by Peter Dawes
He lurched forward and I deliberately shifted away from the advance in a sluggish manner. When he thrust the blade, I twisted again, allowing him to catch my shirt and make a tear in it and acting surprised when he did. He licked his lips and grinned at me. “Sure you don’t wanna give in now, lad?” he asked.
I shook my head, but said nothing else. Our blades clashed, but I let him nick the other side of my shirt after two awkward exchanges. I pivoted to the side, exclaiming when he came within a hair’s breadth of cutting my cheek, and clumsily dodging his next advance. He laughed and when I looked at him with the most petrified expression I could muster, it only caused his laughter to escalate. My opponent opened his mouth, given over to another moment of grandstanding while still maintaining that open stance.
With the first word he uttered, the unholiest of grins swept across my face.
Tightening my grip, I surged at him before he could compensate. The sound of metal hitting metal interrupted him, a sudden onslaught almost knocking the sword from his hands from the first set of blows. His eyes widened and his posture turned defensive, the intensity of my strokes causing him to stumble backward and clutch harder onto his weapon. He motioned to swing his blade, but twisted too far to the side in the process.
Instinct took over where opportunity was presented.
I slashed his wrist and forced him to release the hilt with that hand. He cried out in offense and took his focus off his sword long enough for me to knock it from his grip with my father’s blade. Fumbling, he finally letting it go, and I crouched before he had the chance to compensate. Both weapons ended up in my hands as I shot back to a stand.
“I believe this means I’ve won,” I said.
He glared at me, wrapping his fingers around the wound on his opposite wrist and gritting his teeth. “You bastard,” he said. Spinning around, he glanced at his cohorts, nodding at me. “Well, come on. Rough up the stupid little whelp.”
The other men, Nate included, eyed me warily. “No, I don’t think you’ll be doin’ anything of the sort,” the barkeeper’s wife called out, interrupting. She pushed off the door frame and wandered her way closer to where I stood. We exchanged a glance before she looked at the other men. “I think the boy is goin’ to buy each of you fine men a drink and you’ll be on your way after that.” As she pointed at my opponent, her eyes narrowed. “An’ if I see you ‘round here again, I promise my husband an’ the menfolk in ‘ere’ll give you worse than a cut on the wrist.”
To say he looked crestfallen would have been understating the matter. He watched as not just us, but several of the people who had witnessed the confrontation filtered into the tavern, his eyes narrowed and teeth gritted. I spared him only one last look and nothing else, afraid to tempt my good fortune. The barkeep’s wife placed a hand on my shoulder to coax me on, causing me to glance over at her. “I’m buying the drinks?” I asked.
A sly, amused smile traced a path across her lips. “You won yourself a sword,” she said. “I think you can afford it.”
I nodded, but as we strode back into her husband’s establishment, I sensed a prodding to her words and found myself reflecting upon that. The drinks were purchased and I spared some extra coin for a room for the night, afraid that my challenger might return to exact his revenge. When he didn’t, I considered it a mercy. When I failed to see him at all again, I marked it off as the one true miracle ever granted to me by God and promptly used it to go about the Devil’s work.
The next day, I sold that blade and returned to the tavern. A few of the men who had been there the previous evening paused to comment on the scuffle to me, one exclaiming that I was a ‘tricky lad’ and wagering to his friend that I could probably have him disarmed as well. The friend declined, but within the echo of their laughter, an idea germinated, bringing about a solution to my impoverished condition. An evening later, I wagered my sword against another man armed with a similar blade, and had him disarmed within moments.
Another crowd assembled to witness this. And a larger one the next night, who tossed money at me for the show provided. As I scooped up the coins, I thanked them with a bow and caught sight of the barkeep’s wife in my periphery, looking on with a pleased smirk. The tavern filled with customers and somewhere in the silence, I realized I had made a tacit arrangement with her and her husband. I could not have been more pleased.
