The Man With No Hands

by Toby Neighbors

  He climbed the stairs to his room and shut the door, glad that he hadn’t show any sign of weakness in front of the war band. News of the duel would spread through the town, and Horace guessed every able-bodied man and boy would be there to see the fight. Part of him wanted to flee. It seemed stupid to risk injury and death so soon after finally having been healed of a crippling wound that had plagued him all his adult life. Yet he knew he couldn’t live with the shame of running away. He could make a life for himself in another county, but he would be a wanted man. News of his cowardice would spread across Floralon and by not fighting he would be admitting that Sir Leon’s accusations were right.

  Resolving not to besmirch what little reputation he still had, Horace laid out his chain mail and spent an hour going over every inch, making sure there were no weaknesses in the links. He wouldn’t bother with any type of plate armor, which would slow him down and wear him out if the fight lasted more than a few minutes. His swords were already well honed, but he checked them anyway, and spent the final hours of the night in prayer.

  A knock at the door roused him from his drowsy state. Horace opened his door and found Sir Tolliver there.

  “It is time, sir. Do you require help?”

  “No,” Horace said. “I can dress myself.”

  “Very good, sir. The innkeeper stands ready to prepare your breakfast. What would you like?”

  “Just water and toasted bread. I won’t eat much before the fight.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Tolliver replied. “You’ll find me waiting in the common room.”

  “Thank you,” Horace said.

  He closed the door, feeling foolish. Why, he wondered, had he agreed to the fight. It was madness. He stretched, taking his time, making sure every muscle in his back, shoulders, and legs was strong and ready for the fight. He pulled on the coat of mail over his clothes, checked and rechecked to make sure the links didn’t bind up or hinder his movement in any way. He strapped on a belt with his sword’s sheath and dagger. Then went down to the common room for what might be the last meal he ever had.

  Chapter 11

  The common room of the Greenhaven Inn was already full of people. A fire burned in the hearth and the smell of freshly baked bread made Horace’s stomach growl. His blood was pumping and he didn’t feel tired, despite his lack of sleep. He found Sir Tolliver waiting by the landing, a large mug of water in his hand.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have meat sir?” Tolliver asked. “You’ll need your strength.”

  “I’m certain,” Horace replied. “Just water and a little toast.”

  He ate alone, despite the many people in the room. He could hear the talking. Some were laying bets on the duel. Others were talking about the fact that Sir Leon had already gone out to choose the place of the duel, as was his right. Sitting calmly, his fears buzzing like angry bees in his ears, trying to ignore the men all around him, was difficult for Horace. His stomach didn’t want food, and he gave up his breakfast after only a few bites.

  The sky was turning gray outside and the men around him began to leave for the duel. Horace waited, forcing himself to sit still until the common room was empty. Then he stood up and walked toward the door.

  “Good luck, my lord,” the innkeeper said with a bow.

  Horace nodded at the man, unable to find words. His throat was dry and his legs felt weak. Outside the inn, Tolliver was waiting for him with their horses. Once Horace was in the saddle, his horse followed Tolliver, who began talking quietly as they rode slowly toward the crowd that was waiting at the edge of town.

  “Sir Leon is a crafty fighter,” Tolliver said. “But he relies on his strength to win. He’s loud and bold. He’ll try to intimidate you.”

  “I’ve dealt with bullies before,” Horace said. “I appreciate your help with things.”

  “It is my honor, sir. Men like Sir Leon must be shown their place. I have no doubt you will win the day.”

  “No doubt?” Horace said. “You hardly know me.”

  “I know Sir Leon. I knew Sir Rowan. I knew the good men who died with them in the search for the widow. They were my friends. I should have been with them, but my horse came up lame the first day of the search. They pressed on without me and fell in with Sir Leon and Sir Rowan. Two of them died and Sir Allister has fallen under the illusion that helping Leon somehow raises his own stock.”

  “And what illusion are you under? Do you really believe that helping me will increase your reputation somehow?”

  “No illusions sir, but I will stand against those who use others. Sir Leon has no honor. I would fight him myself if I could.”

