by Robert Beers
McCabe drank. Unlike the hag's earlier brews this one did not burn a pathway down his gullet but seemed more like a cool breeze brushing against his tonsils. The feeling passed quickly leaving a lingering taste of green and growing things, then for three quick ticks time paused. McCabe almost felt that disconnectedness come over him again and was just verging into panic when the voices slammed into him with a rush.
They clamored for his attention, all of them speaking at once. Many of them demanded Haberstroh's life as payment for what she'd done to them. Others insisted that McCabe resume their interrupted journey without delay. He savored the voices, drinking in the returned sensation of power. Tingles began at the ends of his toes and fingers, working their way along his limbs until his entire being felt as though he'd been filled with heat lightning. It was different from the time he'd first been gifted but he still liked it.
Haberstroh cackled, “Feels good, eh, Not-a-Man? We keep our word don't we my mate? Oh yes we do.”
McCabe didn't hear the Witch, he turned aside from the voices and tested his powers. Reaching outside of himself he felt for the sense of the lives in and around the swamp. They were there, appearing as small sparks of jeweled essence, they hovered, sat and swam before his mind's eye.
The ties Haberstroh used to hold him down still encircled his ankles and wrists. By focusing a small portion of his power he pulled the life from them causing the ties to dissolve into dust.
“Ah, you have them back Not-a-Man. Good, Good. What are you going to do now? Are you going to feed?” Haberstroh nodded her head vigorously as she watched McCabe climb to his feet.
“Cold shouldn't bother you now Not-a-Man, should it my mate? No, naked like a babe he is, but not cold. No, not him, his friends keep him warm now.”
McCabe noticed his lack of clothing no more than he did the hag's ramblings. The small sparks of life essence in the swamp drew him like a moth to the flame. He crossed Haberstroh's clearing in a few strides and entered the water. Its chill hit his skin like a lover's caress. Inwardly McCabe exulted, he was back to normal.
A sharp pain flared on his left ankle. It felt so good he nearly let the snake pass unmolested but he needed the life the reptile offered. A tiny portion of power drained the snake as well as the myriad of mosquitoes seeking sustenance off of McCabe's naked body.
The small lives he absorbed tasted like fine wine. McCabe spent some time wandering through the swamp draining the life of any creature unfortunate enough to cross his path. His route took him further and further from Haberstroh's clearing.
She watched him until he disappeared into the rushes. Once McCabe's form was gone from her sight she turned and hobbled back to her hut. The makings of breakfast went into her pot and she cackled to herself as she stirred, “He'll do well my mate. Oh yes he will, yes he will indeed.”
Chapter Eleven
“C'mon Willie, push over,” The speaker stood at the bench end of one of tables in the Ortian Army Mess Tent. To describe him as an ugly little man would have been an exercise in understatement. Loman, he always missed the inherent pun in his name, stood only four foot three inches, four foot five in his boots. His hair was a mixture of dirt brown and gray and looked as though combs ran from it in terror. Wrinkles crawled across his face like they had a life of their own, but this was secondary to its appearance. If asked, his friend Willie would be hard pressed to decide what Loman's parentage consisted of, Human, Gnome, or Ape. Loman could have passed for any combination of them. In spite of his looks, he had one saving grace that overrode all physical detractions; he was fun to be around.
Willie looked up from the trencher he was single-mindedly devouring, “What, oh, oy there, Loman, ‘ere, lemme make some room fer thee, there's a fellow.”
Willie, unlike Loman, fit your typical career mid-rank noncom to a tee. He had enough in him to advance up to three stripes, but none of the initiative to go any further, and he was quite content to stay there. Being a Sergeant with a couple of decades of service under his belt meant easy behind-the-lines duty, three squares, and a comfortable cot in his own tent.
Apart from the uniform, Willie bore no resemblance to the Ortian fighting man. The years had added their weight to his waistline, and he looked out upon the world with passive hound dog eyes set into a cherubic face. White stubble softened the lines of his cheeks and gray curls ringed the shiny crown of his head. He looked more the part of a retired merchant than a soldier.
Loman slid into the place Willie created and slapped his own trencher down onto the table, “Thanks, Willie. How's the sausage an’ mash?”
“Like eatin’ horse apples,” Willie shoveled another mouthful in as he spoke.
