So prepared, he dropped a bolt-at least I knew enough not to call it an arrow-into the groove in front of the string. He preceded to unload and load it once more as an example, unloaded it a final time and handed the crossbow and bolt to me, asking me if I had any questions.
I had dozens but withheld them.
He commanded, “Now you.”
I made an attempt, albeit clumsily. While the lever mechanism eliminated the need for brute force, the action wasn’t nearly as easy as he made it appear-the short hooks slid off the thick string several times.
Braylar scowled. “Faster. You must go faster. You aren’t loading this to shoot quail, you’re loading it to kill a man who wants to kill you. Now faster.”
I tried to speed up, and fumbled even more.
He leaned over me. “A man is going to kill you. He’ll do this if you aren’t quicker. Be quicker.”
I reached for the trigger and he grabbed my hand. “No. No loosing without a bolt. Very bad for the weapon. We’ll simply have to do with losing some bolts until you get the hang of it, yes?”
With shaking fingers, I dropped the bolt in place as he’d done, aimed it off into the grass, and squeezed the long trigger. The crossbow jerked, the string twanged, and the bolt disappeared almost faster than I could see. I repeated this a few more times and noticed that Braylar was scanning the horizon to the south.
I looked as well and saw nothing and he said, “Did I tell you to cease? Continue. Continue, continue, continue. You must be fluid, you must be fast. Or you’ll die. Continue.”
Not understanding any of this, I continued nonetheless.
Over and over, losing count, bolt after bolt into the deep grass, my fingers getting sore until they began to blister. The demon’s tongs, as he called them, made the process much less strenuous than it would’ve been using the back and legs alone, but my hand was still starting to cramp. Finally, after what seemed an eternity of repetition, he said, “Still too slow. But we have no more time. Which is just as well-I don’t have an endless supply of bolts.” And then he looked at the horizon again. “Very soon a group of riders will approach us. I don’t know who they are. But there will be a handful or more. They’ll be armed. And they won’t be friends.”
Predictably, I said, “I don’t understand. How do you know that?”
He looked at me, eyes narrow. “You do remember our night at the Three Casks, yes? Our little rude awakening?”
It took me a moment before I understood what he was getting at. He hadn’t spun his flail like a madman, but he’d somehow known blood would be spilled. “I still don’t-”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s enough that I know. Now give me the crossbow, hide in the wagon, and be ready with the quiver. And hand me a blanket.”
I simply looked at him, sure I’d misunderstood the directions.
He raised an eyebrow. “Was that too complicated, Arki? I thought it fairly simple. You didn’t think I wanted you to shoot it, did you?” And then he laughed, though I clearly didn’t know why.
I had no interest in handling the thing, let alone shooting it-I’d never even threatened someone with violence, let alone carried it out-but I didn’t appreciate being made sport of. “Why did you have me reload it until my fingers bled if you didn’t want me to shoot it?”
“Because, if I hand it back to you it will be empty. And you’ll need to span it. I thought that much had been clear. You practiced reloading because… you’re going to reload it. One job. That’s all. And if you do it half as poorly as you just practiced, there’s a very good chance we’ll both die. Do you understand me now?”
I nodded numbly.
He took the crossbow from my hands. “Good. Now get in the wagon and keep your mouth shut. And hand me a blanket.”
I was reaching for a blanket when I saw him open a chest near the front of the wagon. A moment later, he slipped a cuirass of brass scales over his head and then pulled another larger tunic on over that, covering the armor completely.
He saw me staring. “I did mention a battle was forthcoming, didn’t I? I thought that much was clear. Now hide yourself.”
After handing him the blanket, I sat down in the wagon and set the quiver next to me. At that moment, I thought Lloi was lucky to be running around in the grass with a ripper.
I was considering that riding off into the wilderness with a stranger, no matter how much fame or money might be won, was perhaps the worst idea ever, when I heard something. Hoofbeats. Faint, so much so that I didn’t recognize them as such at first. But real enough. As they got closer, I could tell they belonged to several horses.
Braylar whispered, “Six. Better than seven. Much worse than four.” I wasn’t sure if he was speaking to me, himself, or the flail.