  Horace knew Sir Tolliver was lying. Perhaps not about everything, but certainly about fighting Sir Leon. No one wanted to fight a seasoned warrior with a grim reputation, but if Tolliver truly wanted to he could have challenged the older knight anytime he wanted.

  They approached the crowd and Horace caught sight of Sir Leon. He was pacing back and forth on the far side of the circle formed by the crowd of knights and locals. Horace dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to young boy who took them eagerly as Tolliver gave the boy a copper coin. The crowd parted before them, and Horace walked to his place with Tolliver by his side. Another knight, an older man named William, stepped between Horace and Leon, his hands raised to quiet the crowd.

  “This is a lawful and honorable duel between Sir Leon and Sir Horace. If any man here has reason to stop this fight, let him speak now.”

  There was silence and Horace could hear the blood rushing through his ears as his heart raced in his chest. Leon was wearing leather armor with flat shingles of metal sewn into the tunic. The arms were laced to the bodice, and his head was covered with a simple skull cap of gray metal. He glared at Horace the way a hungry dog might look at a helpless rabbit.

  “Seconds,” William said in a loud voice, “step away. When the horn sounds, the fighting may commence.”

  “Good luck,” Tolliver said.

  Horace drew his weapons as Tolliver joined the crowd. He felt truly alone, but as he rotated his wrists and bounced on the balls of his feet to loosen up, he felt a sense of strength he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Horace carried a simple, double-edged sword in his right hand. The blade was plain, but well forged and sharp. It tapered to a point and had a good balance. In his left hand he carried a dagger that was wide and made of thick steel. It was strong enough to withstand the heavy blows Sir Leon would surely hammer it with. The savage-looking knight was wielding a longsword with both hands. The weapon was larger than Horace’s and looked heavy, but Leon swung it as if it were a wooden stave.

  All around them men were shouting raucously. Some cheered for Sir Leon, others simply called for blood or a good fight. Horace did his best to ignore everything but his opponent. When the horn blared, Horace stepped forward, but Sir Leon screamed his war cry and rushed toward Horace with the big sword raised over his head.

  All his fears seemed to scream in Horace’s mind, then, just as suddenly, they disappeared and he was fighting. Leon chopped down at him with the big sword but Horace slipped to the side, avoiding the blow, his muscles reacting and his mind rushing to catch up. Leon had expected to miss the first strike and stepped toward Horace as he followed his first attack with a lightning-fast slash in a level arc with his big sword. Horace jumped backward, avoiding the deadly slash, and started to counter, but just in time he saw that Sir Leon was ready for just such a maneuver. He wanted to draw Horace in, so instead Horace circled his opponent.

  Leon was a powerful man, who was obviously a skilled fighter with his big sword. It wasn’t uncommon for knights to carry longswords, but most relied heavily on their lances and only trained with their swords from horseback as a backup if their primary weapon was lost. Most knights saw swords as a foot soldier’s weapon, even though most men-at-arms carried spears as their primary fighting implement. But Leon was well trained with his big sword and anxious to draw blood.

  He feinte
d to his left then jumped to his right, thrusting out with his long weapon, forcing Horace to parry with his dagger. When Horace, sensing an opening, slashed forward with his own sword, Leon brought his big weapon up with lightning speed and caught Horace’s blade. He then lashed out with a front kick that caught Horace in the chest and knocked him backward off his feet. Leon might have ended the duel with a quick follow up as Horace struggled to catch his breath and regain his feet, but Horace’s dagger had slashed down Leon’s leg as he was kicked. It wasn’t a deep cut, and Leon’s thick boot protected his lower leg, but he felt the sting on his knee and lower thigh.

