by Damien Lake
“And you too.”
Colbey retraced the path he had taken so many days before at a much slower pace. His travel pack remained in the tree he had left it in. He shouldered it before climbing down to the forest floor. With a heavy heart and a tear in his eye he would never have credited to himself, he left the Euvea and his village, departing for the outlands once again.
Chapter 04
“Hold up, young son! This looks a good place for the evening repast.”
Marik paused in the middle of the road and looked to the sun. It hovered several feet above the tree line. “We still have at least a candlemark before dark,” he protested.
“Yeah, lad-o,” replied Chatham. “Yours truly can tell you’ve never been on the road before.”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Marik had found Chatham’s constant chattering amusing at first, but begun to wonder as the day progressed if he would have been better off traveling on his own after all. Yet despite the perpetual annoyance from the odd man, Marik still felt refreshed. As if a poison had been purged and left behind in the Tattersfield town square.
“It means life’s not like a bard’s tale,” grumbled Harlan. “You think it’s march all day until you can’t see the road, up at the break of dawn to do it all over again?”
He could not tell if they were having fun at his expense. Chatham continued, “If your idea o’ a good time is finding firewood you can’t see in the dark an’ stubbing your tender little toes on the rocks scattered hereabouts, that’s your own lookout, young son. Me, I like to have my camp all set an’ comfy in time for the twilight curtain call.”
Maddock dropped the pack from his shoulders next to a round boulder beside the road. Marik’s legs had been itching badly since noon though he refused to admit it. Stopping now would be nice.
Chatham called for Marik to help with the camp preparations, seeing as he would be sleeping in it himself, then sent him to gather wood. A tree stand near Maddock’s boulder provided numerous fallen branches that he carried back to stack in the loose dirt. Harlan did not seem to be helping at all as he wandered around the trees and the nearby small brook.
He debated whether he should ask what Harlan was doing, but missed his chance when Maddock instructed him to lay his bedroll on the fire’s far side so they would form a square around it. “Four is the best number for a single campfire,” he taught, as gloomy Harlan meandered further away through the trees.
“Why did we stop now?” Marik asked. “We probably could have made it to an inn in the next town before dark.”
Maddock answered Marik’s question with one of his own. “Why throw away your coin? The nights are still warm enough to camp.”
An inn hardly sounded like wasted coin to Marik, considering the rocks he felt as he laid out his bedroll. He held his tongue on the matter. It had been he who asked to join them, after all.
A tap on his shoulder prompted him to turn. Chatham grinned at him. “Hey now, lad-o. Why don’t you come on over here for a moment or three?” Marik rose, uncertain what the man wanted when Chatham held aloft a hand. “Ah! Don’t forget your pig sticker there.”
The jester pointed at his father’s sword. Apprehension gripped Marik. Maybe these men were no better than highway bandits after all. Were they going to cut him down for his pack and its contents?
Chatham read his expression. He recoiled in mock shock. “Hey now! Don’t judge lest yea be judged, an’ so on an’ so on. Come on an’ bring it over here.”
Marik glanced briefly at Maddock. The stout man’s mouth had pulled back in a curious smile. Maddock gestured with his head as if to say, ‘Yes, get on with it.’
He lifted the plain sheath housing the blade, still uncertain but resolved. Chatham stood away from the trees, out of the shade and grinning as if he beheld humors visible only to him. Perhaps he did.
“First rule o’ the road!” he pronounced. “Make your camp when you can see the terrain. Don’t want no son-o’-a-whore jumping at you from behind a rock you didn’t know was there!”
Marik kept a tight expression. He nodded slightly to show he had heard.
“An’ first rule o’ fighting; know who you can depend on! Roads are dangerous places to walk along. Some other sons-o’-whores might take a liking to the extra smallclothes in our packs an’ want a closer look at them. I’d trust my back to any o’ these worthy gentlemen, but what I’m itching to know is how much I can depend on you!” He finished with a toss of his head, his finger pointed at Marik.
“I can take care of myself,” Marik asserted.
“That might be so, lad-o o’ mine, but what I’m asking is if you can be taking care o’ anyone else?” He drew his own sword. Its three foot length gleamed silvery gray in the late afternoon light. “This here is my life, an’ all the parts o’ me that want to stay alive lend a bit o’ expertise to my skill with it. Since that’s everything from my hair to my ten little toes, that means I wield it very well indeed. How about you? Why don’t you show yours truly how well you control your life?”
Marik’s discomfort intensified. Did he want to be drawn into this? Both Chatham and Maddock were watching him expectantly. He felt a need to act rather than stand there like an inexperienced village idiot.
“Come on, lad-o! This ain’t a fight to the end, not by any means! My own humble desire is to see where you rank.”
He placed his faith in his constant practices over the last several months. After drawing the blade he dropped the sheath to the ground. Marik took the hilt in both hands and charged forward, preparing an overhead strike like his drills. He swung down at Chatham, watching the man’s reactions, ready to change the direction to either side so he would not kill the other man.
