by Robert Ryan
Winter was beginning to close in, and even at the thought of it Faran’s heart went back to the valley of the lake and the good times they had enjoyed there. Winter had brought them all closer together, and though the cabin had been small they never grew tired of each other’s company.
He had grown closer to Ferla there, too. But if the cabin was no more, and though they might never see the valley again, that closeness remained. And had strengthened.
There was something between them. But what? He was not so sure. She loved him, he knew. And he loved her. But did she still look upon him as a younger brother? He had seen no suggestion otherwise.
“What’s the name of this village we’re going to?” Ferla asked, interrupting Kubodin in the middle of him whistling a raspy tune.
“Hey? What was that?”
“What village are we going to?”
“Oh, that. I never pay much heed to names. Useless things for the most part. Why, even this mule, can you guess his name?”
They could not, and Kubodin told them. “His name is Mule,” he said with a laugh as though it were a great joke. “See what I mean? Names don’t do much. Unless they’re elven names, of course. Those folks see to the heart of things, and they give names that stick because they’re true.”
There was silence for a little while after that. The only sound was the hooves of the mule on the steep slope where they clattered against an outcrop of rock.
Faran and Ferla walked with great care, for it was very steep here. Even at times they went to hands and knees to clamber down. But the mule looked at home, negotiating it all with ease. No horse could have done that, and Faran did recall being told once that a mule was far more surefooted in steep country. What appeared to be at first an eccentric choice by Kubodin was well-grounded in reality.
They came to a less steep path, and Kubodin looked back and grinned at them.
“Drummald Village, it’s called. It can be a rough place, and Camar and Duthenor and even Cheng are there at times. Some of them are hiding, and it’s a good place to do it. There’s nothing all around but the flat lands and battle sites. And there’s certainly no king. They rule themselves.”
It sounded to Faran as though Kubodin approved of that last fact. He was not so sure himself. Druilgar had turned out to be a bad king. But a good one? Well, that was a different matter. A good king brought peace, the rule of just law and prosperity. Those were things to seek.
“Tell us about Asana?” Ferla asked.
Kubodin looked suddenly serious. “He’s a great man. There are few like him. Very few.”
His respect for Asana was obvious. They were friends, even though at first it seemed to Faran that they were master and servant. But one did not preclude the other. Yet still, he had told them nothing they did not already know. But he was not done. He seemed to guess their curiosity about a man who trained them, but kept his personal distance as he did so and spoke seldom about himself.
“He is half Cheng, as you know, and half Duthenor. But he’s at home among neither people. He spent most of his youth among the Cheng, but he was bullied there. No one would teach him how to fight, but at length he met one master who recognized his inborn athleticism and determination to learn. And he learned, surpassing any student the master had ever had. In humility, which is rare among the Cheng masters, that master soon realized his student would outstrip him and recommended him to one of the great masters. After that, he was bullied no more. People became scared of him, and they showed reverence to him because of who his teacher was. But he never forgot being bullied, and it made him into a quiet man, which is not healthy.”
Kubodin clamped his jaw shut, and said no more. Perhaps he thought he had said too much, for he nudged the mule into a trot and got ahead of them.
Towards the afternoon they reached the lower slopes of the mountain and then passed into flat lands. Mostly, it was grassland, but here and there small stands of trees grew. It was a place like neither Dromdruin nor the valley of the lake, and Faran did not really like all this open space.
But they did need supplies, and he was glad to come. A land that was new appealed to him, even if it was a place he would not wish to live.
As the long shadows of afternoon set in, they came to Drummald Village.
It was a ramshackle place. Some attempt at a village wall had been made, but the six-foot poles skewered into the ground, their tops sharpened to points, only circled about a third of the perimeter. Down the center ran a dirty track. Here, a few people stood and watched the newcomers. Piglets ran to and fro among them.
The village itself was larger than Faran would have guessed, and there was a strange mix of housing styles. Some were even a little grand, if dilapidated. Some had wide porches, others no porches and steep roofs. Many were little more than mud and wattle huts. It was a strange looking place.
But Kubodin, whistling softly, led them down the center of the track. He slowed though when some armed men appeared from a building nearby and approached.
Kubodin fingered his axe, and tension rose. “Hey! Is there a problem here?”
The armed men looked them over, their eyes lingering on their weapons.
“Not unless you make one,” the leader replied. He was a tall fellow, older than the others and the surest of himself.
“Then why the big reception, huh?” Kubodin did not remove his hand from near his axe.
“They’re all right,” one of the men said from behind the leader. “That’s Kubodin. He comes here a few times a year for supplies. Never seen the other two before.”
The man who spoke looked a bit like Kubodin himself, but not as fierce. At any rate, the leader seemed relieved.
“Fair enough. Come into town then, and welcome. We have to be careful these days. There have been bandits from time to time.”
Faran was a little surprised. He had these men, and the whole village, figured for a group of thieves hiding from the law. But it seemed that even thieves had thieves preying on them.
Kubodin nodded, and cast a grin at the man at the back who had spoken for him.
