List of Contents

Strange Encounter p.7


The Scar p.29


Strands p.39

Strange Encounter

I.

It was a desperate night for robbers, even worse for the two huddled in a doorway close to the tavern. On most nights the street would be filled with people trying to get in or being thrown or staggering out. The people going in had more money but those coming out were the easier pickings, the less dangerous. But it was one of those times when everything conspired against the two men.

It was raining. Not just summer rain but the steamy humid type that slides down the collar and leaves the neck damp, no matter how much you dry it. It just clings to the clothes and keeps you shivering. And it was keeping all the casual drinkers away.
- Not much tonight, Gunner, murmured Mick-the-Squint. Droplets of water shook free from the brim of the strange thing he called a hat.
His partner swallowed then spat, straight into the centre of a greasy puddle that was forming in the road before them. Ripples from raindrops submerged the phlegm. He sighed,
- And not enough jingle in the pocket for even one scummy drink between us.
No-one knew why he was called Gunner. He maintained firmly that he’d forgotten his real name. He hadn’t, of course. He simply hated being laughed at...

He was the muscle, fists and bear-hug, iron bar if desperate. Mick was the finger man. He could pick a pocket at twenty paces, so the saying went. He was the smooth voice, the stiletto if needed and, all-in-all, the brains.
They were both weighing up the choices. On the one hand, they could slope off back to their grimy lodgings where they would at least be dry, but also hungry. Worse, they would still be without a drink and usually it was only a good drink that could take the edge off their shadowy, hopeless existence. It had been three days with a single success. On the other hand they could simply wait and feel their blood get thinned out by the rainwater as they shivered and hoped for one, just one, mark.

And gods bless, here he came, rounding the corner with a rolling motion that gave away his heavy weight. His hood was up and he carried a quarterstaff but the men had dealt with this kind of thing before.
Mick turned his head slightly and squinting at Gunner, said,
- I guess this is the only shot we’ll get tonight.
Gunner grinned and there was something childlike in it. A school bully.
- Like you always say, needs must or the throat stays dry and the belly don’t bust!

Mick-the-Squint stepped out from the doorway and, with an altogether innocent air, started to cross the road as if heading for the tavern, The Uncooked Pig. Gunner waited, frozen. The fat man seemed to hesitate for a second and then continued, but his hands shifted slightly, moving a fraction towards a more defensive grip. He passed Gunner and followed Mick, keeping a steady distance behind him.
- Damn! said Mick. He stopped suddenly and started to pat his pockets. – Damn purse, he continued. He looked up as the stranger came closer.
- Always doing this, he said with a half-laugh, - leaving my money indoors. Still, he continued, - it’s better than letting robbers get it!
He turned back and started to walk away from the tavern, as if returning to the doorway he had been standing in. He stepped into the road to pass the fat man, who seemed to relax then.

Mick-the-Squint’s knife flashed as it headed for the man’s right hand, trying to disable him and render the quarterstaff useless. But the man was faster than him, almost unbelievably so. The knife spun away as the robber yelped with pain, his fingers burning from the crack of wood on his knuckles.
- You need to practice more, boy!
The man threw back his hood. His face was round, almost baby-like, with high red cheeks. He chuckled. The quarterstaff moved through the air again, catching Mick around one ankle.
- Practice, practice. Then you wouldn’t need a lesson like this.
But before he could bring his staff into play again, two arms slapped around him from behind. Gunner’s massive arms that held even the bulk of the fat man tight. He struggled and cursed but couldn’t get out of the grip. Mick limped over to where it had landed and picked up his knife with his left hand, his right obviously throbbing. He moved back to stand in front of the fat man who’s struggles were growing weaker.
- So, it’s a lesson you’re going to give me, is it? Well, fatso, here’s a couple for you. Always keep an eye out behind you. You never know what could be creeping up.
Gunner laughed, shaking the man as his friend frisked him and cut his money belt free.
- You need to lose a bit of weight, he said. Slowly, he ran the knife over the man’s wide stomach. So here’s another lesson. For free.

