Borgan hustled through the door. “What do you want, Tage?”
“I want a bottle of Kaelian Red.”
“I think you’ve had enough,” Borgan replied.
Tage slammed his fist on the table, upturning Brant’s mug in the process. Then he slammed his other hand down, a gold drack spinning on the table. “Get the damn wine!”
“You don’t need to yell,” Brant stated flatly, his anger slowly boiling to the surface.
Borgan looked at Brant meaningfully, warning him with a subtle shake of his head.
Tage looked at Brant. “What did you say?”
“I said you don’t need to yell,” Brant repeated, looking directly at him.
“Tage, don’t worry about him. He’s just passing through. I’ll get you your wine. Go back to your seat and I’ll bring it to you.”
Tage shoved Brant in the shoulder. Brant was expecting it and he flexed his muscles, making his body rigid. Tage might as well have tried shoving a brick wall. “Don’t push me…farmer,” he spat out the last word as he glared disdainfully at Brant’s clothes. Tage had expected his shove to razzle Brant, or at least knock him off the stool. But it did neither, and he was unsuccessfully trying to hide his uncertainty when he did not get the reaction he expected, in its place a stern man, his dark eyes boring into him as he tried to hold in his anger.
“You better do as Borgan says or this will not end well for you.” Brant’s jaw clenched reflexively as he used all of his will power to not lash out at the bully.
Suddenly Thea materialized at the bar, placing a tray of empty mugs on the counter. “Come on, Tage, let’s go back to the table.”
Brant wasn’t sure if she had sensed a potential conflict, or if she was just doing her job. Or maybe she saw the look on Borgan’s face. Either way, she successfully redirected Tage’s attention elsewhere.
“Hey, beautiful,” he slurred as he put his arm around her. “You coming home with me tonight?”
She tried to squirm away but he held her tight, turning her so they were both facing Brant. “Hey, farmer, do you think you’ll ever get to bed a woman like this?”
Thea was now angry and she tried more forcefully to get out from his grasp. “You’ll never bed me. Now let me go!”
Tage laughed derisively, his big arm holding her tighter. “Maybe not tonight, but I will someday.”
“Tage, let her go,” Borgan ordered.
“Shut up, Borgan. Go get that wine.”
Brant could no longer contain himself. He stood up slowly from his chair and turned to face Tage.
“She asked you to let her go. Now do it.” His voice was calm, but edged with violence, like the soft rumbling of thunder before a storm.
Tage released her, shoving her violently into the bar and knocking over the tray of mugs. Tage smirked. “What are you going to do about it?”
Brant was barely under control. His anger was clawing inside him, trying to break free. But, again he saw the look on Borgan’s face, and he kept his fists at his side, well aware that Borgan did not want him to start a fight.
But then, out of nowhere, Tage slapped Brant across the face with the back of his hand, the force of the blow jerking his head to the side and destroying every ounce of will power that was holding his anger at bay. It surged forward and washed over him like a crashing wave. Brant turned his face and looked directly at Tage, his eyes narrowed and his face a mask of impending violence.
The big man was taken by surprise, thinking that the sudden blow would have been enough to cause the newcomer to back down and leave. But he had misjudged this young man. Instead of fear, he saw raw, unbridled fury in the eyes of the farmer, if that was indeed what he was. He knew he was about to be attacked, and instinctively launched his right fist forward in an effort to block the man’s foolish response.
By this time Brant was so consumed with destroying the arrogant brat that his anger had eradicated any vestige of remaining caution. Perhaps the ale had helped wash it away. Now, in his mind’s eye, the fist was coming at him in slow motion. Before Tage had even initiated the attack, Brant had instinctively surged aura energy into his body, concentrating a little more in his fists. In a blur, Brant side stepped the swing, following through with a vicious left hand punch to the man’s kidney. Tage grunted, the force of the blow knocking him into the bar so hard that he bounced off only to find Brant’s follow up right handed uppercut, hitting him so hard it shattered his nose and broke his jaw, launching him into the air where he landed several paces away.
