by J R Marshall
Remembering Ben, the hound at the inn, and Tam’s admonitions about protecting the body whilst the mind was absent, I had complied.
The first time I used craft, Git nearly jumped out of his skin, a magical dart sent streaking towards a deer, some one hundred and forty yards, striking the animal in the head. Git had taken a moment to gather his wits, before bounding across the heather, gleefully tossing the dying animal from side to side, and dragging the doe back slowly, but determinedly. He learnt to steady his nerve as I practised my skills.
Thrice a day, I meditated, gathering my energy, seeking the connective forces, learning my craft, both through vocal incantation and silently, building my powers of concentration, trying different conjurations.
I learnt that natural resistance, this far from water, steadied me just above the voices, and I could force myself a little lower, a reverse of my will to ascend, for I enjoyed the company of the little spirit creatures, milling around and talking to me.
These tiny entities probed my mind, many fascinated by my ability to speak and communicate with them, and I would dwell in their company for as long as my mental concentration allowed. It was an effort, and after a time I would ease my thoughts and gravitate upwards, resting once more amongst the strands of power before journeying back and speeding across the ocean of altered perceptions.
I was learning daily, and after a month had succeeded in reliably transporting myself five hundred yards using words, the silent application of this particular craft still eluding me.
Magical wards of protection similar to those Tam used on the headland were established around my camp, thinking they were high enough above the ground until one day Git nearly killed himself. Somehow he had managed to break one of the invisible lines, and suffering a systemic shock to his body, it took several days for Git to recover, a little longer before his natural enthusiasm and confidence was restored. He would forever avoid the area where the ‘shock’ had occurred, not understanding quite what had happened.
At night my hound rested within the tent, the fire stoked so that it provided warmth. His hearing acute, he would lie by my side, occasionally venturing out, but less so as the snow arrived.
The night became a time of unconscious meditation, reciting the lessons learnt, considering how different spells might be crafted, the strands of energy like joining letters in a word, creating differing sentences. So much was complicated, and practitioners of craft had spent millennia guarding their discoveries.
Why had Tam furnished me with this knowledge and kindness? Grimnir had asked the same, but there had been clues in their discourse, of past friendships and failed support, I knew not, but I counted myself fortunate and blessed. Whilst I stank and was covered in fleas, this time alone with my hound in the wood and hunting across the moors, free of obligation, was the best of times.
During the second month, whilst preparing to diminish a squirrel captured the day before, Git growled, glancing at me, so that I crouched down, hushing the hound and listened, watching.
Two men approached, yet each from different directions, no doubt smelling my fire, for we were within the wood, and the smoke dissipating through the branches was not discernible. There were no wards against trespass; not seeking to place my hound in further jeopardy I had avoided using them. So I watched as the men converged on my camp, some eighty yards away, ignoring convention that strangers always announce their arrival, never walking into someone’s camp unannounced; the bastards meant trouble.
The men, dirty, rough, yet equipped for the weather, signalled to one another, the nearest man approaching would pass within fifteen yards unaware they were observed.
Sodding hell! I had left my sword in the tent and my spells were inappropriate, for intending to reduce and enlarge the captured squirrel, the practising of craft, I had grown complacent.
Shit. I rushed towards my tent, the element of surprise lost, and reaching under the cover, Git running beside me, collected my sword and started to lace up my studded jerkin.
“I noticed your fire, how are you?” And without waiting for an answer, the stranger enquired whether I was from these parts, all an irrelevance. He referred in the singular, no mention of his colleague.
Stepping out in front of my shelter, “Who are you, and do you travel alone?” I asked, testing his motives, for there was still doubt, it might yet be innocent. “It is unfortunate you did not announce your approach.”
“My pardon, I meant no disrespect, but only now have I seen your camp, for it is well concealed. May I approach and introduce myself? I travel alone.”
He was a lying bastard, and I was not in the mood to reveal anything to him. “Piss off, I don’t want visitors.”
He argued awhile, protesting that my manners were typical of an orc, and cursing he appeared to withdraw, saying, “I’ll travel where I like, and no scum such as you will hinder me,” yet he withdrew nonetheless. I couldn’t see the other man.
Git, my hound, sensing my heightened alertness sat outside, watching the man walk away, and finishing the lacing of my jerkin, with a dagger in one hand and my sword in the other I summoned Git to heel. We headed through the trees and bushes in the direction I hoped the other intruder might be hiding.
“Where is he?” I hissed at the hound, more the eagerness of the words. Git, sensing the hunt was on, bounded ahead, sniffing, seeking a clue, for this was a game, and he loved his service to me.
After five minutes I heard Git growl and bark, and the bushes burst alive as a I charged in the hound’s direction, movement apparent ahead.
The second man could be seen running away through the trees, Git leaping at him as he thrust a knife down, wounding my hound in the flank. Git yelped in pain, falling flat to the earth, whining in distress.
Bastard! And I chased him for quarter of a mile, before he turned and essayed to nock an arrow, having to drop his knife in the process.
