by Robert Evert
Sir Harlan laughed. “How sweet. Didn’t I say he was a coward, mates? He’s nothing more than a big, baby-faced oaf who was given his knighthood because he was the last son of some lesser nobility.”
This was a dangerous thing to say. Most knights were the last sons of lesser nobility, and many men in the crowd bristled.
Sir Harlan shouted again. “Coward!”
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight you,” Edris said. “I merely said that I didn’t want to hurt any more of your family. I feel bad for what happened to your uncle. He’s a good man and a credit to our profession.”
There was much nodding by the older knights.
Taking a step closer, Edris gave a polite—yet threatening—smile. “But if you call me a coward again, I’ll feel no remorse in killing you.”
Sir Harlan tightened his grip on his sword. “You’re a coward!”
Edris shook his head, then inclined his chin toward one of the knights watching them. “Am I correct in assuming that I get to determine the type of weapons since I’m the challenged?”
“You are,” the knight replied. “And the time and place of the confrontation.”
“Very well.” Edris strode to the middle of the street, now crammed with adventurers and townsfolk alike. He took off his pack and weapon belt and laid them aside. “I choose fists, and now.”
“What?” Sir Harlan snorted. “You have to pick weapons. Don’t you know the Code?”
“He is well within his right to select fists,” said one of the knights behind him.
Sir Harlan drew his sword and shook it. “I want satisfaction!”
“I’m not going to kill a man for defending his family’s honor,” Edris told him. “I maimed your uncle. I don’t deny it. But it wasn’t my intent to do so.”
“And it was two against one,” the squire named Rowan said. “I was there.”
“As was I,” Oliver added.
“All I know is that my uncle is a cripple because of this…boy! And I plan on making him pay.”
“Let me ask you this,” Edris asked. “Do you have quarters here?”
“What?”
“A room? Do you have a room at the inn?”
“I have one in somebody’s house.”
“Very well.” Edris dragged his foot in the dirt road, marking off the ring. “We’ll fight for it. Best out of three falls. If you win, you can kill me. If I win, I get your room.”
“You’re making a mockery of my challenge!”
“Do you want to fight or not?”
Sir Harlan cast aside his cloak and weapon belt. “Rules?”
“Simple fair fight,” Edris said. “No weapons other than fists.”
“Fine. You got lucky with your first shot.” He wiped away the blood flowing from his nose and stepped into the makeshift ring. “You won’t get lucky a second time.”
“Keep clear,” somebody called. “Everybody back up. Give them room.”
Edris watched Sir Harlan pull off his tabard and chainmail. Like most adventurers, he was an enormous man—well-muscled with thick arms and legs. But he didn’t have Edris’s height or reach. Also, Edris could tell by how his opponent held his hands that he was almost entirely right-handed. He’d wade across the ring, perhaps throw a left jab, then try to land a hard right to Edris’s chin, just like he had before. The question was, how fast was he? Speed meant everything in fights. Power had its advantages, but if you couldn’t land a blow, it was useless.
One of the older knights got between the combatants. He looked at each man and asked, “Ready?” Both fighters indicated they were. “Best out of three falls.” He stepped away. “Commence!”
As Edris anticipated, Sir Harlan charged forward, his right hand cocked, his left up to protect his face. He faked a left jab, then attempted to throw a roundhouse right—but Edris was quicker. His blow landed square on Sir Harlan’s already bloody nose, snapping his head back. Sir Harlan toppled, sprawling to the dirt.
“One!” the referee said, pointing to Edris. “Return to your corner.”
Edris began to ask, “Which is my—?”
Snarling, Sir Harlan got to his feet and rushed across the ring. However, instead of throwing a punch, he threw a fistful of dirt. It caught Edris full in the face. He spat and tried to wipe his eyes, but that only made matters worse.
Blinded, Edris felt Sir Harlan grab his legs as he barreled into his midsection. Edris fell, hitting his head on the ground.