The room was deathly quiet. Tage lay on the floor, silent and still. Brant’s anger and power still surged through his body, his fists shaking with the energy. He glanced at Thea whose eyes stared back at him, wide with shock. In less than three blinks of an eye, Brant had unleashed such a concentrated act of violence and destruction that the people who watched seemed paralyzed with shock.
Borgan was the first person to react, running to Tage’s side. “Tage, wake up!” he said, shaking his limp body. Tage still didn’t move.
His friends slowly stood up from their table and walked over to stand in front of Brant. The young men looked to Tage and back to Brant, clearly uncertain of their next action. They, too, were stunned and showed no desire to attack. They had just seen him dispatch their friend with such fierceness and precision, that they had no desire to suffer a similar fate.
Thea ran over and joined Borgan at Tage’s side. She put her ear to his mouth and rested her hand on his chest, hoping for any sign of life. But there was none. She stood up slowly and looked at Brant, “He’s dead,” she said quietly, her voice expressing mixture of dread and disbelief.
Brant’s anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. He stepped back a few paces, his fists still shaking, but this time not from the power, but from fear. He had just killed a man.
The terrible reality of it what he had done hit him even harder when a patron in the crowd yelled for someone to summon the town’s guard.
Brant’s mind was racing. What should he do? Should he run for it? It was self-defense, anyone could see that. He was attacked first. But would that matter? He had just killed the magistrate’s son. There was no way he would get a fair hearing. And where would he run? The town’s guard was sure to have horses. He didn’t have a chance.
Brant wearily sat himself down on a nearby stool, his mind made up. It was eerily silent. Then Borgan appeared beside him. “They are going to arrest you,” he said.
Brant looked up at him and nodded his head dejectedly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. It was self-defense. He attacked first.”
Borgan shook his head sadly. “I’ll attest to that. But it won’t matter. You killed him…and he was the magistrate’s son.”
“Should I run?”
“You could try. But they will catch you. They have dogs and horses. You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“Then I have no choice.”
There was a commotion at the door as three armed men, wearing Legionnaire armor, entered with swords in hand. Everyone pointed to Brant, who turned in his chair to face them. It was going to be a long night, he thought.
Brant had been dragged to a holding cell for the night. The guards had said nothing other than he would face the magistrate in the morning. The cell was located in a building on the far end of town, near the tree line, and it looked to be an office with several cells located in the back. There was another room off the main room that Brant guessed was where the Magistrate held proceedings. He didn’t know it at the time, but any town in Dy’ain, with a population over five hundred, had a magistrate and a small contingent of Legionnaires. Towns with populations below that would fall under the jurisdiction of the nearest magistrate.
He didn’t sleep much, wondering what would happen to him, and berating himself. If he hadn’t used his Aurit abilities, he wouldn’t be in this predicament. More than likely he would have simply knocked Tage out, not killed him. He didn’t mean to hit him so hard. But he had been unable
to control his anger.
The lock to the door clicked and Brant sat up. Two guards entered and motioned for him to stand. His wrists were still chained, and one of the guards grabbed the chain, yanking him forward. “Let’s go,” he said. “The magistrate is waiting.”
The guards led him into the main room and through the side door that he had noticed the night before. They entered a room with a raised dais on one side and a series of chairs facing it. On the dais was a large desk and a comfortable leather chair. Behind the desk were several shelves stacked with thick leather bound books. Brant was grateful to see Thea and Borgan seated and facing the desk. They both looked worried.
At the desk, a red magistrate’s cloak draped over his shoulders, a man sat with his head down reading. His short brown hair was streaked with silver. Looking up from his papers, Brant could see that his eyes were red and puffy. He had clearly not slept well that night. He had the typical look of many well fed aristocrats. His face was a little plump and freckles were scattered across his pale complexion. The magistrate didn’t look like most dark haired dark skinned Dy’ainians. He wore a trimmed mustache and a beard that tapered neatly to point.
