by Robert Ryan
Brand slipped back to his regular place as fast as he could without making it obvious. He should have known that the merchant would have figured things out. But he had guessed only half of it yet. That was half too much, and it was high time that Brand extricated himself from the situation. He did not think the merchant would say anything, but if Laigern got wind of things then anything was possible.
The ground rose more steeply, and the beaten track they followed shifted left and right always seeking the easiest incline. Wagons had been coming this way for years beyond count, and the best path had long been discovered.
About them rose a countryside of small hills and winding gulleys. Patches of forest ran across it, sometimes chocking the gulleys or covering the sides of a hill. At other times the land was bare, save for green grass. It was a haven for outlaws because at one and the same time it offered concealment and good lookout spots where the progress of a caravan could be watched and its guards assessed for their numbers, competence and routines.
In truth though, or at least so Brand believed, outlaw attacks were rare. There were too few bandits, and they seldom acted in unison. Also, the merchants always traveled with sufficient guards.
They moved higher into the hills. There were no farms here, though there were signs that farms once existed. It was not an area of the Duthgar that Brand was familiar with. But he knew there were settlements not too far away. Not of outlaws, but proper farms and villages. He was looking forward to talking to his own people again, and to seeing how they reacted to him. He had been away for many years.
He kept an eye out for his two friends as he rode. They would not have been troubled at the crossing, for though they were men coming from Cardoroth they bore no resemblance to him and would not have been bothered by the soldiers. Especially without him there.
But there was no sign of them. He had not expected to see them though. Not yet. But when the caravan stopped for the day he would leave it. Then he would head north into the hills. That was what they had arranged, and his friends would find him there. And though he could not see them now, he knew they were there somewhere, watching.
The track was dry and dusty. It was spring, and there had been rain, but the flow of traffic over the rutted lane was constant, and this kept it as it was. A cloud of dust rose up about the plodding hooves of the horses and the churning wagon wheels. Brand tried not to breathe it in, and thought as he rode.
He remembered the night his parents had been killed, murdered by Unferth and his men. It was long ago now, but the memory of that night and the days that followed haunted him. By chance, he had not been there and had escaped. He remembered the long years growing up, hidden by family after family who had been loyal to his parents. And why should they not have been? His parents were well loved, for they had ruled the Duthgar well and wisely.
His father was the chieftain, and Brand was the true heir. But he had escaped, and Unferth could not tolerate that. Brand’s life must be a constant reminder that his rule was earned by spilling blood and treachery, and doubt would gnaw at him for fear that Brand might one day begin a rebellion and claim his own. For that reason Unferth had sent the assassins after him. Over and over, again and again. But he had lived. He had endured. He had grown strong as a warrior, and later as a captain of men in Cardoroth’s army. He had even risen to … but none of that mattered now. It was all dust on the wind. Those days were passed and new days had begun. At last, they had begun, and justice was coming after the long wait.
Despite all that had happened to him, it was some of his earliest training that would serve him best now. His father had taught him the warrior’s ways, as well as strategy and diplomacy. After that, he had learned from some of the greatest fighters in the Duthgar. And he would need all the skills he had learned, of blade and mind both. He was about to start a fight, and he was badly outnumbered. At the beginning, it would be him and his two friends against the might of Unferth. But he had plans to change that disadvantage. But first, he must leave the caravan and deal with Laigern.
The day wore on. The caravan covered many miles, and the crossing of the Careth Nien was far behind. The sun set in the west, straight ahead of them, in a blaze of red and orange that streaked the sky and shot the scattered clouds through with crimson. Crimson like blood. And blood there would be, Brand knew. Soon.
His job would be to serve as a figurehead. He must get the people of the Duthgar to rally behind him. He must grow an army from nothing, and he must do so knowing that Unferth would be seeking to destroy him. No small task for one man alone with the aid of a few friends. But two friends was a beginning. If he could rally one person to the cause, he could rally fifty. And if fifty, a thousand. And if a thousand, an army. But Laigern was his obstacle now, and it was time to deal with him.
The caravan approached a small creek that ran down from the higher hills. Trees lined it, and it was a pleasant spot. But it was not where Brand would spend the night.
“Halt!” ordered Laigern. “Set camp!”
Brand nudged his horse toward the head guard. Laigern watched his approach, his eyes dark pits of hatred. He would be even more unhappy when he learned what Brand had to say. There would be trouble. Oh yes, Brand thought. There was big trouble coming. Laigern was that sort of man.
4. Sword or Knife?
Brand came to a halt before Laigern. The other guards were nearby, setting up a picket line for the horses. He did the polite thing and dismounted. He would talk to Laigern man to man, not from atop his horse. It occurred to him though that deep down he wanted to fight this man, to provoke him. And the head guard would not attack him while he was mounted.
“This is where we part ways,” Brand said. He made no effort to speak quietly, and the other guards stopped what they were doing and watched. The merchant and Tinwellen were close by also.
Laigern smiled, but there was no humor in the big man’s expression.
“No,” was all he said though. Yet he said it with assurance.
