher's because he wanted to hear what they had to say. It wasn’t that he suddenly distrusted them after so many years of working together; it was more that the Administrator didn’t trust anyone.

The tents came in all sizes and all colours, like a ragged rainbow lying scattered around the base of the Tree. There were small cooking fires all over the place, and the delightful smells of a dozen different cuisines wafted through the early-morning air. Heavily laden washing lines flapped between the tents, displaying more kinds of underwear than the mind could comfortably cope with so early in the morning. Students ran back and forth, laughing and chasing, or sat in small circles lacing up each other’s armour, or ran through exercise routines of exhausting thoroughness. No one ever missed first class in the Millennium Oak. They’d all worked too hard to earn their place.

Hawk and Fisher moved easily among the students, greeting a surprisingly large number by name, inquiring how they were doing and seeming genuinely interested in the answers. The Administrator didn’t join in. Partly because his people skills were strictly limited, as he’d be the first to admit, but mostly because he didn’t give a damn. He cared about the Academy’s successes only after they’d left and were off doing suitably heroic things at a distance and were no longer his responsibility. He had been heard to say, quite loudly and in all apparent sincerity, that the Academy would be a lot easier to run if it weren’t for all the damned students getting in the way.

Hawk and Fisher could feel his brooding presence at their backs but refused to be hurried. They kept moving, never actually stopping, because they knew if they did, a crowd would soon gather and they’d never get through. A large number of the newer students saw their presence as an opportunity to show off their various skills. An archer casually shot an apple off the head of a trusting friend, only to be immediately upstaged as another archer targeted an apple set between the thighs of an extremely trusting friend. The look in that particular young man’s eyes was frankly terrified, but give him his due—he didn’t flinch. Possibly because he didn’t dare to. The archer made his shot successfully, and the friend left the apple pinned to the tree and walked quickly away. Probably to have a nice lie-down. Hawk and Fisher made a point of congratulating him as well as the archer.

They did pause briefly to observe an exhibition bout between two top-rank swordsmen, who courteously stopped at regular intervals to explain to the watching crowd exactly what they were doing, and how.

A young sorcerer, barely into his mid-teens, sat alone at a table, staring fixedly at the single piece of fruit set out on a platter before him. He concentrated, scowling till his eyebrows met and beads of sweat popped out on his forehead, and the apple before him changed into a lemon. And then into a pear. The piece of fruit transformed itself over and over again, but the student was clearly making hard work of it. Though basic transformations were always impressive, they often took more effort than they were worth. Practice does make perfect, however. Eventually. Hawk paid the young sorcerer a vague compliment, whereupon the sorcerer blushed happily, lost his concentration, and the apple exploded. Messily. All over him. Hawk and Fisher moved quickly on.

It seemed like everyone had some speciality they just had to show off. Students hovered uncertainly in midair, or juggled balls of flame, and one young witch danced a decorous waltz with an animated scarecrow. Hawk and Fisher smiled and nodded, and kept moving. They passed one young man struggling to set up his tent but making a real dog’s breakfast of it. He finally lost patience with the whole flapping mess, stood back, and snapped his fingers sharply. The tent immediately set itself up: canvas stretched taut, wooden pegs digging deep into the ground, ropes twanging into place. Hawk nodded to Fisher.

He shows potential . . .

The tent burst into flames. The student burst into tears.

Or perhaps not, said Fisher.

And that was when a cocky young bravo pushed his way through the crowd to stand before Hawk, blocking his way. The newcomer was a big, muscular sort, wearing chain mail that had been polished to within an inch of its life, and hefting a massive double-headed battleaxe. He struck an arrogant pose and looked Hawk up and down, his gaze openly contemptuous. Clearly he’d heard all the stories about Hawk and decided they were far too good to be true. He wanted to make an impression in a hurry.

Time to show what you can really do, Hawk, he said loudly. I am Graham Steel, of the Forest Kingdom, warrior from a long line of warriors. I don’t need to hide behind the legend of another man’s name. You want me to Audition for you? Well, I say let’s do it right here, right now, where everyone can see.

Hawk looked at him thoughtfully. People were already starting to back away, if only to make sure they wouldn’t get any blood on them. Hawk glanced at Fisher.

There’s always one, isn’t there?

Make it quick, said Fisher. You don’t have time to play with him.