While those victories should’ve ensured my needs met for at least a month, the exhibitionist inside had gotten the better of me. Each night, I emerged at dusk and performed again, collecting my winnings and stretching the bounds of my imagination for how to spend them. Thoughts of my travels with Father danced across my mind once more, but this time as a buffet of forbidden fruits from which I could now partake. Women of ill repute enticed me into my first sexual endeavors. Merchants tempted me with better clothes and the barkeeper’s wife with lavish meals, finding me all too willing to indulge myself. Once the fear of Nate and his ilk returning waned, if I had nothing left with which to purchase a room, I slept under the stars, content in my freedom for a time.
As the months turned colder, however, my disposition turned more desperate again. The crowds had begun to dwindle and with it, the amount of extravagance I could entertain without the fear of starving to death. When warmer weather brought another batch of travelers through the city, I took to the streets at once, determined to fill my purse before the chill returned to claim my source of income again. The first two nights bore modest earnings and by the third evening, I had determined to pull out whatever tricks I could to loosen their purse strings further. Strolling to my usual spot, I drew my sword and declared myself open for challengers should anyone be bold enough to take the gauntlet thrown.
That was when I heard gruff voice call out from the center of the crowd, “Think I might take you up on that offer, lad, if no one else is going to be brave enough to.”
The people parted ways around him. I stood, regarding the tall man who emerged while feeling a nervous flutter in my stomach at the sight. His face bore two scars, one that cut across his forehead and another down his left cheek. He removed a set of gloves and I raised an eyebrow at the two fingers missing from his left hand, seeing before me an entire tome of stories waiting to be told about adventures I could have only dreamt about. A sword sheathed by his side, the leather bore enough wear to suggest that pulling the blade was a common practice.
My stomach threatened to sink into my boots.
He tilted his head, a full mane of brown hair spilling onto his shoulder and emerald eyes regarding me curiously. Given the amount of damage to him, his age was indistinguishable, but I assumed him no younger than his early thirties. “You’re a scrawny urchin,” he said once he had studied me to his satisfaction. He tossed the gloves to the side and removed his cloak, depositing it where his gloves had landed. “Doesn’t seem like a boy like you should be causing the stir you’ve been.”
My brow smoothed as a grin curled the corner of my mouth. I summoned as much bravado as a young man of my years could muster. “The name is Christian, sir,” I said. “And that looks like a lovely sword. I should like to own it.”
The stranger huffed, a smirk breaking out on his face. “Was about to accuse you of being educated for an urchin, but you just showed how much you still have left to learn.” He drew his sword, the smile evaporating, but the amusement still present in his eyes. “Your move first, Christian.”
I nodded, sliding my blade from its sheath as well. The crowd took several steps backward and watched with bated breath for our match to begin. I advanced forward with cautious steps, crouched low while taking hold of the hilt with both hands. A flicker of something indiscernible crossed my challenger’s face before he assumed the same posture.
We both sidestepped each other. I thought of the times I exchanged blows with my father, knowing before the first clash of our blades that I was facing someone much more experienced than my normal fare of half-baked drunks. My challenger failed to close the di
stance between us, baiting me to make the final steps myself. I did so, but pivoted to the side with my final step, rightly anticipating he’d try to sneak a swing in with my guard down.
It missed. I lifted my sword in a retaliatory strike. The stranger shifted and managed to intercept the blow, a wide grin on his face when the first clang shattered the silence. “Not bad,” he said, pushing off and taking a step away from me.
I furrowed my brow at the way he said that but shrugged the words off in favor of trying to visualize my next move. He made his before I could decide, however, and forced my reflexes to the test, with me turning one way and moving another to avoid two well-placed strikes. I caught one blow with my sword and started an exchange between the two of us, which lasted for a brief moment. Unfortunately, it also made me smugly consider I might actually be able to defeat him.