That was unnecessary. Chatham raised his sword with the grip up and the blade pointing down. When Marik’s blade passed the guard, he quickly angled his blade to catch the opposing steel. Blade against blade, Chatham shifted his to the side so Marik’s downward strike diverted to his right. Momentum carried the blow down the length of Chatham’s sword until Marik’s blade struck the ground.
Marik’s eyes had at first been watching Chatham, but when he realized what was happening he switched to his sword. After he checked that his blade had not been damaged by its clash with the terrain, he refocused on Chatham.
As soon as Marik’s blade had left contact with his, Chatham had raised his sword so it pointed toward the sky. He waited patiently for the few moments it took Marik to remember he was in the midst of a fight. When the younger man looked up, he swung his sword down in a quick strike at Marik’s neck.
Marik knew he could never block in time, that he had left Chatham an opening so large a wagon could drive through. He knew with certainty that he’d been tricked, that these men had never wanted anything except his coin purse.
Instead of a fiery slice into his neck, he felt Chatham’s sword tapping his shoulder. Marik opened eyes he had clenched shut without realizing. Chatham grinned in his lopsided manner.
“Well, that wasn’t very effective, was it now? You must not want to stay alive very badly if plowing farmer’s furrows is all you can do.” His comment and his stupid grin infuriated Marik. He straightened his stance and took a firmer grip on his sword. “Oh-ho, maybe he can show me another thing or two.”
Marik’s chagrinned determination wanted exactly that. He held the blade parallel to the ground at waist level and swung in a tight arc. His sword clashed with Chatham’s but the forward momentum could not be directed aside this time.
The first strike brought him closer to Chatham. He recovered from the slash and prepared to launch a second from this closer range when Chatham’s fist suddenly filled his entire field of vision. It stopped a whisker from his left eye. Startled, Marik stumbled backward to avoid the sudden intrusion.
“Rule o’ fighting number two!” sang Chatham. “Just because my sword’s out for everyone to see doesn’t mean I’m going to use it! Before we continue dancing, how about letting me h
ave a closer look at that blade o’ yours?” He sheathed his sword.
Marik irritation flared into real anger. He checked himself forcefully. He’d come this far already, so could play along a little further. Chatham took the sword in his hands, looking closely along the blade and grip.
“Hmm. Well, I didn’t expect a master sword, but I’d figured any piece o’ equipment used by a professional would be better than this!” He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
“It’s not the sword he usually used. It was an extra he left at home.”
“Ah. Yes, I can see that being the case. I wouldn’t think he’d be using this unless he was truly down an’ out.”
“Why?” asked Marik. He had practiced with it for months, and he did not care for this fool questioning his father’s fighting sensibilities. There was nothing wrong with it he could see.
“How much do you know about swords, young son? Really know?” Chatham saw Marik preparing to answer a different question and clarified. “I’m not meaning swordsmanship, lad-o. I’m meaning the actual swords you hold in your own two paws.”
“Not much,” he reluctantly admitted. “Not many people around the town own blades.”
“Well then, it seems I got my work cut out for me if you’re going to learn anything at all during our brief travels along these pathways through life.”
“What?” Had Chatham said what he thought? But why would any of these men bother? “You mean you want to teach me?”
“Nah, nah, nah. More like, show you a thing or two.”
“Why?” he repeated, suspicion shrouding him.
“Why not? It’s like I said before, my forgetful soon-to-be sparring mate. The roads are full o’ sons-o’-whores. It’s a lot easier on me to have you looking after your own skin instead o’ me looking after both o’ us. Besides, traveling with these two excellent conversationalists is boring as all hells. It’ll help keep the evenings interesting an’ give me something to do instead o’ staring into the fire an’ growing that much older while my arse freezes to the ground.”
Marik groped for and adequate response. Better swordsmanship would be worth learning, no question. Having the opportunity fall from thin air like this made him suspicious. The tall man before him must be after something else, and Maddock had merely sat against his boulder the whole time, contributing nothing to the situation. Did he care one way or another? The stout man had as much as told Marik in Tattersfield that he would be responsible for his own hide.
He decided to see what Chatham’s idea of ‘showing him a thing or two’ would be. If it turned out to be the man’s inane silliness playing him for a rube, he would quit. “Fine then. What do you want to show me?”
Grinning, Chatham said, “Ah! You’re a quick one, no doubt there! But before I show you mine, you’ve got to show me yours! I want to see what all this practicing you’ve been doing actually looks like, because it sure doesn’t seem to have helped your skills overmuch.”
Marik could feel his face burning. He bit back an ugly reply. Instead he reclaimed his sword and began his drill sets starting with the overhead strike.
“Hmm. Well, it’s better than nothing I suppose,” mused Chatham. “Doesn’t improve your actual skill with the blade but it does build your muscles so you grow up big an’ beefy.”
Ignore him, Marik counseled himself. He’s trying to play with your head. He quickly ran through his remaining practices while Harlan returned from further downstream. The man had caught a family of pheasants and started cleaning them.
“You’re gripping the hilt right anyway. A firm grip is a man’s best friend, that’s what I always say.”
“You’re the only one here who needs a firm grip, you ugly clown,” Harlan commented in his surly manner.