“Will you listen to that? Here's a man after me own heart, Flynn.”
Willie looked up at the speaker. He saw a man, taller than average and rail thin, with straggly brown hair showing touches of gray peeking out from under a floppy cloth cap. The fellow had a long nose, three-day stubble and very little chin.
Twinkling gray eyes met his gaze, “Try th’ cider, tastes more like cow piss but it'll wash down them sausages.”
Willie nodded as he elbowed Loman in the short ribs, “Oy, Loman, pipe these fellers sittin’ across us. They look as likely a pair as we does.”
“Whazzat?” Loman looked up from his plate and in the direction Willie pointed, “Oh,” He smiled around his mouthful, “Howjadoo, Name's Loman,” He stuck out his hand across the table.
“Neely here,” The skinny one took Loman's hand and indicated the massive redhead sitting next to him with a nod of his head, “This large fellow next to me is called Flynn. Keep a good eye on him cause he'll empty your stores iffn you give ‘im half a chance.”
Flynn chuckled as he reached for his tankard, “Just gotta a healthy appetite that's all.”
Neely barked out a short loud laugh, “You gots two healthy appetites iffn you ask me.”
Willie reached across the table, took Neely's hand and then Flynn's, “Sergeant Hubban-Polig but folks just call me Willie. How long you two been dossin’ here?”
Flynn finished his drink, “Mmm, whadja say Neely, coupla weeks?”
“Been here longer'n us Willie,” Loman continued to dig into his food.
“Seems like a coupla flickin’ years,” Neely muttered as he reached for a chunk of bread. “Came here ta help ‘em right a wrong what been done to the Emperor's niece but all we seems ta do is sit around and wait.”
Willie leaned back and rubbed his full belly, “Well, when you gets ta be my age you kinda ‘preciates the waitin’ times. ‘Taint as loud as the fightin’ ones, nor near as hard on a man's appytite neither,” He belched gently for emphasis.
“I tell ya,” He reached for the bread on his trencher, “twas the best thing I ever did, joinin’ the army. Gots little ta worry me head about, sumbuddy else does that for ya. They picks out yer clothes, cooks yer food, tells yer where ta go an’ when ta do it. Ain't much in life less complicated'n that now, is there?”
“You make it sound like a wonderful life,” Neely ran a finger through some of the spilled cider on the table.
“Oh, aye, it is, it is, ain't it Loman? ‘Ere, you give our new friends a tale or two from yer store of treasures.”
“Naw Willie. I don't wanna bore the fellers wif my doin's an’ all. I'll bet they've gots a lot better goin's on ta talk about an’ we've ever done. ‘Sides, lookit ‘em, they look like any soljer you ever seen? I bet they's rangers, er mercenaries, er summat else, ain'tcha fellers?” Loman waggled his eyebrows at Flynn and Neely.
Flynn shrugged. “I ain't nothin’ special an’ I don't think Neely'll say diffrn't. We's just kinda goin’ along fer th’ ride.”
Neely grunted in assent.
“Whut ride?” Willie and Loman spoke in unison.
“You tell ‘em Neely,” Flynn mumbled around a bite of bread, “I'm eatin'.”
“You're always eatin',” Neely eased his jibe with a grin, “All right, me an’ me large friend
here are companioning a very special lady on her hunt for her brother. Thought th’ lad was dead, now he's not. Me an’ Flynn here, we get ta see th’ fun along th’ way.”
“Yeah, whut sorta fun?” Loman, his food forgotten in anticipation of a tale, leaned forward on the table.
Neely began picking his teeth with a splinter from the table, “Well now, there was this time we had this little shootin’ contest with arrows. Charity hit her mark at near a thousand paces an’ then put th’ second arrow down th’ center of th’ first, splittin’ it. I tell ya, that was a sight ta see.
“An’ then there was th’ time we was set upon by a batch o’ highwaymen. Hadda be a dozen or more of ‘em an’ only th’ three of us, figgered our giblets was cooked then fer sure.”
“Yeah, yeah?” Both Willie and Loman urged Neely to continue, neither saw Flynn's smile at his friend's tendency for exaggeration.