“One, one,” somebody called.
“What?” Edris sat up, trying to see. “Foul! Foul!”
Something hit him in the mouth. Instinctively, Edris swept his right forearm in front of him, blocking the next blow. He then punched as hard as he could with his left. He hit whatever was in front of him.
“Foul!” Edris shouted again, unable to see. He tried to get to his feet but fell to one knee.
“Two, one. It’s over!”
“What?” Edris spit dirt. “I was fouled! Fouled !”
He managed to stand.
“It’s over,” somebody said. “Stop! Clear the ring! Clear the ring!”
Flailing, Edris shoved the people jostling around him.
“Stop! Stop!”
Somebody thrust what felt to be a waterskin into Edris’s hand. “Here.”
He poured water over his face. Through burning eyes, he could see the squires Rowan and Oliver standing next to him.
“I said a fair fight! The bastard threw dirt! How the hell can anybody say he won? This is bullshit!”
“He didn’t win.” Rowan handed him his cloak. “You did.”
Wiping his face, Edris peered over a group of men kneeling around Sir Harlan. He was lying prone in the road, blood dribbling from his mouth, his chest caved in.
“By the gods!”
“He’s dead!”
A child gasped.
The knight who refereed the fight steered Edris along the street. “Let’s get you a drink.”
“Dead?” Edris repeated. “I didn’t mean to kill him. I gave the bastard every opportunity to—”
“I know.” They pushed through the crowd to the tavern, followed by a long line of other adventurers. “And he broke the rules.”
“Exactly! The bastard had it coming.”
The knight called to the bartender. “Barley! Bring us beer, and keep it coming.”
“What the devil happened to you?” Brago asked from a corner table.
Edris sat with him, still wiping the dirt and water from his face. He spit the grit from his mouth. “I got into a fight.”
The adventurers pulled up tables and chairs.
“That was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen,” one of them said, shaking his head. “You really couldn’t see? I’m Sir Timothy, by the way.”
Dozens of other knights and squires introduced themselves. Edris struggled to remember everybody through the deluge of names. Serving girls appeared, setting pitchers of beer and empty glasses on the cluster of tables.
“So, what happened?” Brago asked.
“Remember Sir Howard?” Edris asked.
Brago sipped his wine. “I’m afraid all of you knights look the same to me.”
“He was the adventurer who tried to take the Sacred Scarab from me. The one who lost his hand.”
“Is he here?” Brago asked, sitting up.
“No.” Edris poured himself a glass of beer. “However, his blasted nephew was—Sir Harold or somebody.”
“Sir Harlan,” a knight corrected him.
“Right. Harlan . The bastard.”
“And?” Brago persisted.
Edris took a drink of warm beer. The bartender must have watered it down, but he was happy to wash away the taste of dirt. He drained half his glass. “The ass comes out of a building, shouting my name, demanding that we duel.”
“Duel?” Brago said, concerned. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”
Taking another long pull, Edris waved a hand. He gasped for air.
; “So, I tell him that I’d fight him with fists, there in the streets. Best out of three falls. If I won, we’d get his room. If he won, I told him he could kill me.”
“You shouldn’t take people so lightly, Ed. You won’t win every fight.”
“I could tell I could take him.”
“Perhaps. But go on. What happened next?”
The group of thirty or more men leaned closer, even though most of them had seen the entire affair.
“He comes in at me,” Edris said, demonstrating, “right hand reaching back.”
“Feint with his left?”
“Exactly! So, I slip a jab into his nose.”
“Nearly flipped him over!” somebody in the crowd said.
A chorus of agreement bubbled around the packed tavern.
“And then what happened?” Brago asked.
“I’m up one fall to none and the bastard rushes me.”
“Throws dirt in your face?”
“How’d you know?”
Brago motioned to the dirt still in Edris’s hair.