Mick stopped. His eye lost its squint as both of them widened in fear. He stared over Gunner’s shoulder.
Gunner broke the silence.
- Come on, Mick, stop playing about. We haven’t got all night. Hurry up and...
Mick watched with fascination as, almost in slow motion, the flat of a huge sword crashed against his partner’s back and shoulders. Gunner crumpled, sliding down the fat man’s back like a coat being shrugged off. The fat man didn’t bother to look round to find out why. He simply hefted his quarterstaff. It whipped through the air catching Mick on his other hand. The knife went spinning again. As the robber tried to turn, his ankle gave way. Then he received a blow on the other one. Cracks to the elbows and knees and finally one across his head left him curled up on the ground like a baby, desperately trying to protect himself. There was nothing in his world but pain, unbidden tears and a chuckle close to his ear,
- Now, boy, what was that other lesson?

The fat man stood up and turned to face his rescuer for the first time. The man was tall and muscular. He had to be to lift the huge sword with the ease he did. His hair was wild and greying and although his face was heavily lined, his eyes seemed to sparkle even in the shadowy street.
They studied each other for a long time. Eventually the fat man simply said,
- Thanks.
The swordsman nodded, once, then strode off towards the tavern.
The fat man chewed on his lower lip as he mulled over the strange encounter. He picked up his money belt then set off for the tavern himself.

Gunner started to groan as he came round while Mick just carried on whimpering. His hat slowly moved away, a soggy ship caught up in the dirty river that coursed along the gutter. The rain simply ignored them.


II.

One way to become famous is to make someone else seem infamous. It can also be one of the best ways to melt into the shadows.

Despite the weather the Uncooked Pig was crowded inside. The best jokes and the worst, the easy laughter, the exaggerations and scoffing, the slow slurring of speech all mixed with the occasional curse as drink was spilled or toes were trodden on. Beneath the clouds of scented pipe smoke, it was a man's world. There were no women, only barmaids.

The fat man paused in the doorway for a moment, his eyes adjusting to the light, scanning for possible problems. He seemed to be satisfied and moved to the bar. Although he didn't speak or shove anyone, a path seemed to open for him. He ordered ale and a meal, something lightweight, just to take the edge off his hunger. The only seat available was at a table off to one side of the room. The big man, his rescuer, was already sitting at one of the seats. He glanced up as the fat man sat, but said nothing. They had both ordered food and sat waiting quietly until spoons and soup came, followed by flat black bread dressed up in fresh butter and local cheese. Both men had eyes that never seemed to settle, were always watchful, almost hunted. From the corner of his eye the fat man noticed the faintest change of movement as the big man's hand tightened on his spoon. This was followed by the other hand calmly moving to the edge and then under the table. He was reaching for his sword. The fat man slowly turned to one side, bobbing his head as if looking for the barmaid to refill his mug. In truth, he was looking for the reason for the big man's discomfort. It was not difficult to find. Six men had just shoved their way into the tavern.

If ever there was a group of men that you did not want to meet on a dark night or, to be honest, even in bright daylight then here it was. Without exception they were filthy, unkempt and all this was exaggerated by the steady rain. They also bristled with weapons. The largest, with a scruffy black beard and red bandanna, was easily recognisable as the leader. His eyes seemed to light up with a sudden excitement.
- There he is! He pointed directly at the big man. - There's the bugger who thinks he can get between us and our pleasure!
The men moved into a half-moon formation and began to approach through the rush of bodies trying to get out of the way.
- Now come on boys, shouted the barkeep, - take it outside...
A knife whistled past his ear and he chose to heed the warning. He ducked. Then decided to stay behind the bar.
The bearded man spoke directly to the big man.
- Well, boyo, saved any other barmaids recently? You don't seem to understand that they're here for our pleasure!
He grabbed one who couldn't get out of his way. A plump and plain brunette who flirted with everyone. The bartender's wife.
- Ain't that right, darling?
Some of his teeth were missing and his gums were black in places. The barmaid couldn't answer. She just stared at him, petrified. He shook her then shoved her away roughly.
- Don't worry girl, we'll give you all the pleasure you need as soon as we've dealt with Mister Hero.
Never once had he taken his eyes off the big man who still sat, seemingly unconcerned, spoon in hand.
The fat man decided it was time to get out of the way himself. He could put up a good defensive show most of the time but knew he was no true fighter. With many loud apologies, he bumped and stumbled into and around the leader who cursed him roundly. Finally he reached the far side of the room, where the rest of the customers had crowded for safety.