“I'm getting’ there, I'm getting’ there,” Neely placated his listeners with a wave, “Their leader was a real mean lookin cuss, had a knife this big,” He demonstrated by holding his hands a good eighteen inches apart, “An’ looked like he knew how ta use it.”
“Sum o’ them do,” Willie muttered, “Lottsa deserters out in them wilds.”
Neely nodded, “Probably some of them was in this bunch, can't be sure. Most won't be doin’ any thievin’ any time soon.”
Loman ooo'd and Willie grunted, “Good show.”
Willie looked up at Neely, “So, you an’ Flynn protected th’ lady, eh?”
Flynn's stifled guffaw caused the Sergeant to raise his eyebrows. He looked at Loman and then back to Flynn and Neely, “I missin’ summat here?”
“You ... tell ... ‘em,” Flynn finally managed through his sniggers.
“You tell ‘em, since you find it so flamin’ funny,” Neely huffed and buried his nose in the cider mug.
Flynn wiped the tears from his eyes and finally settled himself enough to talk, “Wuz more the other way around, talkin’ ‘bout the lady, I mean.”
Willie and Loman looked at each other and then back at Flynn, “Other way ‘round?”
“Oh, I'm not sayin’ me an’ Neely didn't do our part but it wuz Miss Charity what finished th’ fightin’ with her bow,” Flynn's chins emphasized his nod.
“You sayin’ a chit outfought a dozen men?” Willie shook his head in disbelief, “I can't figger that, I just can't.”
“I dunno Willie,” Loman worked a chunk of sausage out from between his teeth with a fingernail, “I heard some of th’ boys jabberin’ an’ they was sayin’ summat ‘bout this here Cherry, Chary, er summat like that. Said she could near take any man in this here camp. Said she near ta kilt a man cause he teased her cat, she did.”
Willie wasn't convinced, “I dunno, Loman, I mean a chit an’ all. They's built fer cuddlin', not fightin.”
“Her name's Charity, like I said,” Neely's voice came out in a low growl, “She ain't no chit an’ that feller had it comin’ an’ more. He's th’ one what tried ta knife me out on th’ parade ground. Flynn shoulda left him without a hand.”
Loman jumped in on top of Flynn's protestations to the contrary, “That wuz you?” He slapped his forehead, “Blimey! I'm flickin’ blind I am! Lookit ‘im Willie! That's ‘im, th’ one whut fit Murt to a standstill, till ‘e pulled that knife o’ his, I mean.”
He punched the Sergeant on the shoulder, “Aw, c'mon Willie, You remember? Best fight we seen in years, you said it, remember?”
“Aye, I remember Loman,” Willie said slowly, “So, you're that fella,” He appraised Neely with newfound respect.
“An’ you must be th’ one whut stopped it,” His eyes fell back onto Flynn and a broad smile split his face, “I'll never fergit th’ look on Murt's ugly mug when you picked ‘im up by th’ hand like that. I near wet meself laughin'.”
“Wuz that lady whut come over to ya th’ one you called Charity?” Loman turned his attention back to Neely.
“Aye, that's her,” Neely nodded once.
“Phweeee,” Loman whistled in appreciation, “Now that'un's a looker she is.” He smoothed some of the lank hair on his head with a hand, “Any chance she's not taken?”
The chorus of laughter that greeted Loman's question brought his head up indignantly. “Whut? Ere’ now! Whut's so bleedin’ funny?”
“You ever look at yerself bub?” Neely snorted through his laughter.
Loman's eyes widened as he looked from Neely back to Willie and to Neely again. “Huh? Wazzat mean? You sayin’ I ain't good'nuf fer her?”
“Ol son, you ain't good enuf fer her cat,” Neely snickered.
“You might wanna set your sights a tad lower, you think?” Flynn appraised Loman from beneath bushy red eyebrows, “Miss Charity chooses who she wants to be with an’ who she doesn't. I don't see much chance o’ her choosin’ you.”
“Leave it Loman,” Willie spoke up without looking at his friend, “These two seem a bit protective of the lady. Which of ‘em do y'think you can take inna fight? ‘Sides, you ain't much better lookin’ than Murt anyroad.”
Loman grimaced and for a moment looked as if he was going to argue the point, but his generally sunny nature took over and a smile brightened his face, “Aw skrud it, I knows there's better lookin’ mud fences but,” He looked wistfully at Flynn and Neely, “Ya can't blame a feller fer tryin', can ye?”