Charging, he loosed his arrow in haste, yet it struck my arm, a successful shot, but he had no chance to launch a second or recover his knife, for closing the gap my dagger skewered him in the stomach, and he stared into my face, my blade twisting up though his diaphragm, cutting and gouging deep into his ribcage, lungs torn and ripped apart, my left uninjured arm lifting him off his feet such was my strength.
“That was my hound, you bastard,” and I pulled out the dagger, searching for his neck, as he fell lying on the ground in shock. My blade struck again; he was too traumatised to evade, though it would have availed him not, for he was already mortally wounded.
I stood over the dying man, looking around for any counter attack, but none came, and after five minutes of listening and retrieving my injured hound, I headed back to my camp carrying the poor creature to the tent.
The arrow was pulled from my arm, the cloth vest torn, so I poked and tried to retrieve as much embedded material as I could – it hurt like shit – aware that cloth carried into the body could fester and possibly cause mortification, gangrene.
Git lay there, still whining; he needed attention, and I walked out of my tent and bellowed a warning to the first man, certain he could hear, yet actually wanted to intimidate, not ready for another altercation, my hound’s injuries forefront on my mind.
A year’s wages? Bugger that! I opened my single jar of Tam’s salve, and applied a quarter to Git and the same to myself. Twelve hours, and I knew we didn’t have the luxury of time, the first person would be back.
I wanted to cast wards, the type that had disabled Git, but couldn’t take the chance; the power of craft could be manipulated, energies already fashioned could potentially be changed but I doubted my skill, and it would be foolhardy to meditate trying to collect the right forces, an unprotected hour.
So I lay Git deeper within the tent. He turned his head, dutifully anxious, worried that he could not accompany me, so bidding him, “Stay,” I hid in bushes twenty yards away, waiting and watching, my sword arm aching, strength lessened yet still I could wield my blade.
Patience, I knew how to be, and crouching down, seldom changing position, for an hour and a half I watched; three men approached.
One closed and as luck would have it passed adjacent to my location, scarcely six feet away. He died without knowing his opponent, a knife in the back, it matters not, for I am no coward.
His screams filled the air, thrashing around, his back bone half broken, his limbs uncontrollable, contorting, he died and moving aside, I hid again, waiting and watching.
One man headed to the tent, and I burst out determined to defend the hound; he turned around with a sword already drawn, a grim determination written across his face. He looked strong, yet I knew very few people were actually trained in the use of swords.
Fathers may have taught sons the simple art of parry and thrust, some acuity in observing the opponent, common tricks to be aware of, but there were few trained warriors locally, even fewer capable of defeating me, yet likewise there would be no need for this stranger to suspect my greater skill, and knowing this I wanted to kill slowly.
A voice rang out, “He’s killed Sem, knifed him in the back.”
My opponent steadied himself, watching my blade and circled slowly, turning his front towards my tent, angling himself towards where he hoped his companion would appear, losing the only advantage he had, that of flanking me.
Lowering my sword, I looked him in the eye, exposing my body as undefended, but really pensive and coiled like a spring ready to snap back. “Why do you lose your only advantage?” I asked, almost sighing. “You’ve just turned your back to where your companion may join you, so now I can see you both.” As I spoke as if to confirm my comment, the second man came into view, some fifty feet immediately behind my opponent.
“We’re well known,” he said. “We kill for a living, scum such as you will be easy, though I’ll confess, I’ve never had an orc before,” he snarled, and swearing, he called his companion forward. “This orc bastard killed Sem, we’ll have his eyes and tongue cut out before he dies.”
“Really?” I said, as I feigned a stumble, yet rolling in the opposite direction, thrusting my knife into his ribs, as he plunged his sword down to where he imagined my stumble would leave me, striking empty air.
Looking at me as I rose to my feet, my knife still embedded in his side, his eyes were wide in shock and disbelief, gently touching the haft, hoping that somehow reality was not as grim as it looked.
Stepping away, allowing the pain and despair to eviscerate the man so he would cease to be a threat, I walked towards the third assailant, who had up until a moment before been running to support his fellow.
“You do know that I will not allow you to escape.” I played with my sword, allowing fear and doubt to sap my opponents courage.
“Bastard, half-orc!”
“Oh I am, you are correct, but unlike you I’m a live bastard, though you have me on the half-orc bit.” Walking towards him, I wanted to smell the fear, see him shaking.
“I’ll kill you quickly if you like, for I’ve got your companion over there; he’ll live for a few hours. I think he was planning to pull my eyes out?” And I had an idea, a way to torment my new opponent.
“Do you want to pull my eyes out?” I wanted to judge his doubt, understand just how confident he was. Did he think he could win? He didn’t reply, thus not confident at all.
“You go first, please,” I asked. “I hope you are better than the others.”
He snarled at me, looking for an opportunity to strike, seeking any sign that might show a weakness in my skill, and finding nothing but hopelessness and despair he started making excuses, anguish setting in.
“It wasn’t my idea, but if I have to fight you I will.”
“Oh you do, I’m afraid, sorry. I know you know, you’ll die.”
I took a step back and looked behind, catching a glimpse of the other man clutching my dagger, not knowing what to do, unable to move for his breathing was becoming impaired and pain was taking hold.
