K Parker - Evil for Evil

Food and drink went round: cheese, an old store apple each, half a dense, gritty loaf. Miel knew all about that kind of bread. It was made from flour ground from the last of the previous year's grain, the two or three inches left over in the bottom of the bins when they had to be cleared out to make way for this year's newly threshed corn. Perfectly wholesome, of course; but because it was dredged off the bin floor, it was inevitably full of dust, grit, shreds of stalk and husk. Sensible estate managers bought it cheap for poultry feed and to make bread for the seasonal casual workers. You could break a tooth on it; the old joke said it was better than a stone for sharpening scythe-blades. The Ducas, of course, had outlawed its use on his estate, and made a point of giving away the bin-end grain to the poor (outcasts, beggars, men who dug for a living). The silly thing was that, apart from the grit, it didn't taste too bad at all.

He glanced across at Phrastus Gyges. Stratiotes was there talking to him, keeping his voice down, like a man at market buying his neighbor's sheep. They're talking about me, Miel thought. Half an hour and I'll have to make a move. A pity, but what can you do?

When he got up, he stood for a moment or so and yawned. Nobody was looking at him; he wasn't important enough to merit anybody's limited reserves of attention. He stretched. No need to fake the cramp in his legs. He walked slowly toward the door, the very picture of a man reluctantly compelled to make the effort to stagger outside for a piss. It was only as he smelled the night air outside that he realized there were two men behind him.

Oh well, he thought.

He followed the outside of the barn, past the usual place. Someone called out: "Where do you think you're going?"

He paused, didn't turn his head as he replied, "Need a leak."

"What's wrong with here?"

"I don't like the smell."

"Is that right?"

He carried on until his way was blocked. One man behind him, following; the other had gone round the other way to cut him off. He looked at the man in front of him, trying to feign irritation. "Do you mind?" he said.

"You carry on," the man replied. "Never seen a toff piss before."

Miel laughed. "You haven't lived," he said. "Pay close attention, you might learn something."

He could just make out the frown on the man's face as he turned to face the wall, his left hand reaching for his fly, his right hand apparently resting on the eaves just above his head. Not there; and the horrible thought crossed his mind that someone might have found it and guessed why it had been put there. Then his finger traced something cold and smooth. He explored a little further and found the junction of the grip and the stirrup-guard. He straightened up, the way you do, and used the movement to pull the hilt of the sword out far enough to get his hand round the grip.

Maybe it was moonlight glinting on the blade as it pulled out of the thatch, or it could have been some slight carelessness in the way he lifted his arm that sent a danger signal. "Just a minute," the man to his right said. Miel took a long step back to give himself the right distance, and held the sword out in front of him in a loose approximation to the middle guard. "Sorry," he said.

The man on his left got the message. The other one didn't. Either he hadn't seen the sword or else he had the mistaken idea that toffs couldn't fight worth spit; he took a stride forward and reached for Miel's arm, quickly and confidently, like a stockman roping a steer.

The middle guard is a good, solid basis for defense, but it lacks flexibility. Against a threat coming in front and high, it can only be developed into a thrust in straight time.

Miel didn't see the point go in. No need; he knew what the inevitable outcome would be, and he needed to give all his attention to the other vector of threat. The other man, the one on his left who'd stopped dead in his tracks, had time and distance on him, making him an intolerable risk. Without hesitating to look at him, Miel took a half-step back and sideways, using the pivoting movement to power the cut. The technique uses only the first half-inch of the sword-blade to cut the jugular vein. Miel had been practicing it once a week for twenty-five years, but this was the first time he'd ever used it in live play. It worked just fine.

The second man was dead before the first man hit the ground, and Miel was still moving (a half-turn and step away, to avoid the thick spray of blood from the severed artery). When he stopped, he found his right arm had swung up into a high hanging guard, to ward off a possible counterattack in second. He froze, thinking, What do I do now, I've forgotten; then he remembered. The fight was over, he'd won. Marvelous.

They lay perfectly still, one on his face, the other twisted half sideways, like clothes dropped on the floor by a drunk undressing. Miel closed his eyes, opened them again, and lowered the sword, keeping the blade well away from him, as if it was some disgusting thing he'd just found. Just marvelous, he thought; and a voice in the back of his head was yelling at him for standing like an idiot when he should be stealing the horse and getting away from there. It was their fault, he tried to tell the voice (which wasn't listening and didn't care); they should have let me go, they should have realized, they were stupid. The voice replied: Well, what can you expect from people like that? No, Miel told the voice, but he couldn't get it to listen. There was no point even trying to make it understand. Get the fucking horse, it kept on saying, and Miel knew it wouldn't shut up until he did as he was told. He stepped backward, knowing that once he took his eye off them it'd be over and everything would change. You fool, the voice explained to him; any moment now they'll wonder what's taking so long, more of them'll come out, do you want to have to kill the whole bloody lot of them? That made him angry, but he knew he couldn't fault the logic. He turned his back on them and stumbled (don't run, you bloody fool; tripping and turning your ankle at this point would be the supreme humiliation) toward the stable.

He knew, of course, how to put a bridle on a horse. The stupid animal lifted its head and scowled at him, ears back. He put down the sword, lifted the bridle off its hook and stepped forward. The horse backed away. It can smell the blood, Miel thought, they're sensitive to things like that. He swore at it, then clicked his tongue and chirruped, "Wooze, horse," the way all the grooms he'd ever known had always done. It lifted its head and kept still as he guided the bit into its mouth and fumbled its ears through the headband. Noseband and throat-lash-the straps were swollen and greasy with saddle soap and wouldn't fit through the loops. Saddle; no, you clown, don't stop to check the girths or shorten the stirrups. What with the shouting of the voice and the blur behind his eyes, he could hardly think; just as well this sort of thing was second nature, or he'd be screwed. He mounted awkwardly, dropped the reins and had to lean forward to gather them. He'd forgotten the sword; well, he'd just have to do without. No, couldn't risk it. He dismounted, grabbed the stupid thing in his left hand, nearly cut himself to the bone on it as he remounted. Finally ready, like a woman going to a dance. He kicked the horse much harder than he needed to, and nearly forgot to duck as they went sailing out through the stable door.

Warm night air; he had to work hard to remember where the path was. Light was spilling out of the barn doorway, he heard a voice but not what it was saying. He kicked the horse again, then smacked it spitefully with the flat of the sword. That got its attention. He made no effort to steer; it knew the area far better than he did. He realized that he didn't have a clue where he was heading for; not that it mattered. The horse was too tired to do anything more than a grudging trot. Its back was uncomfortably wide and the stirrups far too short. All in all, Miel thought, I've had better days.