“Shocked, am I! Yes, shocked to my core! To think you’d deflower the tender young ears o’ our young master swordsman here with such scandal!”
“You’ll lose the light soon, fool. Finish up.”
“I plan to, an’ am perfectly capable without your dour commentary my pessimistic partner.” He turned his attention back to Marik, who still had no idea what to make of his new traveling companions. “You seem to know most o’ the basics, lad-o. That’s good, because I would have left you beside the road with a beggar’s cup otherwise. Now let us continue your education in the finer arts.”
Chatham abruptly abandoned his foolish posture. He became as serious as the caravan masters Marik had encountered in his quest for odd jobs. “For starters, you were watching my face an’ then your own sword during that first strike. Never do that! See here? Always watch an opponent’s shoulders! That’s where you’ll see him start to move…
* * * * *
The following day, Marik peered ahead along the road while they walked. Chatham was annoying Harlan by attempting to place a flower picked from the roadside in his companion’s hair. Why did Harlan put up with Chatham’s foolishness as much as he did? He never seemed to derive any pleasure from being around Chatham yet never seriously lashed out at the man.
Maddock walked beside him as the sun reached midday. He remained quiet, as usual. Marik had decided this was the broad man’s way of staying clear from the crossfire between his two companions.
“I was wondering,” Marik ventured in Maddock’s direction. When the taciturn man glanced over in curiosity, Marik continued. “Why does Chatham keep going on about my father’s sword? I know it was only an extra he didn’t need, but it’s still a sword he owned. He always talked about how you trust your life to your equipment.”
Maddock considered the younger man beside him, as if deciding the best answer. Finally, he responded. “That is true, yet at the same time it is not.”
“How can it be true and not true at the same time?” asked Marik, slightly bewildered. If Chatham had said it, he would have suspected the statement was rooted in the man’s mockery.
“It is a matter of perspective and experience. Yes, the equipment you use can mean the different between living and dying, but at the same time a person who depends completely on his equipment will usually end on the dying side.”
“How can you not depend on your equipment? You’re useless without it.”
“No, that is not what I meant. Let me provide you with a suitable example. It is about a fellow merc I once knew. He was one who always strove to obtain the best of the best in terms of weapons, armor, horses—everything a warrior uses. He eventually acquired a brand new steel breastplate, the kind that fastens to a matching backplate with straps. He spent an extraordinary amount of his spare time with us rehashing the ways in which it outclassed the chainmail we still donned. Its defensive abilities far outstripped our mail, thus making it the only sensible choice for body protection. Can you guess what happened?”
Marik had a suspicion, but asked anyway. “No, what did?”
“The next battle we were in, he took an arrow through his throat.”
“That doesn’t mean the armor was no good. He was careless.”
“You are correct. He was right about the plate being the superior armor, but he counted on it instead of counting on his own skills. That is what I meant about depending on your equipment.”
“I see that. But depending on your own skill too much is just as thickheaded. I wouldn’t challenge a squadron of swordsmen with my fists!”
“That makes you smarter than many other men I’ve known through the years. Especially we mercenary types. Many are thoroughly convinced of their own invincibility.”
“That aside, I’d still like to know about this sword I’m trusting myself to.”
Maddock smiled. “As you should. From what you told us about your father, you will be spending a great deal of time traveling from place to place, unless I miss my guess. Knowledge of the world will be your most valuable asset during your journey.”
“I’ve lived all my life back in that town. I’ve never left it.” Marik hesitated, wanting to ask what he needed to without seeming naïve. “I know
I’m poor in terms of survival skills. That’s why I decided I should travel with experienced people whenever I finally left. I need to learn what I couldn’t learn back there.”
Maddock studied his face while he confessed this. Marik could feel himself being examined to see if he meant what he said. He hoped both the truth and his implied question were clear enough for the broad man to read. Finally, “I was already aware of your lack, but it is a relief to see that you are aware of it yourself. Most people I’ve seen who get killed did so because they were unable to see their own faults.”
“I intend to stay alive as long as I can.”
“That is also good. I will show you as much as I can during our trip to Kingshome, if you so wish. Chatham has already begun to teach you how much you don’t know about fighting and I am certain Harlan can teach you several skills for surviving in the world.”
“Thank you.” Marik felt a hot flush across his face at acknowledging his shortcomings. He tried to force it away and express his gratitude to this man who stood to gain nothing in return for his teachings. “I was afraid you’d think I was asking too many questions.”
Maddock snorted. “Is it asking too much when you ask how to live? I don’t think so, and neither do the others. And it will be an excellent way to pass the time while we walk.” He leaned closer to Marik for a moment to confide, “It gets trying having nothing to do but tolerate those two.”
A voice from further up the road called back, “You’re no festival event yourself, you lummox!”
Surprised, Marik focused on Chatham. The man must be thirty feet away, yet had heard their words! Chatham grinned his fool’s grin before returning to his bantering of Harlan. He’d failed to place the flower in Harlan’s hair so had torn off the petals and sprinkled them across Harlan’s back, unnoticed by their new bearer.
Maddock recaptured his attention by saying, “Now, about your sword. You told Chatham you don’t know much about swords.”