Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  “There is something else,” Harvey said, stopping Gnochi before he could thrust the door open. Gnochi turned back and looked to him. “Boli has been by your side the whole time, sitting in silent vigil under the table in case you stirred or woke. She kept your fever down and cleaned you up. I only sent her away an hour back to get some rest because she’s hardly slept a wink since you’ve been out.”

  “Thanks,” Gnochi said, offering no other comment.

  “What’s her name? Boli cannot be—”

  “No,” Gnochi said in a flaying tone that begged to be contradicted. “Now, if you’ll let me be, I need to get some grub in this gut of mine.”

  “I’ll take a look at your stitches later to make sure they haven’t ripped and that you aren’t festering.”

  Approaching Zara’s bleak wagon, Gnochi felt a chill run down his spine and a warmth ripple through his ears. As he made to mount the stairs and knock on the wagon door, he spotted Zara lying partly submerged in the dried lakebed sand with a blade sheathed to its hilt jutting from her mouth. Her eyes tracked him, but she made no movements. After a minute, she slid the sword from her throat. The steel blade glistened from a film of saliva.

  “I thought I could get some more training in,” Gnochi said, breaking the silence. Zara sent an unnerving gaze at Gnochi. She took her thumb and pushed it into the blade’s edge as though it was a plum, prime for harvesting. A deep red bead of blood trickled down onto the blade. Zara righted her body into an aggressive stance and swiped the blade in an arc aiming for Gnochi’s face.

  He barely was able to jump back as his free hand groped for the sword that was not on his waist. The brusque movement agitated the slumbering wound in his thigh. Gnochi held the crutch level with Zara, though he wobbled under the gritty pain rippling through his leg.

  “Razor sharp,” she noted with amusement elevating her eyebrows. “Not the first time one of your ilk has pointed a staff at me in anger, either.” She chuckled. Before Gnochi could question her motives or ask her to explain her second statement, she cleaned her blade and replaced it within one of the many sheaths gripping her body. “Are you sure that you’re in any condition to be throwing knives?” Zara eyed the crutch.

  “I’ve got one free hand,” Gnochi said, shifting the crutch to his left hand.

  “All right,” she said, motioning with her hand. She led Gnochi around behind the wagon to where three hay targets of varying elevations were dangling on the wagon wall by a system of ropes and pulleys. Zara stepped away from the wagon and retrieved a pair of small daggerettes from a wrist sheath. “Despite training with me for as long as you have, you were not content last time,” Zara said with a frown. “These are the smallest knives that I have. They will not be useful to you any farther than these twenty paces. And even at this distance they act as a mere annoyance and not as a solid defense. Or an offense, for that matter.”

  “Twenty is plenty. I doubt I’ll need to be this far away, but it’s nonetheless good to know its limits,” Gnochi said.

  “As with any throwing knives, distance impacts how you must throw the knife. Much of what you need to decide must be instinctual. There is little room for error, and even less room to stop and think about it. With these particular knives, though, a good pattern to follow is that when an odd number of paces separates you and your target, throw with your hand on the blade. When an even number of paces separates you and your target, throw with your hand on the hilt. As such,” Zara explained, rearing back her arm and throwing the blade towards the middlemost target. It twirled through the air, an elegant dance contradicting the blade’s true design. After a split moment, the blade thudded into the geographic center of the target. Zara stepped forward once, made a show of gripping the knife from blade and threw it, with similar results at the second target. “It is imperative that you determine the distance between you and your target,” she warned. Without further instruction, and from the same spot, she threw a third knife, procured from another sheath, with her starting grip on the handle. The knife, though it struck the center of the third target, hit with the handle and bounced off to the awaiting scalding sands below. She stepped back to where she was when she threw the first knife, and repeated the same process—throwing from the opposite starting position—to similar results.

