by Rod Fisher
Chapter Two
BARGONAST guzzled deep from his leather drinking jack, trying to wash away the cramping fear that gnawed at his stomach. The malt brew slopped down the braids of his beard, and he paid little heed to the groping fingers of the plump whore squirming on his lap.
"Come on, Barg," she wheedled, "you're no fun tonight. Let's go outside." She twisted her fingers in the matted hair on his chest. "Let's go out to the barn and hump."
"Leave off! I'm not in a mood."
"I could get you in the mood." She pulled his hand into her bodice and placed it on the swell of her breasts. He responded by rising from the stool, rolling her to the hard-packed earth of the barracks floor.
Her screeched insults followed him as he strode through the reveling swordsmen and stepped out into the night. He moved around the corner of the barracks and squatted in the dark, head in hands, trying to cope with the complexities of his situation.
The creak of leather caused him to look up and see the arc of silver in the moonlight. He threw himself back. The wicked edge of a battle-axe sliced the air by his head. The assailant's swing buried the blade in the logs of the building with a resounding "chonk," and, as he struggled to pull it free, Bargonast drove his helmeted head full into the attacker's midriff. The impact slammed the breath from the other man, tearing his grip from the haft. Bargonast wrestled him to the ground, kneeing and clawing with animal ferocity. Their rolling struggle carried them into the light of the doorway where two drunken soldiers stood watering the weeds by the steps. The onlookers shouted good-natured encouragement while they emptied their bladders.
Bargonast could feel his opponent tiring. He took advantage of a lull in the other's efforts to tug a long bladed dirk from his greave. Mustering all his strength, he forced the man's head back and drew a bloody line across the stretched throat. As the man went limp, his final sound was the hideous gargle of his last breath exhaling through a torrent of blood.
Bargonast rose, heart thumping, his face a snarling mask. He looked at the two swordsmen. They were staring bug-eyed, shocked into sobriety by the bloody sight. He wheeled and ran for the thick forest that edged the compound, crashing clumsily through the brush, moving uphill, not resting until he reached the top of the narrow pass that led to the north.
He stopped, chest heaving, and looked back at the scene below. Men were shouting orders and moving about with torches, trying to organize a pursuit. Bargonast's breath wheezed through a slack grin as he watched the confusion. The fear was gone from his stomach. He knew what he must do. He padded heavily down the pass, bearing left where the trail forked to the northwest and to the mountains of Calix.