“You want to dice later?”
The man at the back grunted. “Not against you. You skinned me clean out last time. You have the luck of a devil.”
“Hey! Don’t spread that around,” Kubodin said. “Otherwise no one will let me join their table.”
“You’ll do all right. There are, as usual, plenty of new folks in town who haven’t lost money to you before.”
Kubodin led them down the main street then. The shadows were getting long, but there was a kind of general store in the middle of the village that was still open. It was one of the biggest buildings, and was nothing like what Faran had seen before. There had never been shops in Dromdruin Village, but he had heard of them.
Kubodin hitched the mule to a post and went inside, and Faran and Ferla followed. The building was larger than it seemed, and they wandered around looking at things while Kubodin spoke with the shop owner. He ordered a great many things and arranged for them all to be ready to be picked up tomorrow morning.
Tonight, they would spend in one of the two inns. Faran was looking forward to this. It was an adventure for him, but Ferla seemed less inclined to agree. Drunk men and beer breath, she muttered when he had raised the subject, but Kubodin certainly seemed excited by the prospect and that lifted Faran’s spirits.
“All done,” Kubodin said when they were outside again. “Sadly, I’ll have to walk back tomorrow. Mule here will be heavily burdened, but hey, at least I rode down the mountain.”
It was not far to the inn that Kubodin apparently favored. They paid for the mule to be kept in the barn overnight and fed, then went inside.
Straight away, Faran knew that Ferla had been right not to like the idea of staying here overnight. There were people everywhere, and many of them were drunk. That was a sight seldom seen in Dromdruin, even at the midwinter festival. There was a lot of noise too, mostly men singing and laughing loudly.
Kubodin seemed to love it. His face lit up with glee, and he went to the bar and bought them all drinks. These Faran and Ferla sipped, but Kubodin gulped his down and then belched. Faran began to understand why apparently Asana never joined the little man on this journey.
A group of people left, and a small table became free. This Kubodin was quick to claim, and at least they had a place to sit down in a corner that was somewhat quieter than near the bar itself.
Faran looked around, studying the place. Behind the bar and secured high up on the wall were the remains of some beast. It was only bones and a great set of tusks, but it was huge and something Faran had never seen before.
Kubodin must have seen him looking. “Dug up from one of the nearby battlefields,” he said. “Who knows what it’s called, but there are many such skeletons around. Creatures of the Shadow,” he said, his voice dropping low.
Faran could believe it. The thing had a bad look to it, and he wondered how many men had died in battle to kill such a beast.
Looking around, he saw that there were many other objects on the walls. Rusted swords and shields predominated, but there were other weapons too that he had no name for. Some were far too large for a man to wield. But most were in poor condition and looked like they might break apart and fall at any moment.
Kubodin left them at the table, and he visited others where games of dice were being played. They watched him for a while, and it seemed he was enjoying himself immensely.
“He’s going to get drunk,” Ferla said.
It was probably true. He had been back to the bar several times, and drunk quite a bit already while they were still sipping their first drinks.
“I can see why Asana lives far from others,” Faran answered. “Partly to keep Kubodin out of trouble, but also to avoid all this.” He pointed with his finger to take in the whole room.
“I know what you mean. I’d rather just you and me and the top of the mountain. Or being back in the valley. Those were good times Faran, but our world has moved on.”
He was surprised at that comment. Where did she see herself in the future? But it was a question without answer, for the both of them.
The evening passed. They ate a hearty stew for dinner, which Faran loved after only eating vegetables for months, and they sipped on a second round of beer.
Kubodin came back to them regularly, drunker each time than the last. But his pockets also rattled with the coin that he had won in dice and card games. He would talk for a little while, but then his eyes would get a gleam in them as he saw some new game start up and he would saunter off.
They had rooms upstairs, ready and paid for, but Faran and Ferla, though they did not really like it down here in the bawdy common room, did not want to miss the experience. It was so different from anything they were used to.
The evening wore on and it grew late. Most of the revelers had gone home, but here and there a game of dice was still going on and Kubodin, though swaying when he walked to the bar for yet more to drink, still seemed energetic.
It was then that some newcomers entered the bar. Faran saw them first, and he brought Ferla’s attention to them.
There was something wrong. These men were not drunk. That alone made them stand out. There were ten of them, and some wore armor, though it looked poorly made. All, however, wore swords.
A hush fell over the common room, but before anyone could react or speak the ten men drew their swords. Two of them guarded the door, ensuring no one came in or left.
The leader was a squat man with an ugly face. Boils stood out from his skin, but his armor was the best and by the way he held his sword and moved Faran knew he was a skilled warrior.
“Do as you’re told,” the squat man said. “And you’ll live. Now, give us your coins and valuables.”
These were the bandits that they had been warned of when they entered the village, and Faran cursed his luck.
Neither he nor Ferla were drunk. But everyone else was, and though there were other men with swords in the room, Faran doubted that the ten bandits could be defeated. They had timed their robbery perfectly. The inn had emptied of most of its patrons, but the night’s takings were still here.
