by Peter Kenson
One of the sentries shouted a challenge and all around the camp men reached for weapons, checking swords in their scabbards and reaching for bows ready to string. Two of the horses had been kept saddled and tethered to the wagons and the giant swordsman and the leader of the group were mounted before the answering hail came from down the trail. The camp relaxed again as another five horsemen rode out from under the gloomy trees and into the circle of firelight. It had obviously been a successful hunt as one of the horsemen had the carcass of a deer laid across the front of his saddle. He dismounted to the congratulations of the camp and a grudging nod from the leader. They would eat well tonight.
The watcher on the ridge waited until the camp had settled down again before he moved, backing his mount cautiously down the far side of the ridge and then angling across to cut the trail the outriders had followed. He crested the ridge and started down towards the clearing. It was almost full dark now and neither of the moons had risen yet so, although he was not trying to creep up on them, his approach on the side trail was not detected. He stopped at the edge of the clearing and hailed the camp.
“Halloo the camp”.
The results were electric. As before men reached for weapons and bows were strung. The leader and the giant were mounted and threw their horses into a flat gallop across the clearing towards the sound of the hail. The man sat calmly astride his mount and waited for them to reach him. The leader dragged his horse to a standstill, rearing up on its hind legs while his companion galloped past to check the trail behind him.
Neither man spoke until the giant returned down the trail and took position behind the man. “He's alone”.
The leader nodded. “Who are you and what do you want?”
“I'm just a traveller. Been on these back trails for days without seeing a soul. Saw your campfire from the ridge up there.”
“And...”
“Felt like some company. Thought I could maybe share your fire, share some talk. I've a couple of rabbits I can add to your pot.”
“We got food.” This from the giant.
“So I can smell. But in my experience, a little more never comes amiss.”
“What are you doing on the back trails?” the leader asked.
“In my profession, I prefer to travel the quiet roads until I get where I'm going.”
“And where's that?”
“Truth to tell, I haven't rightly made my mind up on that. So I just travel until something turns up.”
“And your profession?”
“Little bit of this, little bit of that. Generally seems to end up with a little bit of fighting.”
The giant stirred behind him. “He's a common sell-sword.”
“A sell-sword, yes,” the man agreed amiably. “But I take exception to common.”
“You rate yourself then,” the leader asked.
“There's more than a few men who could testify to my skill.... If only they were still able to speak.”
“Let me kill him now,” the giant growled. “Then we'll see how good he is.”
“Wait,” the leader commanded. “He has asked for our hospitality. We should not refuse him. There will be time enough in the morning for a trial of arms... If you agree?”
“I will be delighted.”
“You will be dead,” the giant commented.
“Then I should obviously make best use of my remaining time on this earth. And the smell from your campfire is really becoming most enticing. Shall we?”
He urged his horse into a walk, forcing the leader to turn and trot after him.
“I didn't catch your name.”
“I didn't offer it. But it's Held.”
“Held. That's not a common name.”
“It's Gernian. Apparently it means something in Gernish.”
“You from Gernia then?”
“Nope. But my father travelled quite widely.”
“And your mother?”
“Followed him.”
“I'm Manfred Redblade but everybody calls me Manny. This is my camp. And the ox behind you is Torsten.”
They reached the circle of wagons and the crowd of men parted to let them through. At a sign from Manny, the swords disappeared back into scabbards and the bows were unstrung.
“Drop your gear over by the wagons and come to the fire.”
Held unsaddled his horse and rubbed him down with a couple of handfuls of grass before turning him loose with a slap on the rump.
“Ain't ya gonna 'obble 'im then?”
He turned to face the speaker, a fresh faced youth of no more than 16 or 17 summers. “No need. He'll still be here in the morning.”
“But wot if somebody steals 'im?”
“Then I'll kill the sentry who fell asleep.”
“Oh. I'm Jaks by the way. Manny sent me to fetch you to the fire.”
“Thought I'd get lost, did he?”
“Er no,” Jaks flustered. “I.... I don't think it was that.”
“Only kidding,” he smiled. “But the smell of that food is causing my stomach to make some serious complaining noises. Let's go eat.”
The slaves had dragged some logs into a rough circle around the fire and Jaks found room for them on the far side opposite Manny. As befitted the leader, Manny sat in a proper chair and spoke now, without getting up but in a voice loud enough to command attention.
“This is Held, not from Gernia despite the name. He is going to be our guest for tonight and tomorrow has offered to give Torsten a demonstration of his sword fighting skills.”
There was a chorus of sniggers and muffled laughter around the circle.
“I thank you for the hospitality of hearth and food and I promise not to be too hard on Torsten in the morning.”
That provoked some more open laughter and a scowl on the face of the giant Torsten, who grabbed a slab of venison from one of the slaves and attacked it savagely. As the food was being served, Held took the opportunity to look around the circle. Manny sat in front of his tent in a wooden chair with some ornate carving and his two women, one on either side, on collapsible camp stools. All of the other fighters, barring those on sentry, were seated on the logs, some with their womenfolk alongside them. The slaves were walking round carrying platters of steaming meat and pitchers of beer.