The man to the leader’s right spoke to him,
- Let me have first bite of him, Rufus!
Without waiting for a reply and seeming to shrug off the leader’s hand, he pushed forward.
He cursed the big man, his face twisting with fury, highlighting the jagged scar that ran across his left cheek.
- Here’s for the cut, you damned...
But he got no further. The table flew away as the big man kicked it towards Rufus, the leader, causing him to stumble. For a few seconds everything seemed to slow. The big man rose and in one smooth motion his sword, almost with a life of its own, sliced through the air between himself and the scar-faced man. The attacker’s sword fell away, bouncing once on the sanded floor. His hand was still attached.

In the long silence that followed, the clarion bells marking the end of the world could have sounded but no-one would have heard them. Then blood fountained from the man’s wrist and he screamed. The room erupted with sound as swords clashed and rang. The attackers shouted and cursed as they converged on the big man. He fought in silence, his sword following his flashing eyes as if they were attached: vision and action. Rufus stepped back a pace, urging his men on. He was no fool. He waited for the big man to be injured or tire before pressing his attack. A second man fell, one shoulder stripped away, his arm left dangling. The big man’s sword shifted a fraction and took a third man in the chest. But here the big man’s skill met luck and lost. The blade got caught up between the bones of the man as he fell dead. In that instant, Rufus took his chance and stepped forward. The point of his sword met the big man’s throat and paused. The other two attackers pressed in, stepping over bodies.
- Wait! shouted Rufus, his voice booming round the room, - Wait for my order!
He grinned at the big man, but only with his lips. His hooded eyes gleamed with pleasure. With the satisfaction of a cat that had finally trapped an evasive mouse.
- Well, well, well, he murmured, - it seems that you’re not invincible after all.

The only sound in the room came from the scar-faced man. He had stumbled back, away from the fight and now lay slumped against the bar desperately clutching the stump of his wrist, trying to stop the blood. It had pooled around him. His face, now drained of colour, seemed to be crumbling in upon itself as he softly, softly, called for his mother. Then he died. A shudder ran through the crowd.