Kubodin was not so close as Faran would have liked. He was halfway across the room. But as the bandits spread out, holding up bags for people to put their coins and jewelry into, one of them approached him and shook the bag.
“Your coins!” he commanded.
Kubodin looked him up and down. “And if I don’t agree?”
“Then you’re a dead man,” the bandit hissed.
A silence fell over the room, and Kubodin answered loud enough for all to hear, suddenly not so drunk as he had appeared.
“I don’t think so, pretty boy.”
There was a moment’s pause, and then the sudden speed of Kubodin shattered the stillness. Somehow a knife was in his hand, and he whipped it at the bandit’s throat.
Crimson blood sprayed everywhere, but even as the man stood there clutching his neck in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, Kubodin was moving on.
The knife was gone as quick as it appeared, and now the axe was in his hands. He leaped at another bandit and uproar broke out.
Faran’s choice was made for him, and his indecision was gone. He stood and flung the table over, tripping a bandit close by. Then he darted to the side, sword drawn, and Ferla was with him.
Together they attacked the bandits who had moved on Kubodin. The little man stood with his back to the wall, his axe flashing and several dead men near him already.
The squat leader bellowed for his men to take him down, but Faran engaged him, his sword striking out in a deadly arc.
The squat leader was good. Faran sensed that straight away. Fear ran through him, and he backed away as the other man attacked, hewing at him with powerful but well-controlled blows.
But Faran blocked them. Steel rang against steel, and the greater fight that had broken out in the room was lost to him. His every thought was now on this life and death contest.
The bandit kept coming at him, but Faran found his rhythm. Soon, he no longer blocked the other man’s blows but deflected them with grace.
The squat man slowed, and a look of surprise crossed his face. It was then that Faran attacked. He moved into Tempest Blows the Dust, his blade dizzyingly fast.
To this, the bandit had no answer and he retreated on surprisingly agile steps. Faran did not let up though. He pursued swiftly, and moved into Hawk Folds its Wings so as not to be predictable.
This downward thrust nearly killed his opponent. The man had not expected that, perhaps never even seen the move before. He was gifted, but not as skilled as Faran had taken him for.
Faran took a step back, and he moved into Cherry Blossom Falls from the Tree. This lowered his sword tip slightly, indicating tiredness. But it was a trap, and the squat man fell for it. He hastened in, raising his sword for an overhand strike, but Faran darted forward himself, the tip of his sword lifting and flitting through the air with a dark gleam.
The squat man’s throat disappeared in a spray of blood, and he fell to the floor gurgling and twitching. Faran leaped over him and into the fray around Kubodin. He had no time to dwell on the fact that he had just killed a man.
Kubodin was hemmed in, his back to the wall. Discord, his twin-bladed axe flashed and a bandit’s head toppled and bounced on the floor. To the left, Ferla engaged a tall and thin man. He swung a mighty blow at her, but deftly she deflected it.
Faran shouted and ran at the man, battle rage pounding through his body with every heartbeat. But before he got there, Ferla had opened a vein in the bandit’s leg, another in his arm and even as the man tried to retreat the point of her sword slipped through his defenses, penetrated his poorly made mail shirt and forced its way up until it burst his heart.
Blood poured from the man’s mouth. Ferla disengaged her blade by kicking him off it and pulling it back at the same time, a move he had watched her practic
e countless times but that was now surreal to see in real life. Her red hair flowed to one side, but a spray of blood marked her face.
Faran drew close. He saw another dead bandit near her, his head half hacked off. Ferla had been busy while he had dueled the squat man.
Together they attacked the remaining bandits that had backed Kubodin against the wall. They were not the first. Some of the patrons of the inn had joined in. They wielded swords, knives and even chairs. The barman laid about him too with a mighty cudgel.
But it was Kubodin that was the most ferocious of them all. Laughing as he fought, he plunged into his attackers and chaos ensued.
It was over in moments. Faran and Ferla each killed another man, and a pile of bodies lay at Kubodin’s feet. He laughed again, and held his axe high shaking it vigorously. “Discord! You’re as dangerous as ever!” he shouted.
Then he strode toward them, a grin splitting his face and blood dripping down his arm. It was not his own, but came from the axe.
“Hey! Now that was a good fight!” He turned to the barman. “But it was thirsty work! I need another drink!”
Faran and Ferla shared a room with two beds that night. Kubodin said money was tight, and he winked at them. He did not know that they had shared a room back in the cottage by the lake. There had never been any romance then, and there would not be now. They had killed men, and they felt the weight of that.
But they both knew also that the bandits had brought it on themselves. They would still be alive if they were not thieves threatening, and prepared to murder, innocent people if they did not hand over their money.
So they talked well into the night, whispering quietly of what had happened. This much at least they were glad to know. In a real fight, with their lives in jeopardy, their skills had not failed them. They also knew now the difference between sparring, however hard, and facing an enemy actually trying to kill them. That knowledge was invaluable. It could not be taught.