The other lunged, thinking he would gain no better advantage. But my stepping back had been calculated, and a further half step sufficed for his blade to miss by a few inches.
I ridiculed him. “Pathetic… Is that it? Is that your best? Not very original.”
“Why are you such a bastard?” he enquired. “You know I’ll lose.”
“Because your party injured my hound, and you lied to me.”
He fought me for ten minutes, not because he was good, but because he was useless, and I was being cruel, cutting him and bruising, poking with the tip of my sword, and he started pleading. Begging and becoming incontinent, his stomach twisted in knots, sweat dripping from his face and neck, despite the chill air.
In the end he turned and fled, but limping, he fell, my sword swiping down on his neck, felling him to the earth. Crashing half into a bramble bush, he turned slightly as I pushed my sword into his groin then slashed his torso twice. He twitched a little before dying.
The other man was tortured, only a little, I had no desire to rip out eyes. His breathing laboured, he didn’t know what to hope for, but nonetheless he confirmed there was no further threat, their camp two miles away behind rocks aside a fast-flowing stream, and giving directions I had a good idea where it lay.
The four bodies were dragged clear of the wood and burned. Snow was falling again as the fire took hold, and having stripped the bodies of anything of value I was beginning to regret not keeping the mule.
Their camp was searched the following day, for I wanted my hound with me and my wound needed proper rest. I can fight two handedly but preferred my sword arm truly unimpaired.
Their camp contained a wealth of plundered merchandise and two ponies, a cart and broken harness. What were they planning to do with this? Perhaps secure a replacement through plunder. I answered my own question.
I used craft to successfully mend the harness though due to its size it took two applications. The ponies needed proper care but snow was falling and due to lack of shelter they would have to manage the day’s journey back to Hedgetown.
Before setting off, I returned to my woodland camp and secured the tent against ingress by creatures or snow, concealing the entrance with branches and gorse, before heading into town, Git sitting on the wagon, for he was ill equipped to struggle through the increasing snowfall, and on several occasions I needed to assist the ponies through ruts and past hidden boulders.
Arrived about seven in the evening the gates to the town were closed, yet only moments before as I approached I had seen them ajar. The shorter winter days caused towns to bar access after sunset, and with the usual pigheaded stubbornness of guards that seems universal, they resisted my request to open.
Sod this, my ponies were in distress and it was still five hours till midnight, I had no intention of waiting under a lean-to temporary shelter provided for those caught outside after nightfall.
Normally I would have bellowed and sworn, but I knew names, and my voice rang clear across the rampart, my manner exuding confidence, demanding they summoned Elranir or Torak, and bloody quickly, or Grimnir himself would be wroth.
There were a few men who considered it a bluff, but others dissented thinking discretion worthwhile, thus, after discussing amongst themselves they opened the gates. We were still haggling over the tariff when Elranir arrived, one of the junior soldiers having been despatched to enquire as to the veracity of my statements.
“I should pay a bloody copper piece,” but had conceded that one silver would be my limit, an equitable payment for all the recovered merchandise. Elranir walked up.
“You look bloody disgusting,” he smiled, “have you gotten a permit for bringing all those fleas, ticks and lice into town?” and laughing, told the men to allow my passage, no charge, for he lied, saying I was employed on His Lordship’s behalf.
Elranir, flanked co
ntinuously by soldiers, bombarded with tasks that distracted his concentration, was always keen to inspect and correct his men, yet never maliciously, he simply could not be in all places at once and I thought him competent, the sort of sergeant or captain I would seek in future years.
After remonstrating with guards, yet not particularly concerning me, and they for their part wishing they hadn’t summoned his presence, I said, “Walk with me please, Elranir, a couple of your men too if you would be so kind. I can reward you with a good story, and if you fancy, a drink or three in a few hours’ time.” I needed to go via my factor, the merchant, whose address I gave.
He agreed for it lay within his remit, also he suspected I got on better with Grimnir than was meant to be apparent.
I had a guard for the securing of my equipment and sale of everything else, and Elranir, liking the story had offered to keep Grimnir informed. “Less trouble on the northern road,” he said.
Elranir declined my offer of free beer, he was on duty and men fared well under his command for he was a good leader, setting an example in honesty and diligence to duty that included not getting drunk.
The merchant was watched as the goods were appraised, the items separated according to value, one or two items surprising for I had no idea that tin ingots were worth so much yet disappointed that the rolled linen was declared too water damaged to be of any value.
The ponies and cart were sold, a branding on one of the ponies’ quarters apparently not difficult to hide, and an amount of one hundred and thirty-one silver pieces would be added to my inventory. I demanded a receipt, a scrip of the whole. He made a serious mistakes on the scrip, and was surprised I was competent in reading and he apologised profusely, saying it was an honest error.
“Let’s be having no more,” and I left with ten silver, and headed for the ‘Water Rat’, saying farewell to one of Elranir’s guards who had overseen my safe arrival. Git walked close to heel, ignoring other animals less well trained, who when approached were kicked away. “Leave my bloody hound alone.”