“Sit down,” he said, his voice cold and emotionless. The guards motioned for Brant to sit in the single chair facing the raised desk. “State your name.”
“Brant Anwar.”
“Where are you from?” he continued, jotting down the information into some sort of ledger.
“I’m from the king’s mining camps. I left last year after my father died.”
“Where have you been since?”
“I spent half a year working on a farm near Bygon. Then I came here, just last night.”
“Who’s farm?”
“A man name Kaan.”
“I know him. Bygon falls under my jurisdiction. He will vouch for you?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you learn to fight?”
“I fought in the camps. My father taught me.”
“Tell me what happened last night.”
Brant was worried. The magistrate appeared far too controlled for someone whose son had just died the night before, by Brant’s own fists. And now he sat before him acting as if this were just another case. Something wasn’t right. “I was at the bar, eating and drinking, when the man, Tage was his name, came to the bar. He was drunk, and he challenged me. He shoved me and goaded me to fight.”
“Are there witnesses to this?” the magistrate asked to the small audience. It looked as if Thea and Borgan were the only two with the courage to stand up to the magistrate and come to Brant’s defense.
Borgan stood up. “Yes, sir. That is what happened.”
The magistrate continued to write for a few moments as Borgan sat back down. His cold eyes again turned to Brant. “What happened next?”
“Tage grabbed the waitress, Thea, and was insulting her.”
“How was he insulting her?”
Brant didn’t want to repeat the man’s words. But he had no choice. “He held her against her will, and he asked me if I would ever have a chance to bed a woman like her.” Brant thought he saw the magistrate smirk through his otherwise stoic expression. “The barkeep, Borgan here, asked him to let her go. He was rude to him as well and continued holding Thea against her will. So I got up from my seat and asked him to let her go.” Brant paused as the magistrate continued to write.
“And?”
“Then he backhanded me.”
The magistrate looked up. “Witnesses?”
This time Thea stood up. “Yes, sir. It happened as he says.”
The magistrate’s eyes narrowed and Brant saw Thea shuffle nervously on her feet.
“Continue,” the magistrate ordered, looking to Brant again.
“Well, then he swung at me again. This time I dodged the punch and hit him in the side and then the face. I did not mean to kill him, sir. I was just protecting myself. It was an accident.”
This time the magistrate set his pen down and looked at Brant with undisguised malice. “An accident? You killed a man with two hits. And that man was my son. Now he may have been a drunk, and an idiot at times, but he did not deserve to die by the hands of some street fighter.”
“I am no street fighter, I…”
“Shut up!”
Suddenly the door to the room opened and a man entered. Short and stocky, he wore fur lined leather clothes, and his chest was covered with a leather cuirass reinforced with plates of some sort of glossy black material. His skin was brown, as dark as tree bark, and his face was wide and almost flat. Long jet black hair fell from beneath the fur lined hardened leather helm he wore on his head. Brant could see the feathered ends of arrows jutting out from behind his back, along with the end of an unstrung bow which rose higher than the arrows, that was also stored in his quiver. He carried a unique sword tucked into his leather belt, the black scabbard narrow and slightly curved. The guard was not like those of the typical weapons used by the Legionnaires. Rather than being straight and simple, the guard was round, protecting the wielder’s hand, and etched with intricate flowing lines. The handle itself was long and slightly curved, built for two hands, and wrapped with simple brown leather. Strapped to his right leg was a long hunting knife.
Brant saw the magistrate nod at the newcomer, then turn toward Brant. “Brant, you are accused of murder, and based on the evidence, I find you guilty. However, it seems, according to these witnesses, that it was self-defense. Therefore, in lieu of death, I sentence you to one year of slavery among the Schulg tribe. It just so happens that a member of this tribe arrived in town last night. That was just your luck,” the magistrate said with an evil smile. “I sentence you to his care for one year.”
Brant looked again at the stranger and the reality of his fate hit him. The man was a Schulg, a nomad, and he was here to take him away.