* * * *
Grisham's guard, due to the influx of conscripts, had now swelled to nearly four times the number of men usually housed in the city's barracks. Most, by mere observation, would serve only as a body to put between the inevitable Southern army and the city. The rest showed the potential to be fighting men of various skills. Ethan was one of those.
“I tell you, that man has handled a sword before. Wouldn't surprise me if he's the best of the bunch. Look at the way his hands hang from his wrist. The man's a blade or I'm Bilardi's mule,” The Guard Sergeant worked the stalk he was chewing on over to the other side of his mouth.
His Lieutenant watched Ethan as he toiled with the other conscripts reinforcing a suspect section of the city wall, “Um hmm, you may be right Sergeant. Corporal Jessup said much the same after they were scrubbed down. He suggested a match between this one and that new blade of the Captain's, what's his name?”
“Adam.”
The Lieutenant nodded as he crossed his arms. “Yes, that's the one. Made stew meat out of Mundy.”
He raised a hand to point at a group of conscripts struggling to fit a hoist strap around one of the massive wall stones, “Watch those straps you lot! I don't want to have to replace that stone.”
The Sergeant coughed softly to regain his superior's attention, “Uh, Lieutenant? How about arranging a little test of the fellow's abilities first? Seems to me we'd stand a better chance at odds if we knew what this man could do before we laid our coins on the line, wouldn't it?”
“Sergeant,” The Lieutenant's tone suggested deep reproach, “are you suggesting that an officer of the Duke's City Guard should stoop to wagering on a sword fight?”
“Of course not sir,” the Sergeant smiled, “Merely a suggestion concerning a potential investment, sir.”
He looked back toward Ethan and the conscripts working with him, “So which one do we use?”
Ethan felt the strap finally slip over the granite block's corner. They were going about the business of reinforcing the wall all wrong. The judicious use of a few levers along with a block and tackle would have speeded things up considerably, but as the thought crossed his mind another one stepped on its heels. They wanted the work to be this hard. One of the best ways to gain the measure of a large group of men was to force them into tough physical labor as a team and then stand back and observe. The natural leaders, the followers, the cretins, the cowards and the bullies would all manifest themselves eventually.
The man next to him slipped and fell hard just as the block began its swing toward the wall.
On the other side of the block the
thick-lipped oaf from the showers loosed a loud curse as his share of the weight was increased because of that, “You skrudding gnomic, take that!” He lashed out with the toe of his boot and kicked the fellow in the side. Those near could hear ribs crack.
His victim groaning in agony did nothing to salve the bully's temper. Still cursing, he pulled back his boot to kick again only to find himself suddenly upended as the leg was jerked out from under him.
“Kicking a man when he's down's no way for another man to act, Gros. You want to take your temper out on someone, try me.” Ethan stood over the bully, his right leg resting on the ball of his foot.
“You again,” A thickly corded arm wiped spittle away from his mouth, “I'll teach you to mix in where you're not wanted.”
Ethan easily avoided the boot that kicked out at him by dancing backwards, “Uh, uh, thick lips. It won't be that easy, try again.”
“Lieutenant! We got trouble, a fight's brewing. Want me to stop it?” The Sergeant started forward, flexing his truncheon.
The Lieutenant shook his head, “No, leave off. We wanted to see what our blade can do and this is a good time to do it, besides, I think he can take him.”
“Him, take that one?” The Sergeant goggled, “The man's a monster, it took three guards to subdue him when he went on a rampage the other day and two of them are still in the hospital. It'll be pure murder, nothing more.”
“I don't think so,” The Lieutenant pointed to where Ethan stood, arms akimbo, waiting for his opponent to get to his feet, “Watch how that one moves. He's had training and hard experience, I'd bet a days wage on it.”
“Done!” The Sergeant slapped a hand down on the Lieutenant's extended palm, sealing the bet.
Gros took his time climbing to his feet, keeping his eyes on Ethan, gauging the man. This one wasn't like the others, he didn't show any sign of fear or concern, in spite of the difference in their sizes, and he moved too fast by half, “You just let me get my hands on you, skrud, then we'll see what's easy.”