He helped himself to a generous portion of venison and then gave Jaks a nudge.
“As I rode in, I thought I saw another woman, rather striking, long brown hair. I don't see her now.”
“Oh, that'll be the Lady Falaise. She's an 'ostage. She don't eat with us.”
“A hostage for what?”
“Well we went to 'er village to collect the regular tribute. You know, provisions for the winter an' that. An' the village came up short like. Manny got pretty riled up with his local lordship, so Torsten belted 'im one an' we took 'is woman as 'ostage. Gave 'em one week to come up with the rest of the goods. We go back there, day after tomorrow.”
“So her village is near here then?”
“Well it ain't a proper village like. They're travelling folk. Settle somewhere for a few seasons, plant some crops, raise some livestock and then, suddenly, up and move on. One of the old-timers told me it can sometimes take weeks to track them down to collect our provisions.
“Some people call 'em gypsies but that ain't right. My da told me. They used to be regular settled folk with towns an' villages an' that.”
“So what happened?” Held prompted after a mouthful of meat.
“Dunno for certain. I 'eard there was some trouble with a local warlord. Took over their main city an' drove 'em out. Been 'omeless ever since. Least that's what I 'eard. Long time ago now.”
“So why do they give you this tribute?”
“'Cos we needs it. For the winter. Otherwise we'd starve. They always grows too much anyway. That's what Manny says. So we asks 'em and they gives it.”
“And if they don't? What happens if they don't come u
p with the rest of the provisions?”
“Manny will keep Lady Falaise for 'imself. Fancies 'er something rotten 'e does. Course it'll cause some trouble with Leyla an' Mo but Torsten's quite sweet on Leyla so it'll all work out.”
“Leyla and Mo, I take it, are the two on either side of Manny.”
“That's right. Mo's the little dark one on the left and Leyla's the blonde with the big um...”
“Chest?” he supplied helpfully.
“Yeah. Not 'arf.”
Any further musings on the potential domestic difficulties which Manny might face, were interrupted by a shout from across the fire.
“So Held. Tell us your story.”
“It's a long story.”
“We have all evening. Where have you travelled? Where did you learn the sword? Where did you work last?”
“I've travelled all over but mostly in the southern regions. This is my first trip up North. And I learned the sword at my father's knee.”
“So your father taught you everything he knew?”
“Not exactly. He was killed in a swordfight when I was only twelve.”
“He wasn't the best then,” Torsten threw across the circle.
“He was to me.
“After he died, I sailed to the island of Nasaki and enrolled in the sword school there. Best in the known world. They didn't want to take me so I had to insist.”
“And how exactly did you do that?” Manny asked.
“I challenged the leading student in the school and killed him in a duel. After that they took me in and I spent the next five years there, studying everything I could about the sword.”
“And then?”
“And then I went back and killed the man who had killed my father. Since then I've been all over. Wherever somebody needed a sword and was willing to pay for the best.”
“You think a lot of yourself, Held. We'll see who is best when you face my sword in the morning.”
“Torsten, for some reason you seem to have taken a dislike to me. I have that effect on some people. I don't understand it myself but it does happen. But if you let your dislike of me rule your actions tomorrow, then it is you who will lose my friend. Not I.”
With a roar of anger the giant surged to his feet. “Why wait for tomorrow? Let's settle this now, tonight.”
“I won't fight you now because you're drunk and I don't fight people who are incapable of defending themselves.”
“Incapable!” Torsten was incandescent with rage. He seized his sword from behind the log where he had been sitting and walked slowly around the fire. “I'll show you who's incapable. However much I've had to drink, I'm more than capable of splitting you into tiny pieces and barbecuing the lot.”
Held remained seated as the other fighters scattered, falling backwards over the logs in their attempt to create a space. Looking across the fire he could see that Manny was also sitting calmly, a half-smile playing across his face. As he caught Held's eye, he shrugged his shoulders but made no move to intervene.
“Stand up and fight or sit there and die,” Torsten yelled. “It's all the same to me.”
“If you make me draw my sword, I will kill you,” Held said and then rolled smartly to one side as Torsten's sword crashed down onto the log where he had been sitting.
It was an impressive sword, he thought and there was clearly no-one else in the group who would have been capable of wielding it. It was also embedded to a hands breadth in the log which quite firmly was refusing to release it. Held moved cautiously to the side, his own sword still in its scabbard and stood hands on hips, watching the giant struggling to free his weapon.
With a roar of fury, Torsten gave up his attempt to free the massive weapon and turned to the nearest fighter. “Give me your sword.”
Trembling, the man unhooked his scabbard and handed it to Torsten who drew the blade and whirled round to face Held. It was a fine blade but fully two feet shorter than the one embedded in the log.