“Right. I can’t see a blasted thing. It’s in my mouth. It’s in my eyes. I can’t breathe. And the bastard tackles me. He starts hitting me.”
“You blocked one of his punches,” said a knight who introduced himself as Sir Audley. “How did you do that, if you couldn’t see?”
“He was right-handed,” Edris explained. “If his first blow was with his right, his next one was going to be with his left. When you’re on top of somebody, you try to get as many punches in as fast as you can, so you use both hands.”
“So after he hit you…” another knight said, “you knew another one was coming from his left.”
“Definitely.” Edris drained his glass. Somebody reached over and refilled it for him.
“You blocked his left,” Brago prompted. “Did you knee him in the groin?”
“No,” Edris said. “I told him it was going to be a fair fight with only fists.”
“He punched him in the chest,” said a knight named Jost. “He was literally sitting on his ass in the road, and he punched the villain in the middle of his chest. Right to the heart.”
“Crushed his rib cage!”
“I could hear the crack from half a block away.”
“You should’ve seen him,” one of the younger squires said, amazed. “If there really was a ring, he would’ve flown over the ropes.”
“I’ve never witnessed anything like it. You were sitting on your ass!”
“I didn’t think anybody could hit that hard.”
Brago drained the last of his wine and stood up. “Well done, Ed. Where did the corpse reside? I call dibs on his bed.”
Many in the crowd looked him as though he were crazy.
“I can take you to his room, sir,” a local boy said. “I know where it is.”
“Splendid.” Brago hefted his dusty pack and made for the door. “Congratulations again. Your father finally got his wish.”
The door opened and Edris bounded to his feet. Everybody turned to look at the man entering the tavern. It was one of the knights who had tried to take the Sacred Scarab from him.
“I don’t want any more trouble,” Edris shouted. “I didn’t want to maim Sir Howard. And I didn’t mean to kill his nephew. But if people push me—!”
Sir Tudor calmly lifted his hands. “I understand. Harlan wasn’t acting in accordance with his family’s wishes. There’ll be no retribution. He wanted to make a name for himself and lost. End of story. Congratulations on your first win, by the way. It was impressive.”
“Are you the same Edris who sent Sir Rodney’s sword home to his father?” somebody asked.
“There’s only one of me,” Edris said grimly.
“There looks to be three or four of you!”
Everybody laughed, except Edris.
“If people want to fight me,” he declared to the crowd, “I’ll fight! However, I’m here to find a damned horn.”
Many adventurers lifted their drinks. “Hear! Hear!”
Edris noticed Brago watching a vaguely familiar squire slipping out of the tavern. He called to him. “What are you doing?”
Brago winked. “Hunting.” He followed the squire out into the street.
Sixty-Eight
Edris lay propped up on a rickety cot in the cobweb-infested attic of one of the houses not far from the center of town. The family’s cat, an old black-and-white mangy thing, sat on his lap purring as he pet it.
The door to the tiny room opened.
“Brago!” Edris said. “Good to see you. I was hoping you’d find where I was.”
“It’s not too difficult to track you down,” Brago said, closing the door. “You cast a rather large shadow.” His nose crinkled. “It stinks of rotting wood and mildew up here.”
Edris examined the ceiling. “Looks like the roof leaks. Good thing it isn’t raining. Do you want to try to find someplace else?”
“I’m sure there is no place else.” Brago nodded to the cat. “What’s with the fleabag?”
“He came in when the landlady showed me the room.” Edris picked up the miffed cat and stood. “My brother, Edros, loves cats. He’s always bringing strays home. I love all animals, but dogs are far more useful.”
“Dogs are stupid slaves to anybody with a bone. Cats, at least, can fend for themselves.”
Edris lay on the floor and put the cat on his chest. It turned in a circle, then curled into a furry ball.
“What are you doing?” Brago asked.
“You called the bed.”
“You’re paying the rent.”
“You deserve a good night’s sleep. The bed’s too small for me, anyway. Where have you been, by the way? I was expecting you to get here first.”