“It’s not your decision, Laigern. I’m leaving, and I’m leaving tonight. I’m just giving you the courtesy of notice instead of riding off into the night.”
“You’re not riding off anywhere, tonight or any other time. You’ll do what I say, when I say it, for the rest of this trip. Or I’ll whip you again.”
Brand felt his temper slip. His back still hurt.
“You’ve whipped me once, and that will never happen again. Now, I’m going.”
“If you make a move to mount that horse, I’ll break your legs, boy. You signed on for the trip, and you’re coming with us even if you have to crawl.”
Brand looked Laigern in the eye. “Actually, I signed on for my daily fee. That was our agreement, and you know it.”
“To hell with the agreement!” Laigern yelled. He was angry now, and his dark eyes shone with malice.
Brand stood his ground. More than that, he pushed it further.
“Pay me my day’s wages, and be done with it.”
Laigern shook his head like an angry bull. “No.”
“Then I shall take it from you.”
The head guard looked at him as though he were stunned by the idea, and then a slow smile spread over his face.
“You? A trifling man such as yourself, take something from me?”
“Yes.”
Laigern’s grin split his face, and it was not humor but an anticipation of inflicting pain. “Then what shall it be? Sword or knife?”
Brand felt his own hatred rise. This man had whipped him, and taunted him afterwards. He was a bad man, and the world would be better off without him. Yet should he be killed for that? The temptation was there, a strong pull, and it would be justified, to a degree. The man was asking for it. Yet for the very reason that it was a temptation, he must resist it. If he did not, would he not slip down the same slope that Laigern had? He had to do better than that, had to be a better man.
“Neither,” he said at length. “We’ll fight man to man, fist t
o fist. I have no wish to kill you, which I would with a blade.”
Laigern chuckled. “You’re sure of yourself, boy. I’ll give you that. But nothing else.” He removed his tunic, his great arms bulging. His upper body was thick and hairy, but corded with muscle.
Brand unbelted his sword and placed it on the ground. He was giving away an advantage here, for he was a better swordfighter than anything else, yet he did not regret it. He wanted to kill Laigern, and he must prove to himself that he was better than his baser instincts.
Suddenly Tinwellen was beside him, dark eyes flashing. He had not gone to her wagon last night, and she had avoided him since.
“Don’t be a fool, city boy,” she said.
“A man is no man who doesn’t stand up for himself.”
“That may be, but a live man is better than a dead man. At the least, he’ll cripple you in some way. Just look at him, fool!”
Brand turned his gaze to Laigern. The man stood there, a picture of confidence. Brand was a large person himself, but the head guard stood six inches taller and weighed much more, most of it muscle. Scars showed on his arms and chest too, evidence that he was not all talk and bluff but had survived many dangerous fights.
With a shrug, Brand turned his gaze back to Tinwellen. “Thank you for caring, but this is something I must do. And besides, I’m going to win.”
She looked at him, her expression incredulous, but whatever she had intended to say she never had the opportunity.
“Quit talking, boy.” Laigern said. “There’s no point in delaying this any longer.”
Brand turned and walked toward him. He breathed deeply of the air and settled his nerves. He sought the mental state of the warrior. Stillness in the storm, his father had called it, though it had many names beside.
The world faded around him. There was only himself, and the huge man before him. Time seemed to slow, and his body moved with smoothness and ease. He was ready.
Laigern did not hesitate. He stepped in and jabbed with his left fist. It was a swift blow, and powerful despite the shortness of the movement. He was no common brawler rushing in and swinging wildly.
Brand shuffled back a pace. He moved with ease, sure of himself. But the big man moved faster than someone of his size had a right to.
Laigern followed with a right cross. Brand swayed to the side and let loose a right at the man’s midriff. There was a satisfying thud as his fist struck flesh.
Brand moved away again, content to take his time. Laigern stepped after him, grinning. The blow he had taken had no effect on him. Brand was not really surprised. A well-muscled man, used to fighting, could take punch after punch to the body. The head, however, was another matter.
With a few quick steps Laigern bridged the gap between them. But he did not throw a punch. Instead he dropped and his leg swept out, trying to topple Brand.
Nimbly, Brand avoided the leg sweep. It had come as a surprise though, for its execution had been swift, and that was not easy.
They circled each other for a few moments. Brand saw an opening and jabbed with his left. The big man was swift, but the jab still took him square on the nose and blood began to flow.
Brand moved back. It was not his normal way of fighting, but his opponent was too big and too strong to take down swiftly. Patience must serve him here and not aggression. Laigern seemed unaffected. He ignored the blood and stepped after Brand.
The big man drew close once more and drove a left jab followed by a mighty right cross. Brand avoided them both and landed his own right to the man’s body again before backing away.
None of Brand’s blows seemed to hurt his opponent, but they would over time. Especially another one or two to the head. But if they were not hurting the big man yet, they were annoying him. He was hit and bleeding, but he had not touched his opponent. It made him look inferior, and that was the one thing Laigern could not tolerate. It burned his soul, and Brand knew it would. Fighting was a mental battle as well as a physical.
