by Cheryl Dyson
******
Brydon roused early to the sound of loud cursing. He blinked for long moments at his unfamiliar surroundings, and then sat up and stared at the bound man, who was fully conscious. And angry.
"You Falaran cur!" The man strained at the ropes that held him. "Why not kill me like the others? Do you plan to torture me? I would sooner die than beg a Falaran for mercy!"
Brydon rubbed the night’s fog from his eyes and peered more closely at the tied man. He looked to be Brydon’s age, or not far from it. His black hair was long and pulled back into an intricate braid after the manner of his people, although Brydon had been forced to loosen it somewhat during his ministrations. Several strands had come undone and threatened to cover eyes that were green and showed all the warmth of winter ice.
He got to his feet, raked a hand through his own unruly blond hair, and stretched the kinks out of his muscles. He had only been away from home for a few days, but already he was tired of sleeping on the ground. It was going to be a long journey.
Brydon turned his attention to the man. "I suppose you hail from Redol?" he asked.
The man’s face flamed. "You’ll get nothing from me, except a length of steel in your gut!" The would-be assassin’s voice was surprisingly level even as it rang with suppressed rage.
"I will take that as a yea." Brydon looked more closely at the man. "So, is your animosity directed at me specifically, or was the attack prompted by general feelings of spite toward all Falarans?"
"Every Falaran deserves to die!"
"I see." Brydon felt some relief. If every Redolian raider knew his mission, he was doomed to failure before he even began. "Then it is because I am Falaran. Why do your people insist on this warlike behavior? Falara has not invaded Redol for more than a century. Our countries could exist in peace if Redol stopped raiding our borders."
"Your borders? That’s typical Falaran arrogance! The land west of the Stonepeaks should belong to us, as it did before you stole it! You talk of raiding, but we are only trying to reclaim our rightful lands. Since you people never listen to reason, maybe killing a future Falaran king will draw some attention."
Brydon frowned and revised his opinion. Apparently, they had known of Brydon’s mission. He had expected an attack, but he had not anticipated a political agenda. Brydon generally thought of Redolians as uneducated barbarians, lying in wait for unsuspecting travelers like common bandits. "Why court trouble? If you kill every Falaran you see and continue raiding our borders, you will only give the current king a reason to invade."
"I don’t think we have much to fear from that quarter. It is said that your king is not far from his deathbed."
Brydon grimaced, but looked away from the surprisingly lucid gaze. He said no more and stoked the fire in order to break his fast, ignoring the renewed sounds of indignation coming from his prisoner. Brydon had no fear of the bonds giving way. If anything, the Redolian had only tightened the knots with his struggles.
"Are your ropes tight enough?" Brydon asked. His chuckles set off a round of expletives from his unwilling guest, who insulted every facet of Brydon’s birth and upbringing. Brydon ignored the angry man and performed his morning rituals before frying some duck eggs he had carefully packed along. He added his meager supply of spiced ham.
"Would you like to break fast?" Brydon asked, affecting a companionable mien. Although tired, he felt rather cheerful, largely due to the fact that he had survived the previous night’s confrontation.
"Go to Sheol."
"I made some for you, anyway."
He took the pan over to the assassin and held a forkful of food to his lips. The cold green gaze did not waver and the man’s mouth compressed tightly.
"It is not poisoned. If I wanted to kill you I would have done so already."
The glare grew more frigid. "Fine."
Brydon spooned the meal to the Redolian’s lips and he ate with evident reluctance, likely only suffering to eat in order to conserve his strength in hopes of escape.
"What is your name?" Brydon asked as he sat back on his haunches and devoured what was left in the pan.
The man rolled his eyes and looked away.
Brydon shrugged. "Suit yourself. Since I need to call you something, I think I will go with Failed Killer. Or how about Weaponless? Or Bested-by-a-Falaran. That one has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, although it is a bit long."
The Redolian looked apoplectic. "My name is Toryn."
"Toryn. I suppose it will do. I would that we had met under more pleasant circumstances. I am Brydon Redwing, although you probably know that. Or did you just stumble upon me and hope I was the man you sought?"
"I know you are a damned Falaran on a quest!" the Redolian snapped. "And if I have another opportunity, you’ll not live to finish it!"
"I will bear that in mind." The previous night’s attack had apparently been meant for him alone and was not part of some deeper plot, but Brydon would like to know if there were others nearby seeking his blood. He had no idea how to pry such information from his angry captive.
Brydon cleaned the pan with a handful of gravel and rinsed it in the nearby stream before he repacked his belongings. He had divested Toryn and his dead comrades of useful items, including seven daggers, two short swords, a hand axe, one soft leather cloak, and small personal effects that mostly consisting of beaded jewelry and braided leather. Brydon tossed the weapons into a pile, but stowed the cloak and personal items in his pack. He slung the pack upon his back and picked up Toryn’s sword. The metal was wet with dew. Bits of dried grass, dirt, and pine needles clung to it until he knocked the flat of the blade against his boot heel. He used the sword to cut the bonds around Toryn’s legs, as well as those holding him to the tree, but left Toryn’s hands bound behind his back. The sword had a fine edge and excellent balance, though it appeared well-used. Brydon swished it approvingly.
Toryn climbed to his feet and eyed Brydon balefully. They were almost of a height, though Toryn was slightly taller.
Brydon used the sword to gesture to the trail that skirted his campsite. It meandered back to the road.
"After you," Brydon said.
Toryn seemed about to move, but then paused. He looked decidedly uncomfortable. Brydon wondered what he would do if Toryn refused to walk. Brydon’s code of honor would not allow him to cold-bloodedly kill the Redolian, nor would it be humane to leave him tied to a tree and hope he could free himself.
"One question, if you will," Toryn requested, almost politely. Brydon nodded, sensing Toryn’s difficulty in swallowing his pride. "I would know what you have done with my fallen comrades."
Brydon’s brows lifted in surprise, although it was a valid request. He said, "It is rumored that Redolians put their dead into the ground." Toryn nodded. "I laid them in a ditch and covered them with dirt and rocks. I am lacking the means to dig graves, at the moment. Their bodies should be safe enough from wolves. I said what words I could to speed their spirits on their journey. And I marked the spot, should you care to return to it one day."
Toryn stared at the ground. His voice was barely audible. "I… thank you. I had feared you too much a heathen to properly care for the dead, especially Redolian dead. May their souls find swift passage to Adona."
Brydon stared and countered his shock with a question. "What do you know of Adona? You who leap out of the darkness with knives? Does your god teach you to murder?"
Toryn flushed and then glared at Brydon. "I would have killed you more honorably, Falaran though you are, but Galyn and Veed were in charge of this mission, and my elders."
"They were not your elders by much," Brydon said, for none of the men had looked older than five and twenty.
"No, and they were cowards, as well, or they would have followed my suggestion and ambushed you yesterday while you drank from the stream."
"That sounds honorable."
"It’s more than a Falaran deserves."
"Walk," Brydon commanded.
; Toryn lifted his chin and started down the trail, obviously too proud to ask where Brydon was taking him, or why.
In truth, Brydon had no answer to either question.