Brago motioned to the pack and supplies piled in the corner. “The former occupant’s?”
“Yeah. I looked through it, but there’s nothing that’ll help us find the horn. He kept a journal. That was good for a laugh. Sunny day. Ate wild turkey for dinner. Who writes about that kind of crap?”
Brago rummaged through the pack and withdrew a pouch of coins. He slipped it into his pocket. “Waste not, want not.”
“You shouldn’t do that. I’m sure his family will be in town soon to collect his things.”
“And I’m sure they wouldn’t mind payment for our troubles.”
“As long as they don’t want retribution.”
“Make no mistake, Ed. People always want retribution. It’s in our nature.”
“You’re probably right. Noble families rarely forgive an injury. I’ll have to be more careful.” Edris stroked the cat. “You never said where you were. You snuck out of the tavern pretty quickly. See a woman you fancied?”
“I leave that lecherous behavior to you adventurers. But to answer your question, I was busy solving one of our other problems.”
“How so?”
“As you were basking in the limelight after your bout, I recognized a friend of ours.”
“Who?”
Brago took an arrow from his pack and handed it to Edris. “Look familiar?”
“Yeah. It’s what I pulled out of Bay. Why?”
Brago handed him another arrow. They were identical.
Edris sat up, disturbing the cat. “You found the bowman? Here? How?”
Brago tossed his pack into the corner and reclined on the musty cot. “As everybody in the tavern was reveling in your success, I observed that one of the patrons was scowling. He got up in a hurry, as though he wanted to let somebody know what’d happened. As he passed me, I spied his quiver.”
“Bastard! Did you find out where he’s staying?”
“I did indeed.”
“Good. Let’s go pay the horse killer a visit tomorrow. I’m going to crush his chest, too.”
“No need.”
“Why’s that?”
Brago grinned.
“You killed him?” Edris gaped. “Brago!”
“Why are you upset? Yo
u were going to kill him tomorrow. I merely saved you the aggravation. Now your day is completely free. A thank-you would be appropriate.”
Edris lowered his voice. “You can’t just go around killing people.”
“Says the man who caved in somebody’s chest.”
“That was different.”
“How so?”
“There’s a Code. There are rules.”
“Codes and rules are for men big and strong enough to defend themselves when playing by them. Trust me, Ed, those rules don’t protect those of us who can’t swing a sword or punch through an oak tree. Somebody shoots an arrow at me and I kill them the way I see fit—that’s my code.”
“By the gods, Brago.”
“Not by the gods, Ed. By me . If there were gods looking out for my interests, my life would be different.”
“And you’re fine with this?”
“Perfectly. Your bay has been avenged.”
Edris shook his head in dismay. “Do you even know who he was?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t care. I only wish I’d been able to make him suffer. Alas, I had to act swiftly.”
Edris groaned and lay on the floor.
Another death. The list of his potential enemies was growing. He was going to have to start watching every shadow.
“How did you do it?” he asked, trying not to sound as though he condoned Brago’s actions. “Is anybody going to be able to trace it to you?”
“Doubtful. I was very discreet. It’s one of the advantages of being a weakling. Nobody ever expects you to defend yourself.”
“You’re not a weakling. Few people could’ve survived on the streets for as long as you have.”
“Thank you. I’m very proud of my survival. I hope it continues.”
Edris stared at the rain-stained ceiling. He always knew Brago talked tough. Being a homeless orphan, he had to—his icy glares and bitter way of talking were what kept the thugs away. But he never thought he could kill somebody.
“How did you do it?” Edris asked again.
“I followed the villain to his room at the inn. Knocked on the door. And stabbed him in the heart when he answered. I took one of his arrows, then closed the door. Which reminds me, tomorrow we should check to see if his room is available. It had two beds and didn’t stink of mold. Then again, it probably reeks of blood now. Still, it’s more spacious than this place.”