- Let go of your sword, Rufus said to the big man. - Let go carefully and put both hands behind your head.
He pushed his sword forward a little more, forcing the big man’s head back. A line of blood appeared on the man’s throat. The swords from the other two attackers also pressed in, one to the man’s right side, one to his left. Slowly, the big man lifted his hands away and up, until they sat behind his head. Neither Rufus nor himself blinked.
- You will pay for this. O yes, you will pay for this! But not like some warrior, not like some great hero, some protector of barmaids. O no. You will die, up to your knees in your own blood and guts, begging for mercy. Now get down, down on your knees, you filthy...
A voice cut across his.
- I know him! He’s a spy! A Calican spy!
The crowd buzzed and then burst into sound.
- Kill him now!
- Let us have him! We know what to do with spies!
They began to move, to surge forward. Calicans were the most evil creatures under the twin moons. They were wizards. Everyone knew that. Everyone knew that they stole virgins and ate babies. Everyone knew that all evil had Calica at its core. And everyone knew, and feared, their spies. The lowest of all creatures who took information back, readying the way for the invasion. Everyone waited for the dark legions to come. This knowledge had been handed down over generations and the fear had only grown with no actual invasion. Even the word had taken on a meaning of its own. Calica: pure and perfect terror without end.
- Wait! cried Rufus – this is even better than I’d hoped! Tie him up. The whole town can watch and cheer in the morning! In the main square!
- No! No, not him! The one with the bandanna, with the beard! He’s the spy!
There was confusion, utter confusion. It took Rufus a moment to realize that the voice, the man, was accusing him. Him! Rufus! Accusing him of being a spy!
He spoke to his men, ordered them,
- If this scumbag so much as blinks, take him down. Whatever you need to do. Just don’t kill him!
He turned to the crowd and roared,
- Who dares accuse me? Who dares?
The crowd was shuffling, turning, asking each other. The fat man stepped forward.
- I saw you! Two weeks ago. In Cableton. You were in the Rooster tavern, sitting in a corner, talking to some tall man. A man in a grey cloak.
The crowd gasped. Everyone knew that Dezek, the infamous Calican spymaster general, was a tall man who always wore a grey cloak.
- That is a lie! A damned lie!
- No, I saw him hand you a moneybag and... something else... something that glittered even in the darkness where you were sitting.
Whispers filled the air behind the fat man. The Mark of the Stars! The golden Mark of Calica that all its spies carried to identify each one to another.
If murder has a face then Rufus was wearing it. He stepped forward, growling.
- You miserable toad! Before I kill you for these lies, I will cut out your tongue!
The fat man stood his ground.
- Prove it. Prove me wrong. Empty your pockets.
Rufus laughed, brushing off the man’s request.
- I have no need to prove anything. We both know you’re lying. Now you’ll die for it.
But someone else muttered,
- What if he is a spy?
- Yes, said another, - prove it!
The crowd picked up on it and it became almost a chant.
- Prove it! Prove it!
Rufus hesitated, then grinned at the fat man.
- Okay. Hang onto your life for a few seconds more. That’s all you’ll get from this.
As he took a step to the nearest table, one of his friends turned his head slightly to watch. The big man’s hand began to slip, slowly, away from the back of his head, readying itself for a desperate lunge for his sword. But across the room he saw the fat man raise one eyebrow and, almost imperceptibly, shake his head. He seemed to be saying ‘wait...’ The big man paused.
Rufus casually threw the contents of his pockets onto the table. A stained kerchief, a set of skull-dice, a few coins. The crowd gasped, as did Rufus.
- What the...?
Amongst the coins lay a gold circle. Two stars gleamed, almost moving on its side.
- But, blustered Rufus, this isn’t mine! I’ve never seen it before.
Blood suffused his face as he slowly raised his gaze to the fat man’s.
- You put it there! You...
The fat man winked.
But it didn’t matter. Rufus could have protested his innocence all night long and it still wouldn’t have saved him.
- He is a spy! shouted someone.
- He’s a Calican spy!
- Grab him, bring him to the main square. We’ll do what we always do to spies!
The crowd swarmed forward.
- Burn him!
Tables and chairs went flying. Elbows and ribs clashed, dancing with pains that wouldn’t be noticed until the following day.
- Burn him, burn him, burn him, chanted the crowd, their voices rising with the hysteria of fear.
But their blood-lust was short lived. As they lunged for him, forcing his sword away, his two friends glanced at each other. In a flash they realized that if they didn’t act quickly enough, they, too, would be accused. And there would be no trial. Suddenly the big man became totally unimportant. They left him and turned towards their leader’s back. One of them shouted,
- You used us, Rufus, you spied on us!
- You damned traitor! Rot in the bowels of the earth!
The last lights in the room went out as they both plunged their swords in at the same instant.

By the time some form of order had been restored, the fat man and his new friend were at the stables, saddling their horses.
- My turn to thank you, said the big man.
- A good deed done is a good deed returned, laughed the fat man.
- When did you plant the coin? At least, I guess that you did.
The fat man laughed again as the two of them mounted their horses.
- O yes, it was me. Do you remember when I left the table? I couldn’t get out of his way? Well, I could have got out of his way, if I’d really wanted to....
He let the sentence hang.
- But, why did you do it? What made you plant the coin?
- Well, any fool could see what was coming. You could have taken them easily. If your blade hadn’t got stuck, you wouldn’t have needed me and I would have retrieved the coin then. But I always believe in a little backup where luck is involved. Of course, it's easier when people are superstitious. You just point at something, tell them it's the very thing they fear and... magic! ...that's what they see.
There was a brief flash as the fat man spun the coin, its twin stars catching what little light there was.
- It's amazing, the things that fall out of people's pockets. Er...Accidently, of course... And three months ago, when I picked this up in Port Cole, I just knew it was going to come in handy one day.
It was the big man's turn to laugh.

Partly muffled by the rain, the sound of their horses’ hooves echoed softly off the dark brick houses around them.
As they reached the outskirts of the town, the big man said,
- I’m Jupp. What name do you go by?
- O everyone just calls me Fatso. I’m happy enough with that. Saves a lot of awkward questions, if you see what I mean.
Jupp nodded thoughtfully and the conversation ended. The two men rode on, the night cushioning them, enjoying their silence.

The Scar

I.

On some nights you can lay out under the stars and everything is so still that you wonder if time has stopped or maybe you’ve died and whatever comes next is simply waiting for you to move first. For Tomas, it was one of those nights. Only, he could not move. His throat had been cut.