Laigern dropped his head and charged. Brand expected it, and his left jabbed out followed by a right that cracked into the other man’s skull, opening up a cut and drawing blood above the eye. It did not stop him.
The breath was knocked from Brand as his opponent crowded him and an uppercut took him in the stomach. This was followed by a stomp towards Brand’s foot, but despite the blow he received he was still nimble. He moved to the side, crashing an elbow into his enemy’s midriff as he passed.
Laigern followed him, unleashing a succession of blows. Some took Brand in the head and body, but he avoided most of them. Just as well. The big man put power into his punches.
Brand feinted with his left. Laigern moved slightly to the side, straight into a hard right that sent him reeling backward. Brand moved in, sending a swift flurry of punches at the other man and then striking his neck with the blade of his hand.
The head guard had survived a hundred such fights though. He was bleeding and bruised, but not beaten.
A left cross struck Brand in the face, and he felt his enemy’s fingers scratching and seeking his eyes. He dropped his head – directly into an uppercut that rocked him back and made his legs weak.
Brand stepped away and swayed. Laigern leapt in for the finishing punch, but Brand had also endured many such fights and the swaying was illusory. He seemed to stagger, then as he dropped low he sprang up again driving a massive blow under the other man’s chin.
Laigern toppled and crashed into the ground. But then he rolled and was up on his feet again.
Brand cursed silently as the two circled each other with wariness. Would this man not just give up? But at least he was not smiling anymore, and his breaths came in great heaves of his chest. The longer this fight went, the more he would be disadvantaged.
As they circled, Brand had a vague impression of the watchers in the background. Tinwellen stood perfectly still, her face a picture of concern. Her father was beside her, frail and old but his eyes bright and alert. The guards watched carefully, aware that they witnessed a fight of two highly skilled protagonists.
Laigern charged again. This time he did not punch, but moved to sweep Brand within the grip of his great arms. If he did so, the fight was over, for Brand could not counter the other man’s enormous strength and weight.
With a smooth motion, Brand retreated, but he hammered a left jab into his opponent’s already bloody face. Yet Laigern kept coming, and one hand found an unrelenting grip on Brand’s tunic. Brand fended the other one away, but it sought to grab him also.
A moment they stood thus, and then Laigern surged forward with his greater strength and smashed a headbutt into Brand’s face. The world turned dark and pain shot through him. Dizzy, he began to fall, and he heard the cries of the watchers.
His legs buckled. Searing pain tore at his skull, and he felt Laigern loosen his grip. No doubt his boots would take up the attack when his opponent lay on the ground.
But letting Brand go had been a mistake. Expecting him to fall had been another. It was not the first great blow Brand had taken to the head, and he rode the pain and weakness in his legs, and then surged back catching his enemy by surprise.
Brand caught him with a swift left jab, and followed it with a pounding range of combinations to Laigern’s body and face. The big man reeled back, shocked and hurt. Not fast enough to counter the blows, they rained upon him in succession until his legs gave way and he fell to the ground himself. He tried to rise, but then slumped once more, beaten.
Silence fell, broken only by Brand’s deep breathing. He felt blood ooze from the whip marks in his back, and the pain from them flared to life once more. He looked down on Laigern, and there was no pity in his gaze. The man had brought this on himself, yet still Brand was glad that he had not killed him.
He bent down, wary that his opponent might try something, and untied the money pouch from his belt. Then he stood, opened it, and removed the coin owed to him. Then he dropped the pouch beside Laigern.
“It would have been better to have just paid me,” Brand said quietly. The big man groaned and tried to rise once more, but then slumped again.
A few of the guards came over and helped the fallen man. They did not like him, but these were good men and they did not like to see people suffer.
All the while Brand felt everyone’s eyes on him. He had done what none of them had expected. Laigern had seemed invincible to them, and now they looked at the smaller man, the junior guard, who had beaten him.
The merchant studied him, his eyes glittering. He did not like Laigern any more than the others.
“Stay on,” the old man asked him. “I’ll make you head guard in Laigern’s place. A man like you, with your talents, can rise high … very high indeed. Even to the top.”
Brand grinned at him. The man may have worked out who he was, but if so, he was not saying it in front of the others, which was for the best.
“Thank you,” Brand replied. “But being a guard, of any sort, is just not for me. I have other duties.”
The old man raised his eyebrows. “Ah well, never mind. Thank you for your services here. You’ve been entertaining, to say the least.”
Tinwellen came forward. “You’re more than what you seem,” she said. It was almost an accusation.
Brand shrugged. “I’m just a man passing through.”
“What man, though? And passing through to where?”
The merchant glanced at her. “Leave it alone, daughter. All men are entitled to their secrets.”
She looked as though she would argue, but then thought better of it. “As you wish, father.”
She came to Brand then. “Best of luck, city boy. I don’t know who you are, or what your task is, but we’ll meet again. I have a feeling about that.” She hugged him quickly, and then went to her wagon and disappeared inside.
Brand would miss her. But he saw no way that they would meet again. He turned to the merchant once more.
“May I offer a final bit of advice before I go?”
“Of course,” the old man replied.