  “For all that these knives are useful,” Zara said, handing one to Gnochi, “they have their limits. For one, you won’t get a kill from them unless you can get a sizeable force behind your throw, though accuracy should take priority. The blades are not long enough to do the damage that a short sword or even an average dirk would be capable of doing.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Gnochi said, preparing to throw the knife. He listened for a breeze, but the wind had stilled. The blade, though concealed by his full hand, still held considerable weight. He eyed the third target, yet unblemished by a blade. He held his breath and threw the blade at the target. It thudded into the hay, hilt deep, a hand’s width to the left of the center. Zara nodded to herself, then handed Gnochi a second knife. Testing the knife in his hand, Gnochi limped forward once, then flipped the blade and tossed it at the same target all within a breath’s pause. It sunk into the hay with a mere hair’s space between the two hilts.

  “I know what I want,” Zara said as Gnochi limped over to the wagon to retrieve their quarry. Ignoring her statement, Gnochi threw two of the knives with equal accuracy. He then switched hands, giving his left hand a break from supporting his weight. With his non-dominant hand, Gnochi’s blade soared wide, clipping the target in its outer ring.

  Frustrated, Gnochi looked to Zara and asked, “What?”

  “Payment for teaching you,” Zara said, her tone sounded as though the explanation was unnecessary.

  His fourth throw missed the target and thudded into the wagon’s exterior wall, thrumming as though being shifted by an earthquake. Gnochi swore under his breath. “What were you thinking?” he asked. He waited for a moment to see if Zara would speak, but when silence was the only response, he threw another knife, this one striking a hand outside of the bull’s eye.

  “I want the role of Miles in your play,” she said.

  He looked at her, expecting to see a smile of jest, though her expression remained neutral. “I’ve yet to hear you speak two times to the full group,” he said. “And you want a role in my play? It’s a speaking role, you know.”

  “I’ve already reviewed and committed all of his lines to my memory,” she said offhand as though it were a feat as common as riding a horse.

  “How?”

  “I’ve leafed through a loose copy that Boli handed,” Zara said, pulling a folded bundle of paper from another pocket hidden among her blades. “I even made some notes about how I would recite several of the lines. I think I’d be a solid choice for the role.” She offered Gnochi the papers and he squinted at the margins where notes penned in a delicate script adorned many of the lines.

  “I am curious, though,” she said. “You have such a refined dexterity for someone who’s recovering from a traumatic injury. It’s clear that the wound is impacting your balance, but you seem to be trained not to use your natural balance as a crutch, if you’ll mind my poor choice of words.”

  Perhaps it should not have surprised Gnochi to see how meticulously Zara offered her analysis of his condition. Sword fighting is as much an art requiring precision and concentration as it is a brutality requiring strength and endurance. He did not know how to respond to her claim, though, so he remained silent, deciding to look through the annotated copy more.

  “Additionally,” she said, rousing him from his solace, “I find myself wondering why you and your apprentice have, between you, an arsenal of arms and armor.”

  Gnochi looked up and folded the pages back together, handing Zara the bundle. “You know that it’s a dangerous world out there. I normally travel alone. People tend to take bards for easy prey. I’ve learned to protect myself, picking up things along the way. I’m merely passing my knowle
dge onto my apprentice.”

  “But why come to me? Even without my training, you could’ve hit a man from as far away. And you’re more than capable with a sword.”

  “Well, I’ve never thrown a daggerette as small as these,” Gnochi explained, inspecting the length of the small blades. “I wanted to get a feel for them before I need to rely on them.” His reasoning seemed to appease the quartermaster.

  “Do you have any daggerettes that I’m not aware of?” Zara asked.

  Gnochi knew that she had an itemized list of their weapons and he had not listed any more than one dagger on that list. “No,” he said through clenched teeth. He feigned pain, though he doubted she believed he was hurting. To bring the conversation back and distract the sword-swallower, he said, “Just make sure that you are at role call tonight. That’s when we’ll have the others read through the play to the rest of the group.”

  Chapter 27

  Settled down on a stump for evening slop, Gnochi was making quick work of the hearty stew when he heard Cleo yell his name and come sprinting over to him. He managed to set the bowl down before she launched herself at him, strong arms ensnaring his neck.