It had been a wonderful evening with the blacksmith’s daughter, Eloise. Her blond country plaits, roly-poly body and milk-coloured skin had danced with his lined and wind-tanned body. One night on the hay inside the small town’s stables, one night of love and she had started talking about marriage and children and, well, how she was a virgin...
- That wasn’t true, thought Tomas, but it had not really mattered to him. He was used to country girls desperate for a husband, desperate enough to lie about their date of birth so that they would not be seen as spinsters, old maids at twenty-three. He smiled and whispered all that she wanted to hear. And he would have been long gone come sunrise had it not been for the innkeeper’s wife.

Nothing could wake Big Bellamy, the innkeeper. Not his wife’s snoring nor the volcano, Mount Two High, erupting. He was famous for this ability for miles around and he treated that fame with an almost shy pride, a blush. But on that night it was his bladder that erupted and he crashed out of bed and, skidding across the floor, dashed for the bucket in the corner of the room. At some point during this emergency he realized that the other side of the bed was empty. His wife was missing. Softly, so as not to wake the guests, he tip-toed along the corridor, down the stairs, through the kitchen and into the inn proper. Again and again, he whispered her name,
- Jakki? Jakki?
No answer came so he returned to the bedroom to try and think the mystery through. At the top of the stairs his world fell apart. His wife, clutching her half opened nightgown, was slipping out of a guest’s room. To this day people swear that Big Bellamy’s cry could be heard at the edges of the village, perhaps beyond. He dragged his wife back to their bedroom, threatening all sorts of murder to come and then pounded back along the corridor. He burst through the door to the guest’s room with such ferocity that its top hinge broke away. There he stood, his knuckles cracking and his teeth grinding with fury. The room was empty, the window open. There was only one place that the fiend could have gone that would offer any form of safety. With another huge howl Big Bellamy rushed back down the stairs and through the kitchen, sending pots, pans and anything else that could make a loud noise, crashing. Grabbing his largest kitchen knife he ran, heading for the stables.

Tomas knew all the signals. He had almost been caught so many times before! Certain the blacksmith had found him out, he leapt from Eloise’s side and with incredible agility, grabbed his saddle and slung it over his horse’s back. Knowing exactly where his horse and possessions were was a precise science that Tomas had long since mastered. With a gallant wave, a smile and a lie he mounted and, spurring his horse forward, made it out of the stables. Only to meet the lover of the innkeeper’s wife coming the other way.

Caught up in the panic, the darkness and confusion, the horse reared. No matter that Tomas was an expert horseman, the suddenness of the action unseated him. The lover, hotly pursued by the raging Big Bellamy, realized that he would never get to his own horse in time to escape. So, taking the opportunity that fate had presented, he scrambled up onto Tomas’s horse and rode for his life. Big Bellamy, blind behind the red mist now covering his eyes, threw the knife. It turned in the air, a long lazy swallow dive and, missing the escaping lover, the horse and the blacksmith’s daughter, it sliced along Tomas’s neck from Adam’s apple to ear.


II.

Two months passed and Eloise’s mother was beginning to get suspicious. The blacksmith’s family took Tomas in and, with the help of the doctor who travelled and practiced between three local villages, slowly nursed him back to health. In return, he did light work for the blacksmith and earned some coin – which he insisted on paying towards his keep - at the inn, serving ale whenever Big Bellamy felt the urge to run random spot checks on his wife. Apart from the kitchen, she had not been out of their private quarters since the ‘incident’ , as Big Bellamy had taken to calling the night’s events.

Eloise decided that the scar suited her future husband. It made him look mysterious and, somehow, romantic. Of course, no-one knew that Tomas was to be her husband. Even Tomas! But he half-guessed her intention because the sly country girl had not explained the night in the barn to anyone, other than to say that she had run out to see what the commotion was. Just as he had. After all, his horse was his most prized possession. In fact, it was his only possession. No-one had thought to ask how they had managed to reach the stable before either Big Bellamy or his wife’s ex-lover. Which was just as well because, of course, it was the one question to which they had no believable answer.

Most days the daughter went out early to help with the milking at Old Poslow’s farm. Her payment was free milk which came as a to boon to the family. But recently she had been leaving earlier than normal and looking quite pasty-faced, almost on the verge of being sick. When she returned though, her cheeks were always glowing, she seemed happier than ever and she was eating heartily. Even her father had remarked on her appetite. But she was a dumpy girl and it was difficult to gauge whether or not she was actually gaining weight.