Steel raised his axe and started to say something provoking, and Hawk lunged forward so quickly he was just a blur. His axe was suddenly in his hand, and he was upon his opponent before the young man could do more than lift his axe up before him. Hawk’s axe rose, came flashing down, and sheared right through the other axe’s wooden shaft. Steel’s hands were jarred open by the sheer force of the blow, and the two pieces of his axe fell from his hands and dropped to the ground. Hawk set the edge of his axe against Steel’s throat. Steel stood very still, his empty hands twitching, as though they couldn’t believe they were empty. His face was slick with sweat, and he would have liked to swallow, but he didn’t dare, not with the axe at his throat. He’d never seen anyone move so fast . . . He tried to meet Hawk’s eyes, so close to his, but couldn’t. Hawk stepped back, put his axe away, and moved on, without saying anything. Steel flushed angrily at being so coldly dismissed. He whipped a slender dagger from a concealed sheath in his sleeve and went for Hawk’s turned back. Fisher clubbed him down from behind with one blow from her sword’s hilt. Steel crashed to the ground, and didn’t move again, and Fisher walked right over him to catch up with Hawk. Who hadn’t even glanced back. The Administrator hurried after them, shaking his head.

Show-offs . . .

* * * *

They went back into the Millennium Oak through the main entrance, a massive arch carved deep into the golden trunk. Centuries’ worth of intricate carving and decoration covered the inner walls, from a dozen countries and even more cultures, transforming the whole entrance hall into a magnificent piece of art. Other, less decorated arches and corridors led off to rooms and halls and storerooms. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were all the same pear-coloured wood. No stone or metal had been used in the Tree’s interior. Like a single gigantic piece of intricate scrimshaw. Though in fact there was no indication of human workmanship anywhere—no signs of tools, no markings. The only human contributions were the carvings and decorations, and a few examples of human ingenuity. Like the single elevator that carried people from the base of the Tree to the very top, for when there just wasn’t time to take the curving wooden stairway that wound round and round the interior walls of the Tree. The elevator was just a flat wooden slab that rose and fell according to an intricate system of counterweights. No one had ever been able to find them. The Tree liked to hold some of its mysteries close to its chest.

The Administrator stomped off to his very private office, to rest his feet and his aching back, and prepare for the new term. He grumbled loudly about his workload every year, and didn’t fool anyone. Everyone knew he lived for his paperwork.

You know, said Hawk, heading straight for the elevator, given that we will be leaving soon, I think it is incumbent on us to do one final tour of the various departments. Make sure all the tutors are up to the mark, all the students are working hard, and . . .

And just generally put the wind up everybody, one last time? said Fisher. Sounds good to me.

So up the elevator shaft they went, standing right in the centre of the wooden slab because there weren’t any handrails. To discourage people from using the thing if they didn’t have to. Hawk and Fisher were looking forward to seeing how the many and various departments of the Academy were doing. The Hero Academy didn’t teach just the basics of soldiering—sword and axe and bow . . . There were also serious studies in magic, High and Wild, and all sorts of classes in such useful skills as infiltration, espionage, politics, information gathering, sneaking up on people, and general underhandedness. As Hawk was fond of saying, A properly prepared warrior has already won the fight before he’s even turned up. And as Fisher liked to say, When in doubt, cheat.

Hawk and Fisher started their casual and entirely informal inspection with the main training hall, on the second floor. A huge open area, with light falling heavily through the many circular windows. There was no glass in any of the Tree’s windows, just openings in the wood. But somehow the Tree was always cool in the summer and comfortably warm in the winter. Which was just as well, because no one was ever going to be stupid enough to start a fire inside the Millennium Oak. Except for the kitchens, on the ground floor. Where the cooks were often heard to murmur that they always felt like someone was watching them. When it got dark, foxfire moss lamps shed safe silver light.

Roland the Headless Axeman was in charge of Weapons Training. A tall man, originally, presumably; it was hard to be sure now that he didn’t have a head anymore. His neck had been neatly trimmed, just above the shoulders, and the tunic he wore had no hole for where the neck should have been. Roland was a large and blocky sort, with muscles on his muscles, and arms so heavily corded that he could crack walnuts in his elbows (for other people; he had no use for the things himself). He wore steel-studded leather armour that had been beaten into a suppleness smooth as cloth, over functional leggings, and battered old boots with steel toe caps. He had large hands, a soldier’s stance, and was so impressively imposing that he all but sweated masculinity. He had a deep, booming, authoritative voice. No one was too sure exactly where it came from, though people had come up with some very disturbing and even unsavoury possibilities. Roland may not have had a head, but he saw all and heard all, and absolutely nothing got by him. Unbeatable with his massive war axe in his hand, Roland was a patient and demanding and very dangerous tutor who never failed to get the best out of his students. Whatever it took.

Some say he cut his own head off . . .