I scooted against the wall of canvas, and noticed a worn spot, just thin enough that I could see out without anyone seeing in. There were six riders. One had a shirt of rusty and poorly-patched mail that barely stretched over his wide girth. He was much older than the other five, and I assumed he was the leader. He had straight gray hair hanging in a sweaty curtain beneath his iron helm, and a thick white mustache that obscured most of his mouth. In his hand, a round, wooden shield, and a sword in a scabbard at his side. On his other side, a cracked and weathered horn hanging from a baldric. That didn’t bode well.
The other five riders wore dirty gambesons, similar to the quilted jerkins the city watch wore in Rivermost, though these were raw, undyed, and thicker. They had either short axes or long daggers at their hips, and carried spears and shields, each with a quiver of javelins alongside their saddles. These soldiers looked around as they approached and shifted in their saddles like they ached to be out of them. They look inexperienced, bored, and young. But they were definitely a handful of armed men. Just as Braylar predicted.
Our wagon rumbled and creaked along slowly, tack and harness jingling. The five young soldiers halted about thirty feet away, with the leader riding a bit closer, and Braylar stopped the wagon. And I began to sweat in earnest. Three of the soldiers moved out of my square of vision, still maintaining their distance, fanning out slightly, but I could still see Braylar’s back, the leader, and two of the young men in quilted armor.
The man in mail spoke-he sounded congenial enough, and I hoped Braylar was wrong about their intentions. “Greetings. I’m Hornman Urlin. And you are…?”
“Very pleased to see you.” Though I couldn’t see his face, it sounded like he was smiling. Smiling was good. Unexpected, but good. “I am Thutro. Sometimes called Thutro the Prosperous, though few enough remember the second part now.”
Hornman Urlin crossed his arms in front of his substantial lap and leaned forward. “Heading to the Great Fair, then?”
Braylar sounded nothing but affable, which must have taken heroic effort. “Yes, I am. I suppose you hear that quite a bit this time of year?”
Hornman Urlin nodded. “A good number of folks on the way to the Fair. A good number, true enough. But you picked a strange road to take, stranger. No road at all.”
“I thought it looked suspiciously grassy as well.”
“Why not take the trade roads, friend Thutro? Safer on the road, with fellow travelers.”
“Fellow travelers, yes. But also brigands who prey on them. You and your men, you do a good job protecting travelers, I have no doubt. But you can’t be everywhere, no? So, being undefended, I thought it safer to stay away from the roads.”
The Hornman didn’t take long mulling this over. “Maybe. Maybe safer. The Grass Dogs might have a thing or three to say about that, I’m thinking. But maybe it’s not safety you’re worried about at all. Maybe you’re carrying something you wouldn’t want inspected on the roads. Maybe your cargo, you don’t want inspected at all. Could that be it?” He said this casually, jovially even, which seemed to be at cross-purposes with the intent.
“Possible? No. It’s true. I don’t want my goods inspected. But that’s only because of their extreme paucity. It hasn’t b
een a good year. A good stretch longer than that, truth be known. Ten years ago, I had five wagons, all outfitted with drivers and guards. Five years ago, three, outfitted with my reluctant brothers and their lazy sons. This year, as the last of my fortunes deserted me, my family did as well. So I’m left to shepherd myself and depend on the good fortune of meeting protectors in the wilderness, rather than brigands and nomads. So you’re correct, I’m reluctant to show my small goods, but please, if you would shame a broken man further, inspect as you must. It won’t take you long. You’ll find nothing objectionable.”
Braylar told these lies with complete ease and conviction. It was really quite impressive.
Hornman Urlin shaded his eyes against the setting sun and surveyed the wagon again. “And this pauperish cargo of yours of no objectionable nature, what is it then?”
No hesitation. “Quills. Parchment. Inks. A fine stylus or two.”
Urlin laughed, monstrous mustache shaking like a tree bough overburdened with snow. “Quills, is it?”
“Clerics and lawyers are a pestilence on this world, but they do have their uses. A wise man would avoid their company altogether, it’s true, but a man of commerce, a merchant with a strong stomach, he might find a way to work their company to his benefit.”
Hornman Urlin continued to laugh. This seemed like a clever stratagem on Braylar’s part-he claimed to possess goods unlikely to interest a Hornman and his crew, and even those Hornmen who could read and write enjoyed making sport of those who make it their professions. “Fleecing the fleecers? I salute you. But five wagons? That’s what you said, wasn’t it? Five? And guards? For quills?”