  Around them the crowd erupted in shouts and cheers. There were whistles and screams as blood ran freely down the big warrior’s leg and he staggered backward, one hand touching the wound and staining his fingers crimson. Rage filled Sir Leon’s face as Horace got back to his feet. The men charged one another at the same time. Leon screamed a frightening battle cry, while Horace stayed ghostly silent as they moved back together. Leon looked as if he were going to slash at Horace, but such an attack would leave the vicious fighter off balance and Horace didn’t fall for the trick. When Leon rotated his sword to thrust it into Horace’s face, the earl’s steward dove for the ground, rolling over his shoulder and launching himself upward with his dagger. He stabbed the small weapon straight up and under Leon’s left arm, the blade slashing through the lacings of his armor at the big man’s armpit and cutting into the soft flesh.

  Leon screamed, and slashed hard as he stepped backward, blood dripping from his wound and his left hand losing its grip on the big sword. Horace brought up his own sword to block the bigger weapon, but when the blades connected, Horace’s smaller sword shattered. Bits of metal tore into Horace’s face, and then Leon’s sword connected with Horace’s shoulder. The force of the blow had been greatly reduced, and Horace’s chain mail stopped the weapon, but not before it sent Horace staggering backward, his shoulder cramping under the impact.

  A gleam of savagery lit in Leon’s eyes and he charged forward, his own wounds forgotten in the lust for victory. He raised his big sword high with his right hand and swung the weapon hard in a downward stroke that would have impacted Horace at the shoulder and slashed down across his body. But Horace, ignoring his fears, stepped into the attack, trusting his smaller dagger not to shatter the way his sword had. He brought the thick blade up with his left hand, catching the longsword between the blade and the hand guard. The softer bronze of the guard dented from the powerful steel blade but didn’t break, and Horace drove his thumb straight up into the bigger man’s eye. Leon screamed, dropping his sword and covering his wounded eye. Horace felt something sticky on his hand and knew he had struck a devastating blow. He lashed out with his foot, driving it hard into Leon’s crotch.

  The crowd had fallen silent as Horace used the back of his hand to swipe at the blood on his face. There were a dozen small cuts from his shattered sword blade and several shards of metal were still lodged in his cheek. Ignoring the pain of his own wounds, Horace knocked Leon’s skull cap away and snatched a handful of his opponent’s hair in his free hand. He tugged Sir Leon’s face up, the wounded man’s right hand grabbing Horace’s wrist and his left hand wavering feebly as if to ward off the killing stroke. Leon’s ruined eye was a ghastly pit of blood and gore that was oozing down his face. Horace ignored it, and drove his dagger straight up through Leon’s chin, the blade stabbing deep into the soft flesh of his upper throat and through his tongue, the roof of his mouth, and finally into his brain.

  The fearsome knight dropped to the ground and Horace put his foot on the bloody face as he jerked his dagger free. Then he looked around at the silent crowd.

  “You all know what this man accused me of,” Horace said in a loud, angry voice. “I have ever been true to Lord Uthar. Leon’s disgraceful lies end here and now. I have proven my innocence in combat.”

  He spit on the ground and looked around to see if anyone else would challenge him, but the crowd remained silent. Only Sir Tolliver stepped forward. He bent low and picked up the big sword that had been Leon’s and knelt before Horace, holding up the sword like an offering. It was not the type of weapon that Horace preferred, but his own sword was ruined and he didn’t have the resources or the time to return to Glory Keep and purchase a new one. He took the big sword and laid it across his shoulder.

  Tolliver got to his feet and turned to Sir Allister, Leon’s second. “Get this disgrace out of here, sir! And if I hear you speak his lies to anyone again, I shall send you swiftly to join him.”

  Sir Allister swallowed nervously, and nodded.

  “Well, what are we all standing around for? We have a quest to complete,” someone shouted.

  The crowd agreed and quickly dispersed. Horace looked down at his fallen opponent. He had no compassion for Sir Leon, but he felt guilty at the waste of life. Death always felt wrong to Horace, and left him feeling hollow, but he felt justified at the same time. He could see the looks of admiration from the other knights and he had known that at some point they would test him to see if he truly was fit to call himself a knight again. He had won his duel, proven himself, and gained a measure of renown among the other knights and warriors of the earl’s war band. And other than his face, he had no wounds. He couldn’t ask for more than that.

  “Come with me, lord,” Tolliver said. “We’ll see to those cuts and get you some ale.”