“Don't do this Torsten,” he said. “Fight me tomorrow with your own sword.”
If the giant heard him speak, he gave no sign but charged straight at the smaller man, relying on his greater strength and momentum. Held stepped back one pace and swayed to his right. In one graceful, fluid movement, he drew his sword and dragged the leading edge across the giant's torso upwards from right hip to left shoulder. Continuing the turn for a full 360 degrees, he had returned his sword to its scabbard and stood facing his giant opponent again before the latter even knew he was dead.
There were gasps of shock from the audience as an expression of surprise spread across Torsten's face. He dropped the borrowed sword and clasped his hands to his belly as if trying to hold together the edges of the wound through which his lifeblood was pouring. Slowly he dropped to his knees and then pitched forward onto his face.
Cries of anger came then from some of the fighters as their champion twitched convulsively for the last time. Held turned to face Manny who had risen from his chair, the smile now absent from his face. The leader raised his hand for silence.
“It was a fair fight and an honourable death. This man,” he said pointing at Held, “is still under the protection of my hospitality. He will not be harmed.
“You four,” he indicated a group of fighters, “prepare the body for burial. And you Held, get some rest. We will talk again in the morning.”
He watched as Held walked slowly towards the wagon where he had left his belongings, the crowd parting before him to give him passage. Then he called one of the archers to him.
“Ash, you lived in Gernia for a few years before you came north. What does Held mean in the Gernish tongue?”
The archer scratched his grizzled chin for a few seconds. “Held,” he said. “Held in the Gernish tongue means hero.”
Chapter 2
The dreams were always the same. White, brilliant white. White walls, white ceiling. He was in a room somewhere, all white but there was nothing he could identify. Nothing that would tell him where he was.
There were voices in the background too. Sometimes he thought he could recognise one or other of the voices but they were always changing and he could not put a name to any of them. He strained to listen but they were too far away or speaking too softly. They were discussing him. He was sure of it but he could never quite make out what they were saying.
When he woke the next morning, Held rolled out from beneath the wagon where he had spent the night. He felt refreshed despite the dreams which had come again. They seemed to come every night now but he pushed them to the back of his mind and stretched his muscles instead.
Dawn was spreading across the sky although the sun was not yet risen. The mist from the stream had spread a little but would quickly burn off in the morning sun. There was dew on the grass and his travel cloak was damp as he took it off and spread it over one of the wagon wheels to dry.
The camp was already stirring. One of the slaves was piling kindling onto the embers of last night’s fire. The kindling caught with a crackle and more substantial wood was hastily added. Two of the other slaves were struggling with an enormous cooking pot containing the morning's porridge, placing it carefully on tripods on either side of the fire.
All around the camp men were stretching, scratching and walking towards the trees to take a piss. Held was reminded of the pressure in his own bladder and headed in the same direction. The camp followers were active too; some of the tents were already being struck ready to load on the carts.
Once he had relieved himself and splashed some water on his face from the stream, he stripped to the waist and began his daily exercise routine; twenty minutes of concentrated effort to bring man and sword into perfect balance, a harmony of power, grace and efficiency. Such was the level of concentration required by the exercise that he was oblivious to his surroundings, and to the fact that all activity had stopped within the camp. When he finally stopped, drenched with sweat, there was a ripple of a
pplause all around him.
He brought his attention back to the present and found that he was surrounded by a circle of fighters with Manny among them.
“Very impressive,” he said. “Is that what they taught you in Nasaki?”
“It's some of it,” Held admitted. “They taught me to always start the day with a programme of exercise to clear the mind, stretch the body and create the balance for the day.”
“Balance. Yes, a swordsman needs balance. And that sword is an unusual design.”
“It's called a katana. The craftsmen on Nasaki make them. The best of them are better than any other swords I've ever come across.”
“That's a big claim. Let me try it, feel the balance.”
“No. Can't do that. Nobody handles this sword but myself.”
Manny’s eyes narrowed at that and other men who had stayed to listen to the exchange, started to drift away, all suddenly remembering some urgent task which had to be performed.
“Very well, I'll let that pass for now.”
He forced a more conciliatory tone into his voice. “Tell me, which direction will you head once you have broken your fast?”
Held shook his head. “Like I said, I'm just travelling. I have no contract to go to. I'm just waiting for something to turn up.”
“Then why don't you ride with us today? I lost a good man last night. I could use a good swordsman.”
“I don't take orders well.”
“Nobody's asking you to. Just ride with us for a day and we can talk as we go. See how we get on.”
Held considered for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders. “I don't have any better offers for today but I'm making you no promises.”
“Fair enough. Let's go eat.”
Without waiting for a reply, Manny turned on his heel and strode off towards the fire. Held picked his shirt off the bush where he had thrown it and pulled it over his head. He could feel eyes watching him as he walked back towards the wagons. As he passed the slave wagon, the hostage who Jaks had called Lady Falaise was standing there.