Ever since the night of the ‘incident’ all the women in the village had suffered for the innkeeper’s wife’s indiscretion. They were all suspects. They were all watched, no matter how unlikely or even impossible it was for them to drift off the moral rails. The men were all innocent, of course, unable to even think of straying...
Under that general air, Eloise’s mother watched her daughter carefully and slowly became more and more convinced that her suspicions were correct. The way her face changed, softening whenever she looked at Tomas. The way her eyelashes played games and those long quiet sighs. At first she was sure and then absolutely certain that Eloise was putting on weight. The parents, of course, had taken great care never to leave the couple alone. After all, who was this Tomas, really? He could be anyone, anything. A thief, a murderer...? But one morning as she was scrubbing the pots out, a light flashed and she thought of the question that Tomas and Eloise did not want to answer. Why were they both by the stables? And everything fell into place.

If fate does play dice, then Tomas rolled two sixes at that moment. He happened to glance at the mother’s face and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she had worked it out. The question was, did he want to settle down to village life with Eloise and children and a shrew of a mother-in-law and forget the world he had come to know and love? Worse, as far as he was concerned, was the thought that the thief who had stolen his horse would get away with it. It may be difficult for people who have never owned a horse to understand but the big stallion had become his rock, his only true friend. But these questions were really just clouds, smoke. He knew the answers as he slipped out the back of the house, hurried to the stables and quickly saddled up the horse that belonged to the man who had stolen his own. As he rode slowly away, so as not to attract attention, he saw the blacksmith’s wife hurrying towards her husband. She was shouting and Tomas knew exactly what she was shouting! He spurred the horse on. It was a poor mare but in his hands it became a champion. He knew, without a doubt, that no-one would catch him.

As he felt the breath of travel brushing his face once more, he pushed all thoughts of Eloise’s tears away. Tomas was a lover, pure and simple. He knew it and assumed that every woman he dallied with knew it as well, that they would never tie him down. It was all part of the game. This time however Tomas realized that the game had gone a step too far. Eloise was pregnant. But as wayward as he might be, Tomas was not without some measure of moral responsibility. He determined that when he reached the city of Ravinia he would do the best he could, if only for their financial welfare. For the moment, however, all regrets needed to be put aside. He had to reach Ravinia first.

Sunset found him leading the tired horse to the bank of a stream. He covered himself with his waterproof cape and an hour later, having passed through the dreams of the innocent, was simply sleeping.

Completely unaware that, come dawn, he was being watched.

Strands

I.

Fleck was a conundrum. It was rumoured his aim was so accurate that one of his arrows could skewer a fly in flight at twenty paces. During battles in the Ikon War, he was the man you most wanted at your side. At the following celebration feast, however, he was the least desired. When people are courting friendship they expect a reasonably quick response to their early overtures and, perhaps, this was Fleck’s problem. He rarely spoke and this made people uncomfortable in his presence. But people are so quickly selfish that no-one bothered to consider why this might be. Anyway, in their line of business no-one had time to culture a real friendship.
If Fleck ever wondered about this he gave no sign. He could count the number of his true friends on one finger. Could have counted. His brother was long dead. Stabbed in the back during some pointless drunken brawl. The roads Fleck took and the battles he fought in, were all part of his quest for the killer, one Marco Danesh, another mercenary. They were all practice for the sweet moment when he finally tracked the man down, faced him and watched him die. Apart from night following day, the only other thing Fleck was sure of was that Danesh would die.

There is a grubby little inn on the outskirts of the village of Markswood. A simple watering hole for travellers because nobody in their right mind would want to stay there. Certainly no longer than the night it takes to fill a belly, ease bones and rest a horse ready for another day’s journey. The innkeeper was grateful for any business so to have two paying guests at the same time was a real treat. Even as strange as they were.
The first, a slippery little man, with his plain face and thin brown hair could have faded into any corner or any group of men. Except for his annoying habit of complaining. He was a born whinger. Nothing was right. The ale was almost rancid, the bread was hard, the soup was cool and the serving maid had a surly look about her. Apart from that, the weather was foul, the countryside boring and... The list went on, all the time made worse by the tone of his high-pitched nasal voice. So it was a great relief when the second man appeared. He was tall, with a saturnine complexion and lank brown hair that constantly seemed to fall down over his eyes. But the relief did not last long. He was the opposite of the first man, who had given his name as Harry. He asked for a room and a meal but refused a drink. Apart from that he offered nothing, not a word. But the longbow he leant against the wall beside him served to quieten Harry’s moaning, if only for a short while. He gave no sign of listening, of hearing a single word and when his meal was finished he retired at once to his painfully small room. The cold atmosphere that seemed to have radiated around him disappeared almost immediately and Harry took to moaning again. About other people not being friendly. Finally, to the innkeeper’s relief, he too retired.