Many sorcerers and witches had run extensive, though carefully unobtrusive, tests on Roland the Headless Axeman down through the years. From what they hoped was a safe distance. They were sure he wasn’t a ghost, or a lich, or an homunculus, or any of a dozen other unlikely things. But as to who or what he really was? No one had a clue. Not even Hawk and Fisher; or if they did, they weren’t talking. An awful lot of people had asked Roland, right to where his face should have been . . . but no one ever got the same answer twice. Roland always made a point of telling these people exactly what they didn’t want to hear, so they’d go away and stop bothering him. The Administrator made a point of asking each new Hawk and Fisher to get rid of Roland, because he wouldn’t take orders from the Administrator, and had been known to do very painful and destructive things to students who disappointed him. Usually for having the wrong attitude . . . The Administrator kept pointing out that Roland the Headless Axeman scared the crap out of the students, and most of the Academy staff; and every Hawk and Fisher in turn said the same thing: that this was the best possible reason for keeping Roland around.

Because if the students could face him, they could face anyone.

And it had to be said: Roland did turn out first-class warriors. All just packed full of the right heroic attitude.

Hawk and Fisher stood at the back of the practice hall just long enough to make sure all the students were giving it their best shot, and then they nodded to Roland. He made a brief movement of his shoulders that suggested he might be nodding back. (Hawk had once let his hand drift casually through the space above Roland’s shoulders, where his head should have been, just to assure himself that there really was nothing there. Roland let him do it, and then said, Never do that again. All the hairs stood up on the back of Hawk’s neck, and he decided right then and there that he had no more curiosity in the matter.) The students duelled up and down the hall in pairs, stamping their feet hard on the wooden floor, thrusting and parrying in perfect form. The clash of steel on steel was oddly muffled, as though the wood of the Millennium Oak absorbed some of the sound, to show its disapproval of so much steel inside the Tree.

* * * *

Hawk and Fisher were heading unhurriedly down the long, curving corridor that led to the Alchemist’s laboratory, when there was a sudden and very loud explosion. The floor shook ever so lightly beneath their feet, and the door to the laboratory was blown clean off its hinges, flying across the corridor to slam up against the far wall, while black smoke billowed out through the open doorway. Followed by howls, screams, and quite a lot of really bad language. The Alchemist didn’t take failure well. The black smoke smelled really bad, and dark cinders bobbed and floated on the air. Hawk breathed in a lungful of the smoke before he could stop himself, and for a moment wee-winged bright pink fairies went flying round and round his head, singing in high-pitched voices a very suggestive song about someone called Singapore Nell. Hawk shook his head firmly, and the pink fairies disappeared, one by one. The last one winked, and blew him a kiss.

The fairies might actually have been there, temporarily. The Alchemist could do amazing things with unstable compounds.

I see our Alchemist is still hard at work, Fisher said solemnly, batting at the black smoke with one hand as it curled slowly on the air, before being quickly sucked out the open corridor window. The Tree could look after itself, though the Alchemist tried its patience more than most. Is he still trying to turn lead into gold? I keep telling him, if gold becomes as common as lead, it won’t be worth anymore than lead; but he won’t listen to me. I think it’s all about the thrill of the chase, myself.

A surprisingly good cook, though, said Hawk. I suppose all that messing about with potions gives you a feeling for combining the right ingredients . . . Is he still banned from the Tree’s kitchens?

Damn right he is, said Fisher. That macaroni pie of his had me trapped in the jakes for hours.

It was very tasty, said Hawk.

Strangely, that didn’t make me feel any better, said Fisher.

It cured your hiccups.

Only because I was scared to.

Hawk sniffed deeply at the last evaporating swirls of black smoke. I smell . . . brimstone, mandrake, and . . . is that cardamom? That mean anything to you?

It means we’re going to have to have another hard word with him, said Fisher. I don’t mind him blowing his lab up, because the Tree always absorbs the damage, and clears up after him, and the Alchemist always bounces back . . . but it does take a lot out of the students.

He doesn’t blow things up nearly as much as he used to, said Hawk. And it does do wonders for the students’ reflexes. They can duck and cover and jump out a window faster than anyone else in the Academy.

But when he does go wrong, it all goes very wrong, Fisher said sternly. And parents really don’t take kindly to having their loved ones sent home in a closed casket because we couldn’t find all the pieces.

You’re exaggerating now, said Hawk.

Only just!

All right, all right. We’ll pop in just long enough to put the hard word on him. But only because I hate having to write letters of apology to students’ next of kin.

* * * *

The Alchemist wasn’t in any mood to be lectured. So Hawk knocked him down and sat on him, while Fisher lectured him very sternly until he agreed that they were right and he was wrong, and would they please let him up now as he still had some fires to put out.

* * * *

Hawk and Fisher walked on through the long, curving wooden corridors, going up and down stairs as the mood took them, peering into any room that attracted their attention, and even a few that were trying really hard not to. All the Tree’s ceilings were marvellously smooth