  “Easy,” he cautioned. “I got shot, remember?”

  “You’ve been awake all day and you didn’t get me up.” It was less of a question and more of an expletive that stung like spreading frostbite.

  “Harvey told me that you’ve been awake since I got hurt. I figured that you could use your rest,” he said. He felt arms tighten in their hug around his neck.

  “Gnochi, I thought you’d left me. I thought you were dead.” Her words snuck out between hoarse cries. Warm tears trickled down the side of his neck. He unfolded his arms from around her back and pried her from around his neck.

  “I’m fine, Cleo,” he whispered so others would not hear. “I’m not going anywhere. They’ll have to try harder than that to kill me,” he joked. She gasped as a carnal laugh forced its way from her throat. “I think you saved my life, Cleo. It doesn’t make sense for him to shoot me in the leg. He was probably aiming for my head or chest. If you hadn’t distracted him, I’d be dead.” Gnochi patted her shoulders in an awkwardly paternal manner. “I’m more concerned because you charged towards a man waving a gun.”

  “I was trying to save you, you lump,” she said, rubbing at the tears on her cheeks. “Besides, I didn’t know what he was holding.”

  Gnochi noticed her eyes looking away. “I know, but if he had turned it on you, I don’t know if I could’ve lived with myself.” He paused, smoothing over the creases in his hand. “Thanks for being there for me, and for saving my life.” He ran his thumbs under her clear eyes with care. Before she could say another word, he ordered, “now go get some food. And see if Nettles will give me a second bowl. I’m famished.”

  “You know,” she said, teasing, “it might do you good to lay off the seconds, Gleeman.”

  ◆◆◆

  Despite the warm evening, Harvey found himself huddled close to the cook-fire to stay the lonely chill he felt from the absence of Roy and the others. He contemplated going out after them but realized that two days was not long enough to justify further fracturing the group. As he watched the low embers, his hand drifted to the sand below, its chill stinging his calloused fingers. Looking around the fire, he saw that a few of the others showed as much anxiety. The group ate its supper in silence, save the bard and his apprentice who seemed blind to the melancholy gripping the others.

  He watched the bard’s apprentice pace around the campfire, finally plopping down next to her master. “Okay,” she said aloud. “I’ve drilled the actors to ensure that they’d practiced in your absence, and we’ve all eaten. Let’s get to the play.” On her crossed legs, she balanced the leather journal opened and revealing a page decorated in delicate black letterings. She flipped to a blank page and readied her writing instruments.

  “You did?” Gnochi asked, chuckling. “And I’ve been two days behind on my end of the bargain it seems. I’ll start with a history of the area, then we can have our actors read through the play.”

  Harvey felt anger simmering behind his eyes. He realized that his scowl must have been obvious because the bard looked up and held his gaze for a moment.

  “It’s not appropriate for you to be commanding your master that way, Boli,” Harvey growled.

  She scowled back at him, scratching at the page beneath her as though she payed his comment no heed.

  “I’m not one for fancy formalities. Well, besides my names,” Gnochi placated.

  “How did you get your second name, Gnochi?” one of the other players asked.

  “When I was donned a master bard by the heads of the entertainer’s guild, I was allotted a surname.” He smiled as if recalling some tale from his youth. “We bards know no boundaries, so I had spent the first years of my career traveling in the lands south of Lyrinth.”

  “And your border-free living included mingling with pirates, I suppose,” a voice sounded from beyond the glow of the cook fire. Dorothea. He approached, flanked by men. The other players he had taken on his scout were positioned on one side, and on the other stood about a dozen men. These newcomers were adorned in clean Providential soldier garb. “Nettles,” Dorothea barked, “I want fresh slop on the cauldron warming for our new travelers and their—”

  “General,” a stern voice overrode. The man responsible for such a brutish voice pushed past Dorothea and stood before the seated group. “I am General. Should any of you chance to approach me, that is how you shall address me. Is that clear, Ringleader Dorothea?”