At dawn, the two men were in the stables, readying their horses for another day’s journey.
“Which way are you going?” asked Harry. He eyed the longbow carefully. It was the kind of weapon that only a master archer could use. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is.”
The archer paused before answering.
“North.”
It felt like the end of the conversation but Harry considered his options and pressed on.
“Do you mind if I travel with you? In these parts two can ride more safely than a lone traveller.”
Fleck turned his head slightly. His eyes were as pale as washed chalk. Harry had the most uncomfortable feeling that they were dissecting him, that the archer was listening to some inner voice for guidance. The man shrugged as if to say that it was alright by him. Harry shivered.

The road slowly rose as they rode North but they kept their horses to a steady pace. There was rain in the air but thankfully it held off. Twice he tried to strike up a conversation with the archer but all he got for his pains was the man’s name. Fleck. Harry soon took the hint and stayed quiet but, perhaps for the first time in his life, he found that it seemed quite a natural thing to do.


II.

The attack came just as they were making camp for the night. The only signal came from Fleck’s horse. It lifted its head and neighed slightly as its ears anxiously sought the direction of the faint sound it had caught. Fleck was on his feet in an instant. It seemed that there was an arrow nocked before his bow was fully raised.
Hesitation is one of those nasty little things that can easily get you killed. Harry liked living. His short sword made no sound as he slid it from belt. At the same moment a dagger appeared in his left hand. It seemed to shift as he held it, first one side, then the other. He crouched, his eyes scanning the shadows between the trees.
“What the....?” he whispered.
There was a blur by the side of his head and out of the darkness came a crash and a strangled cry, as if someone was trying to shout but only blood was coming out of his mouth. Fleck notched another arrow. Harry felt the faint tremor of feet meeting grass coming from behind. With the smoothest of motions he turned, thrust and let the burly man run onto his sword. Fleck fired into the darkness again. Another cry. Another arrow caught a ferrety-faced man full in the chest. His body stumbled on a few paces but he was dead before he reached the ground. Harry moved behind Fleck, protecting his back. Two daggers in swift succession sighed through the air. One killed, the other left a man clutching his stomach, writhing in agony.
“We’d better go,” muttered Fleck, through gritted teeth. He fired again as another man broke cover, screaming as he charged. The scream was cut off in mid-flow.
“Naw,” answered Harry, “They’re just a bunch of amateurs. We can take them.”
“There’s more coming. A lot more. Can’t you hear the horses?”
Harry heard them then. He wondered how Fleck could have, over the din.
“Okay, let’s go!” he said swiftly, then paused, “Er... Which way?”
Again the archer seemed to be listening to some inner voice. He turned and pointed to his right. “There!”

The two men ran, breath steaming out before them. Finally they made it to the edge of the road and crouched down, taking stock of the situation. They were on a slight bend of the road so that they could not see, or be seen, from the far side of the woods. Both of their horses had fled from the fight. Fleck whistled, a long thin sound that rose and fell twice. His horse knew the sound and came straight away. Harry’s, somewhat bewildered, followed out of instinct. Behind the two men their attackers’ curses and shouts came rapidly closer. Fleck peered down the road to the bend then muttered,
“That’s a mistake, luckily for us. Let’s go!”
The reinforcements had all dismounted and were stumbling and thrashing through the woods, swearing vengeance every time they found a body. None of them had thought to ride ahead and cut the two men off.
Fleck and Harry mounted at speed and urged their horses into a frenzied gallop. No saddles and only tether ropes but who cared. It was a simple case of ride or die.


III.