Borgan and Thea stood up. “Magistrate, you can’t do this!” Borgan said.
“You know what they will do with him,” Thea joined in. “He won’t last the year!” she stormed.
The magistrate stood up, shoving his chair out behind him. “Sit down! Or I will arrest you too. This man!” he shouted, pointing at Brant, “has killed a man with his fists! He is a street fighter and his punishment fits the crime! And he will pay for that crime! Now, get him out of my sight!”
The Schulg tribesman came forward as the two guards lifted Brant up from the chair. They unlocked his chains and Brant instinctively rubbed his sore wrists. The Schulg stood before him looking him up and down, his expression deadpan. Then he reached out and grabbed his wrists, bringing them together in front of his body. Grabbing a thick leather thong from his belt, he wrapped it around Brant’s wrists, expertly cinching it tight and tying if off. Then he reached for a rolled up length of rope at his belt, looped one end over Brant’s head and pulled it tight. With a final grunt, the Schulg pulled the five foot rope and led Brant out of the room. It all happened so fast that Brant didn’t know what to do. He was yanked from the room, and through the daze of shock he heard the fading sounds of Borgan and Thea’s futile protests.
They had been walking for half a day before the nomad slowed his horse. Brant’s leash was tied to the back of the packhorse, and when the Schulg finally reined in his horse, the packhorse, which was attached to his horse, slowed as well. Brant was sweating profusely and his mouth was parched. He looked up as the Schulg dismounted, grabbed a water skin from his horse and walked to Brant’s side.
He handed Brant the water skin, grunting something unintelligible. Brant took the skin with both of his hands and brought the bag to his mouth, drinking greedily, the water washing away the dust from the road from his mouth. While he drank, the nomad withdrew something from a bag on the packhorse, and brought it to Brant. Taking the water skin away, he handed Brant what looked like a stick of dried meat.
“What is it?”
“Um’by.”
Brant had no idea what um’by was, but he was hungry. And by the l
ooks of it, they were not done walking. They still had half a day until nightfall. He wasn’t sure where they were going, but it looked as if they were traveling north, which Brant knew was the direction of Schulg territory. Brant ate his meal of what appeared to be some sort of dried meat. It was pretty bland, tasting mostly of salt, but he was hungry and ate it quickly. “What is your name?”
The Schulg stood staring at him, his face emotionless. “Tangar,” he grunted. “Your name?” he asked in Newain.
“You speak my language?”
Grunting, the nomad stepped closer. “Your name?”
“Brant Anwar.”
Without warning the nomad punched Brant in the stomach. It was so fast that Brant had no time to even tighten his muscles. He doubled over in pain as the air in his lungs was violently forced out. That was when Tangar hit him in the face with a vicious uppercut. Brant flew backwards and landed in the dirt, coughing and trying to regain his breath.
Tangar stood over him. “You fight for me,” he said in stilted Newain. “Now up, we go three more days travel.”
Despite the pain in Brant’s nose, lips, and gut, he barely felt it through the anger rising up in him. Aura energy whirled around him and he pushed some into his arms and wrists, hoping to break the leather bonds cinched tight around his hands. But the angle was awkward and the bands were very thick, hardened by his sweat and the sun, and he could not break them.
Changing tactics, he channeled energy into his legs and suddenly kicked his right leg up, hoping to strike the nomad in the groin. He thought he had him, but at the last moment Tangar jumped up, using his own leg to deflect the blow. Brant couldn’t believe how quickly Tangar had moved. But the power of his kick did catch Tangar off guard, as Brant’s kick managed to throw his body backwards. But Tangar used the momentum of the kick to spin on his other leg like a dancer, dropping forward with his right knee and bringing it down hard on Brant’s chest. Brant grunted from the weight and the pain. The Schulg then snapped his fist forward and struck Brant in the eye, knocking his head back into the dirt. Brant was dazed and groaning, the weight of the nomad still heavy on his chest, his bony knee digging into his sternum.
The Steel Lord: Book 01 - BannerFall Page 16