He seemed to sense it, because he changed his stance and came at me more aggressively. I failed to parry one shot and overcompensated with the next, leaving myself vulnerable to a counterattack. The sword flew from my hands before I could issue an objection and I gasped when I felt the tip of his blade touch the nape of my neck.
I shut my eyes, but still heard the smile in the way he spoke. “I believe I’ll be keeping my sword for a little while longer, lad.”
The audience erupted in applause. Opening my eyes, I fought to suppress a scowl as the crowd tossed their offerings to us, with the usual collection of other urchins attempting to pilfer a coin or two. I turned to face him, waiting for him to go around collecting the money that should have paid for my supper. Instead, he sheathed his sword and reached for his cloak, securing it around his shoulders before slipping the gloves over his hands again.
I frowned. “I suppose you’ll be taking that,” I said, pointing to where my sword lay.
He cast a quick glance at it and shrugged. “I don’t have much use for it. I trust you know we’ll be splitting the profit, however.”
“Splitting?” Raising an eyebrow, I watched him scare off the scavengers and gather the remaining coins from the ground. “You aren’t keeping it all to yourself?”
“Well, I could, but considering we both gave them a show, it’d hardly be fair.” The subtle smirk made its resurgence when we made eye contact again. “Or, I tell you what, lad. Why don’t I give it all to you and let you buy me a meal? Seems you scratch out enough of a living doing this, but you might consider switching jobs before you encounter a man willing to cut your throat.”
My disposition soured. “Not much else I can do to make a living.”
“Of course you can.” He plucked the last pieces of money from the ground and walked over to me, waiting for me to extend my hands before giving the coins to me. I secured them in my purse and he watched, waiting for me to finish the task and collect my sword to continue. We started a walk for the inn, neither of us apt to talk until we made our way to the main hall, packed full of people with only a small table vacant for us to sit.
I eyed the other man warily while he made himself comfortable. The stranger waved over the barkeeper’s wife, ignoring an inquisitive glance spared at me while placing an order for two ales and two plates of food. A few moments of uncomfortable silence followed after she left, until he finally cleared his throat and tilted his head at me. “So, out with it, lad,” he said. “Who’s out there looking for you?”
My brow furrowed. “I beg your pardon?” I asked.
He laughed. “Begging’s not going to get you much pardon as far as I’m concerned. I find out some noble has money on your return, I’ll tie you up and take you there myself.”
It took a moment, but I finally realized what he had been asking. “Oh.” I shook my head. “No, sir, I don’t belong to anybody.”
“Where do you belong then?”
“Wherever I want.” I shrugged. “My parents are dead and I’m grown enough to do what I please.”
“Yes, you are, but the rest of the world doesn’t always agree.” He paused to adjust his cloak, revealing an emblem in its crease. The sight of it startled me, forcing me to catch my breath until I reminded myself my father’s killers neither wore black, nor bore the image of a rose. My new companion seemed none-the-wiser, glancing around the room first, then looking back at me and folding his hands on top of the table. “Who taught you how to handle a sword, then, Christian?”
Slowly, I relaxed again. “My father did. This was his sword.”
“What did your Pa do for a living?”
“He was a traveling merchant, sir.” I nodded toward the rose on his cloak. “What do you do for a living?”
He glanced down at it and laughed. “Might let you earn the right to know, but for now, let’s just say I’m a mercenary and leave it at that. You can call me Roland.”
“Roland what?”
“Roland nothing else. Too many names complicate things.”
I couldn’t bring myself to belabor the point. Giving the opinion an impassive nod, I allowed a lapse to settle in our conversation, grateful when our mugs of ale showed up. Roland took his in hand and thanked the innkeeper’s wife while I sipped mine cautiously. My eyes didn’t leave the strange man the entire time, not even to offer the woman with whom I had an unspoken business arrangement an explanation. Two plates containing meat and potatoes appeared before us shortly thereafter and while Roland took his first bite, I continued clutching the cup in both hands.