Braylar continued to lie as easily as he breathed. “Clerics and lawyers are notorious for clutching their coins with iron fingers, but they’re also vain. And I carry nothing but the finest materials. Even in my depleted state, I refuse to sell unworthy merchandise. For quality, rare quality, the clerics and lawyers paid, and paid dearly. I did well enough to warrant the wagons as my reputation increased, and the guards were necessary to protect my wares. If a merchant loses his goods, he loses everything. But now, well… the plague claims men from all walks, but the last outbreak struck clerics and lawyers with particular ferocity. Perhaps the gods have a sense of humor after all, eh?
“But it’s been years now, and their ranks have been slow to recover. I tell myself that it’s only a matter of time, that more fleecers will be called to their duty soon enough. But until then, I load and unload my single wagon, dream of lost riches, and struggle on. I couldn’t afford a crippled guard in my state. I can barely afford the food to carry me between Fairs. I-” Braylar lifted a hand. “Pray forgive me, good Hornman. I don’t seek your pity. The life of a merchant is hard, and I’m reduced, it’s true, but I carry great hope to the Great Fair. And again, I’m far luckier to have met a Hornman, rather than a nomad or brigand, so forgive me for prattling on. I’m sure even in this wilderness, you have pressing duties.”
If Hornman Urlin’s face was any indication, he didn’t register this deference as feigned, and seemed to enjoy receiving it. “You do me great honor, merchant Thutro. But what I do is duty, duty alone. We see a wagon having wandered far from the road, we investigate. Sorry to hear of your troubles, but duty is duty.”
“Yes, of course. I’m glad to hear that some still take their posts seriously. I thank fortune that I met you. I wish you well, and pray that you continue to protect the innocent, and punish those deserving of it.”
“I pray likewise. But I’m thinking I’ll still need to inspect those wares of yours, innocent though they might be. Man can’t do half of a duty and be done, now can he?”
Braylar paused, and when he responded again, the deference was sliding free. “No, of course. Duty must be fulfilled in total, or not at all. But I’m curious about something, Hornman Urine.”
This wasn’t going to end well.
The Hornman straightened in the saddle, face coloring. “That’s Urlin, merchant. Hornman Urlin.”
Braylar didn’t acknowledge the correction. “Your order is charged with protecting the weary travelers of the world on the well-worn tracks they trod, correct? That, and taxing them egregiously at toll stations, to pay for your noble efforts. But first and foremost, patrolling the road, yes?”
The Hornman nodded curtly. “You hit the mark, merchant. Though I’m misliking your tone. I suggest you rein it in some.”
In Braylarian fashion, he did the opposite. “Therein lies the curiosity, you see. You correctly point out that I’m far from the road, but the same charge could be leveled at you. It strikes me as peculiar that Hornmen would be compelled to ride so far from it. Quite peculiar.
“The road is your lifeblood. In fact, it seems to me that there’s only one reason you might have drifted from the road you’re sworn to protect.”
Hornman Urlin’s patience was drying up. “Two ways of going about this, merchant. You step down off that rig, meekly, let us conduct our business, and we’ll be on our way. Or you keep on crowing like you are, and my men haul you down, beat you bloody, and everything else happens exactly the same. Either way, you’re coming down now. Only decision you need to make is how.”
Braylar paid no heed at all. “It seems very likely, in fact, that the reason you slipped so far from your assigned stretch of highway and all the witnesses that travel on it is you seek to engage in something nefarious. In fact, I suspect you want to inspect my supplies not because you suspect them of being contraband, but because you’re inclined to engage in some criminal activity yourself. Yes, it seems very likely you’re thinking of lightening my load. And to that I say, I wouldn’t hand over a wooden penny to a brigand, but I’d at least respect his honesty in the attempt. But you and yours… you’re a perversion of your purpose.”
The Hornman drew his sword slowly. “You got some mouth on you, merchant. You get down off that wagon, real quiet, maybe I let you live. Maybe even leave you a horse. But you keep flapping your tongue, I’m going to cut it out, cut you down, and do a little more cutting just for the sheer pleasure of it.”