Two miles into the chase the rain began to fall. It was making up for the day’s weak attempts. A brief snap of lightning was followed by thunder.
“A long way off,” shouted Harry.
As usual, Fleck didn’t respond. Which was just as well, because the next thunder followed quickly on the heels of the lightning. The third seemed to crack at the same time, as if the storm was raging directly above them.
In the brief light Harry saw Fleck’s arm pointing off to his left. He quickly realized what the archer meant and followed him off the main road, down into a slight gulley. From there they followed a random trail of gullies, criss-crossing small streams, all the time slowing as they rode because of the danger to the horses’ legs. Eventually they dismounted but carried on through the maze of dips and rises. The heavy rain wiped out their tracks. By dawn, if their attackers had not taken the side track, they would have disappeared.

As the night wore on, the rain settled into a weak drizzle and finally ceased at the dawn, clouds still smudging the sun. Harry asked,
“Do you know who they were? What they wanted with us?”
“Judging by their dress and voices, I’d say they were a mix of mercenaries and Ikoni.”
His face took on that strange look again.
“And they weren’t looking for us. They were looking for me.”
“But why the hell...?"
“Sshh,” interrupted Fleck. Then, at high speed, he loosened his bow and nocked an arrow. “We have company.”
As they rounded the next corner they came face to face with two men, weapons ready. One, an immense man with a greatsword, the other well-built but mainly round the waist. His quarterstaff was still, however, battle-ready between both hands. He obviously knew how to use it. Both sides weighed up the situation, the odds. Then Harry said,
“Fatso, you old beggar, long time no see!”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Harry! Found anything cheerful to talk about yet?”
The tension went out of the situation immediately although Fleck and Jupp still watched each other carefully. Then, slowly, Jupp lowered his sword. Fleck followed suit, un-nocking the arrow and replacing it in its quiver. Jupp sheathed his sword.
After the introductions, Harry’s high pitched voice took on its whinging edge. He said,
“So, what brings you here, to the middle of this gods-forsaken nowhere?”
Fatso chuckled as he glanced quickly at Jupp.
“Oh, just some people trying to kill us. How about you?”
“Funny you should say that. We’re here for exactly the same reason.”
That broke the ice completely.

The four men decided to settle for breakfast with a small fire to take the edge off their soaking clothes. As Fatso and Harry set to work, Fleck and Jupp scouted the edge of their camp. That’s when they saw the man. He lay asleep, downhill from them by the bank of a steadily rising stream. And further upstream, the fallen tree that had formed a dam against the heavy rain of the night before, was beginning to shift. The man would be swallowed by the sudden flood as the stream turned into a river. The two men looked at each other and came to the same decision. They both began to shout.


IV.

Tomas came to with a start but experience kept any sense of panic away. Throwing off his cloak, he grabbed his sword and rolled to one side. Straight into the rapidly rising water. The utter cold took his breath away and the suddenness of the current lifted his body, swinging his legs away from the bank. Coughing and cursing, he found some kind of balance and managed to pull himself up the muddy bank. Looking back across the water he saw the two men running down the hill towards him. Wet, muddy and disorientated, he nevertheless went into a crouch and raised his sword.
The men were still shouting and pointing upstream. It took a few seconds before he realized exactly what they were trying to tell him.
“Flash flood! Flash flood! Get over here! Now!”
He did not think any further. The stream had risen so fast; the men did not have their weapons out and, in truth, they could have just left him. So he grabbed his saddle and headed towards them. Part way across, the horse stumbled and the current tried to drag it over. It reared up, panicking as it tried to back away. The men were beside him then. One grabbed his saddle, leaving both hands free to drag at the horse’s halter. The other man, the larger of the two, grabbed its mane and then half-whacked, half-pushed at its flank. Everything was happening in slow motion. The bank kept moving away as the river, for that’s what it now was, rose, first to their knees and then to their waists. And then, suddenly, they were out.
“Run!” roared the big man, “Run for your life!”
They ran.
Behind them, the fallen log finally gave way and the water came crashing through the gully, carrying the log and all the other detritus it had gathered like so much corn being flayed by a hurricane. The noise was incredible. At times it almost seemed as if it were screaming with temper at its lost prey.
Back at the camp, they questioned how he could have slept so soundly. Tomas shook his head and muttered ruefully,
“Two months, that’s all it took. Two months of easy living and I almost get myself killed.”

Later, when the water had receded, Fatso shook his head in wonder and questioned how they had managed to get up such a steep incline, in so little time.
Fleck just murmured,
“We did. That’s all”
And that was that.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 20.07.2011

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With thanks to octoberstormxx, whoever she may be, for giving me the final shove.