“So, Christian,” Roland finally said, his gaze straying down to the plate while he broke off a piece of bread. When he spoke again, it was with his mouth half-full. “I’m to understand and believe you’re nothing more than a fancy-talking, sword trained orphan street urchin, out here swindling folks for money. Is that correct?”
“I don’t swindle anyone,” I countered. “People either challenge me or they watch me. If they’re entertained, they give me money. Sometimes, I sell the weapons I get and sometimes I let their owners have them back, but they always understand if they challenge me, it’s my right to keep them.”
“Honest business if ever I’ve heard of any.” He nodded at the plate. “Go on ahead and eat, lad,” he said, brushing off his hands and sitting back in his chair. Roland swallowed the bite of bread down and allowed our eyes to meet again. “I’m going to say a few things and you’re going to listen while I do.”
Something about the way he worded the demand bore a level of threat to it. Another part reminded me of the tenor the conversations took when Father would settle into talking business with the buyers of his goods. The latter had me curious enough to pick up my fork and poke at a piece of meat. Roland smirked with approval. “Good lad,” he said. “Now, I’m going to start off by saying I don’t coddle people and I don’t protect them. You pointed it out yourself. You’re old enough to mind your own business. I have enough bastards suckling enough whores’ breasts and I don’t need another one, am I clear?”
Nodding, I fought the urge to offer a retort. Roland seemed to sense it and gave me a cautionary look before continuing. “Now, you say there’s nobody looking for you and I’m apt to believe you, but if I find out otherwise, I will do exactly what I told you I’d do. Don’t think your life is ever anything more to me than a few coins in my pocket.”
I washed my food down with some of the ale. “I’m telling you, I don’t have anyone who would offer you two bits for me,” I said.
“I’d sell you out for one.”
Deciding against calling his bluff, I shrugged again and continued eating. Roland took a deep breath, and the air seemed to change, switching from that first tenor to the second hinted at moments ago. He leaned forward in his chair, his presence looming closer to me with the volume of his voice decreasing enough to make him barely heard over the cacophony around us. “What are you planning on doing when the cold hits good and long enough to keep your crowds away?” he asked.
Somehow, I managed to suppress a wince at his question. “I’ll make due, I guess,” I said.
“You’ll meet your death, mo
re like it. Not as quick as some other people would, but at some point, you’ll get desperate and either get caught stealing or wind up choking on a better man’s blade. You could do better than that.”
My gaze had drifted down to the plate of food, to avoid showing my hand too soon. With his words, however, I glanced back at him and raised an eyebrow, the action enough to spread a wolfish grin across his lips. “I can teach you how to use that sword of yours for money. Real money, not these coins people throw at you for show,” he said. When I failed to attend to the plate of food again, he arched a brow back at me, mirroring my expression. “You ever kill a man, lad?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“The thought bother you?”
This time, I couldn’t conceal the reaction his question inspired. My eyes shifted to the far wall, then down to the table, a deep breath filling my lungs before being exhaled. Whatever Roland read of it, I neither knew, nor cared, but in the moments which followed, I saw the demons I used to entertain while working Jeffrey’s farm; the ones who lured me away when I couldn’t ward them off any longer. At the very least, I held them at a distance in using the blade, even for show. Each time I held a sickle or polished my father’s sword while under my brother’s roof, however, I wanted nothing more than to cut into the man who had taken Richard Hardi away from me.
Slowly, my gaze lifted, a look in my eyes even I could feel without seeing it for myself. Roland sobered and I shook my head. “No, sir,” I said. “The thought of killing people doesn’t bother me at all.”
Roland tilted his chin in recognition of the inner darkness which had crawled out of my soul. Considering me in silence for a moment, we stared at each other as though waging a contest with neither of us apt to blink. After a few beats, the stranger nodded once. “Then I can make use of you,” he said. The heaviness dissipated between us, leaving only a lingering undercurrent. Roland bit into his bread again. “If you think that’s a better prospect than starving over the winter.”