  “Yes. Of course, sir,” Dorothea said, his ego visibly bruised. “Gleeman, my wagon, now!”

  Gnochi stood, emphasizing his pained leg. Boli opened her mouth as if in protest but stayed her tongue.

  “Problem, Bo-li?” Dorothea mocked.

  “Well, you see, sir—sirs,” one of the Perm children said, stumbling over their tongue to maintain proper etiquette. The boy’s grubby face received the brunt of a gaze that could have dented an iron helmet. “Sir Gleeman was going to tell us the history of River Middle Creek and Brichton, and then we were going to listen to the play—”

  Dorothea flew over to the boy and hoisted him by the scruff of his torn shirt.

  “Enough,” Gnochi placated, “I’ll come.”

  “No,” General said, his voice like a blade sharp enough to draw blood from across the room. “I’ll hear from the man who has without a doubt kept the lot of you vagrants from mutinying and deserting. And a play to boot? I might need to hire an entertainer for my army when we set up camp outside of Blue Haven.” General laughed, then finalized his judgment, without a consideration from Dorothea. “I will allow the bard his due and permit the recital of the play. He can find us tomorrow on the road and we can have our chat then.”

  Dorothea dropped the boy without further thought and spat out a curse. “Whatever history he tells will no doubt be laden with deceit and contradictory to what the scholars in Blue Haven teach.”

  “Nonetheless, I’m interested in hearing what passes for knowledge in peasant circles.”

  “Thank you, General,” Gnochi said, not commenting on the insult, though whether he recognized it for what it is, Harvey couldn’t tell.

  “I’ve read a number of texts with claims all hovering around one set of truths.” Gnochi said, his eyes shifting between General and Dorothea. “The history of the River Middle Creek region begins after the circumstances that devastated the world and ended the first age.” His gaze disappeared into the flames. Harvey noticed the same glossy stare each time the bard performed.

  “The centuries of winter had ended; the ice, receded. Liquid oceans once again carved out the shorelines of the world, though numerous glaciers yet existed, and some still do to this day. That which we are most familiar is The Great Northern Glacier. As the weather warmed, it melted. The runoff became a river that split this land in half. And at the center.” Gnochi paused. “On this ground where we
do currently reside was a lake.” He scooped a handful of sand and allowed it to trickle through his fingers. A slight breeze whisked each grain away.

  “As you can imagine,” Gnochi said. “With a lake so grand, stretching lazily across the horizon and a laborious river circulating clean water in and down to the ocean, fish starting spawning in the lake. And with fish come the wildlife that eat them: bears and, as luck would have it, humans. In fact, one of the very first permanent settlements post-first-age was Brichton. Records show that it grew from a ramshackle of rafts that docked at night on shore but clustered during the day on the lake’s cool blue surface. People silted permanent homes over the lake and soon connections were built between rafts and buildings.

  “Some moved from their rafted homes to permanent residences on the shore, slightly upriver. This on-land settlement became Middle Creek proper, named, as you might guess, after the river it cohabitated with. Whether it was a bout of bad flooding, or simply humanity’s innate yearning to keep moving, people flocked more and more towards the city, though a small community continued to live and work on the lake.

  “This region was the picture of what first age scholars would call a utopia. Food was shared, crime was next to none, and there was good sanitation. But as any first age scholar will tell you, true utopia in human society is nigh impossible. Regardless, it has never been accomplished, or sustained over time. How did the region fall? Two of the more prominent families realized that they each held monopolies over certain aspects vital to the survival of every citizen. They accrued wealth by amassing their resources and trickling them out in controlled amounts, charging exorbitant prices for their goods. Ironically enough, what they were practicing was commonplace in first age economies. The council would have none of their antics, though, and in one vote, both families, The Blue family, and the Imuny family, were exiled from Middle Creek proper. Now these families each went their own way and settled in the rough locations where their thusly named cities are found today. The Imunies settled on the east coast and the Blues settled on the banks of a smaller river to the west.”