  Horace nodded but didn’t speak. He looked down at the corpse of Sir Leon one last time, and then turned away from the horror of death. He had achieved something, even if it had been in a horrible, violent way. There was no need to linger over it. Somewhere near the Mountain Veil the man with no hands and the Lady Sorceress Feray were escaping into the Wilderness. Horace hoped that the trail would be lost and the pass never found, but if it was, then someone would have to find a way to stop the Raven King’s evil plans, or hundreds, maybe even thousands, more good men would die just like Sir Leon.

  Chapter 12

  At dawn, Orin was up and teaching Luc to rub down his horse. Luc was too short to do a proper job, and not strong enough to saddle his own horse, but it was obvious at a glance that the horses responded to the little boy. He talked to them as if they were old friends, and the horses nickered, neighed, and nodded their heads as he and Orin rubbed them down.

  An hour later, they had found the game trail that led into the mountains. The pass which Crucifus had called the Keyhole Pass, was so mundane, that it was easy to overlook. They walked the horses over the rise and back along the trail that led to the first arcing valley, where Orin lifted Luc up and into the saddle he had set up on one of Feray’s old draft horses. Orin had shortened the stirrups considerably and he held the horse’s bridle while it walked along the path.

  Feray watched from behind, her nerves on edge. Luc seemed so little on the big horse, but he also looked incredibly happy. He had ridden many times with other adults, but this was his first solo ride. Feray felt both proud and worried. She knew if he fell her little boy could get hurt. The horse he was riding was a gentle animal, but accidents happened all the time. She couldn’t help but think about Earl Uthar and how his big charger had bucked him off and stepped on him before fleeing from the hill where the earl had gone to confront Feray. She had great healing power, but Luc was so small, so fragile, she couldn’t help but worry about him.

  When they reached the point where the trail led up along a very narrow game pass, Orin helped Luc from the saddle and turned to Feray.

  “This is as far as the horses can go,” he said.

  “I think I can do something about that,” she replied. “We’ll have to lead them single file and I’ll need some time.”

  “Alright,” he said, without any indication that he doubted her claim.

  There were times when Feray felt like she was overstepping her bounds, or felt boastful. Yet Orin never doubted her. He was a steady, reassuring presence and she had grown to lean on him, to rely on his strength. It wa
sn’t fair, she knew that. He gave so much of himself and she gave so little, but she understood her motives and knew she wasn’t ready to give more of herself to him. Her grief and loss were still much too strong. Opening herself to Orin would be unfair and might cast a shadow over them that would never fade.

  She led the way up the winding path, feeling the strength of the mountain beneath her and the vigorous power of the wind at her back. When they reached a narrow point where the ground below the path dropped off sharply, and the opposite side of the trail rose up in a sheer granite wall, she called for a halt. The horses would not be able to stay on the narrow path and would either have to go back or risk falling to their death. Feray placed her hands on the stone of the cliff face, feeding magic into the mountainside.

  She hadn’t known what to expect exactly, and what happened shocked her. There was no crack like thunder, no crumbling of the stone, no crash as a section of rock was sheered away. Instead the rock seemed to dissolve or melt, only there was no heat. An arc formed in the sheer cliff face along the trail, widening until two horses could pass side by side. The melted stone flowed out over the trail, hardening and reinforcing the path. It all happened very quickly and Feray found the work exhausting even though she wasn’t doing much physically.

  Feray felt the magic rushing around her and before she finished widening the mountain trail she could see it, a swirling brown with streaks of gold, almost like she was standing in a muddy river. Wielding the magic was invigorating and she couldn’t help but marvel at the results, as well as the feeling it gave her. When the tunnel was finished the magic seemed to slow, and when Feray released it she nearly fainted. Her heart was pounding in her chest and she felt lightheaded.

  “Mama!” Luc shouted as she leaned against the cliff face, her head hanging and bright sparks dancing in the edges of her vision.

  “My lady,” Orin said, “are you hurt?”

  “No,” Feray replied, holding up her hand. “I’m fine, just tired, that’s all.”