Braylar pulled the blanket off his lap and leveled the crossbow at the Hornman. “Granted, this isn’t a siege bow spanned by a windlass, but it’s powerful enough to get the job done. The question isn’t whether the bolt will kill you, but which organ I plunk and how long you lay dying. At this range, I can pick and choose. Do you have a preference?”
We were doomed.
I grabbed the quiver of bolts.
The leader appraised the crossbow, then the owner, looking at Braylar as if seeing him for the first time. He tried to smile, but it was clearly forced. “It’s one on six, merchant. You’ll die.”
Braylar nodded slowly. “That’s likely true, but you’ll beat me to the afterlife, Urine. You could ride off, and we both could live. But I’m guessing you won’t do that.”
The three soldiers I saw looked at the leader, shifting the grip on their spears, uncertainty on their faces. I couldn’t see the rest, but I’m guessing they shared the same look. The leader licked his lower lip, overlarge mustache jiggling above the pink tip of his tongue, and he seemed to waiver a moment as well, and then, eyes still on Braylar, he jerked his head to the side. I heard horses moving as his men began to close in. The leader pointed his sword at Braylar. “You lower the bolter right now. Do it and-”
Braylar loosed his crossbow. The next instant, the leader fell into the grass and lay twitching there, fingers clutching the fletching on his chest. Braylar threw the crossbow through the flap-it slammed into my arm, knocking the quiver loose, bolts spilling in all directions. I looked up as I tried to reclaim them-two soldiers closed in on Braylar with spears raised overhead. And then he moved as fast as a snake. Faster. He reached beneath his seat and pulled out two smaller steel crossbows, one in each hand.
Both soldiers saw this and instinctively tried to turn their horses from their course. Braylar shot a bolt at each, hitting one soldier in the shoulder as he tried to whe
el his horse around, missing the second entirely, though not by much. Both soldiers were riding away from him for the moment, neither a danger of throwing a spear in his direction.
Not so for the third soldier behind them-he came on, spear raised above his shoulder, standing in his stirrups, and all he saw before him was an unarmed man who was about to die.
Braylar tossed the crossbows into the grass on either side and then crouched there, still as stone, head tilted slightly to the left as if he were straining to hear something. Any other man would’ve jumped behind the bench for cover or leaped free of the wagon, or failing that, at least pulled the buckler off his belt. Braylar did nothing. It looked like his courage or rashness had finally deserted him now that he needed it most. I was sure he was a dead man.
And then several things happened in such quick succession, even now I’m uncertain if I perceived them accurately or the precise order in which they occurred. As the young solider cocked his arm back to throw the spear, Braylar flicked the haft of the flail off his thigh with his left hand and reached over and grabbed it in the air with the other. The soldier released the spear as Braylar pulled the flail off his belt and dodged to his right. The spear struck exactly where he’d been crouching, puncturing the bench, splinters flying. I thought he’d fall off the wagon then, but he’d reached back and grabbed the haft of the spear behind him as he moved, despite not being able to see it. This was truly impressive, the sort of thing you only see at fairs by knife throwers and acrobats who’ve rehearsed their movements their entire lives and learned them from their fathers and father’s fathers. But as he was dodging, reaching, and grabbing with his left hand, his right came across his body with the flail, snapping it out towards the young soldier with more speed than I would’ve guessed possible. Though all of this was nearly a blur, and I was witnessing it through a worn patch of canvas, there was one detail I recall with perfect clarity. The boy’s eyes. He clearly expected to pin Braylar to the bench, and when he didn’t, and he saw the unarmed man suddenly armed, it still took his mind a moment to register the danger, and then his eyes began to widen, and continued to widen as he saw the spiked flail heads arcing out towards him. The soldier tried to duck behind his horse’s neck for cover. I couldn’t see the terminus of the attack, only the boy ducking and Braylar grabbing onto the spear behind him with one hand to steady himself as he reached as far to the right as he could, the two spiked heads whistling… but the rest was lost even as I pressed my face as close to the edge of the faded canvas as I could, practically pushing myself through it in an effort to see the result of this impossible act. But thankfully, I saw none of it, and the horse’s hoofbeats combined with the blood pounding in my ears rendered that sense useless as well. I was left to guess if he’d struck or missed.
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