Clayton Emery - Sword Play

Touchy folk, the young man thought. No doubt Ruellana lives elsewhere.

Before he knew it, he was threading cabins on both sides of the road, then came to a crossroads where four matched maples cast a green tint from early spring leaves filtering sunlight. The barbarian saw now that the village occupied land that jutted squarely into a small river. Hence its name, for the river made a bend like an auger brace used for drilling holes. A nice place, Sunbright thought, if Ruellana lived here.

There were few people about, for most were in the fields, tilling and planting. Another dog barked, but the barbarian spoke to it and it stilled. "Hush, you. Where's the inn? Ah!"

Facing a flattened stretch of earth and the river was a squat building that streamed smoke from a thatched roof. Above the low door hung a sign crudely drawn with a brimming mug. That, Sunbright understood.

Whistling again, the curious dog still trailing and sniffing along behind him, the warrior shifted his pack on his back and ducked through the low door. It was black inside, for there were no windows, but he heard voices and smelled meat and fruit pies that set his stomach growling. It was time, he thought, to test whether Chandler's coins were good.

As his eyes were adjusting to the dimness, something whizzed by his head like an angry bee, then shattered on the lintel. Crockery and ale splashed his shoulder.

"By the yellow god," roared a bleary voice. "A barbarian!"

"He's got a nerve!"

"Kill him!"

"Get his sword!"

Surprised by the hostility and unused to being indoors, Sunbright hesitated for a moment. Better to lurk in the dark, warned one teaching. Better to get outside in the clear, warned a contradiction.

And in that second, someone hammered his head into the young man's midriff.

Grunting, Sunbright cannoned backward into the doorjamb. The uneven threshold, worn by generations of feet, tricked his heel, and he stumbled. The man pressing him grappled clumsily, enfolding Sunbright in ale fumes. They probably wouldn't attack if they weren't drunk, the barbarian thought evenly. He dug an iron thumb into the man's neck to make him gasp and let go.

Meanwhile, a second man reared from the dark den and swung a meaty fist at the barbarian's face. Sunbright shifted his head coolly, but banged it against the jamb, and the roundhouse punch smashed his lips against his teeth. Damn it, he thought, he hated being indoors!

While being hugged around his middle, Sunbright avoided the next blow. The assailant's fist smashed into the jamb. He heard a knuckle snap. But a third man rose from the dark like a smoky wraith, and he had a knife that flashed in leaking sunlight.

"Enough!" the barbarian bellowed. But they didn't hear, for the men were shouting as if the pub were on fire.

Scooting a hair, he drove his knee straight up into the grappler's gut. The man oofed, relaxed his grip, then grabbed hold again. The puncher reached with two hands to drive thumbs into Sunbright's eyes, but the warrior flicked his head, caught a thumb in his mouth, and bit to the bone. The man howled. With the puncher trapped, the knife wielder couldn't close.

Seeking to disengage the grappler, Sunbright bent one knee, then smashed as hard as he could upward with the other. The grappler urped, then vomited hot, stinking ale and stomach juice all over the barbarian's shirt.

That made Sunbright furious. Spitting out the howler's thumb, he gave, a battle shriek that raised hackles and set dogs barking all over the village.

Ten minutes later, his tackle torn from his shoulders, his topknot spilled down around his face, his knuckles skinned and bleeding, his shirt torn, Sunbright was bashing the head of the last man standing-actually, he'd found him cowering behind the short bar-against the bar, yelling in time with the thumping, "Never, never, treat me that way again! You hear me? Never-"

A sharp whistle cut him off. He squinted at the doorway. A lumpy shape filled it sideways, but left the top half full of sunlight. Not a man, the barbarian thought dazedly.

The squat shadow asked, "You Sunbright?"

"Aye." He let go of the barkeep's ears.

"Someone wishes to speak with you."

"Oh. Thank you." Creaking, groggy from battle lust and the following weakness, the warrior combed back his yellow hair, picked up his tackle, and ducked low under dark beams, heading for the door.

The squat shadow was gone.

Outside, the sun had retreated behind some clouds, and Sunbright smelled rain coming. A party of traders ill-dressed for traveling milled awkwardly at the ferry crossing. A handful of capable-looking bodyguards were busily strapping bundles and bedrolls to a dozen pack animals. The squat figure who'd summoned him stumped in that direction: a dwarf, the first real one Sunbright had ever seen.

With the party was Chandler, the plain-dressed steward of the local castle, who'd sauntered into Sunbright's camp thirteen leagues hence with gifts and odd propositions. Now he left the party and walked over, but halted when he got a whiff of the barbarian's scent.

Looking at his jerkin and shirt, Sunbright found vomit, ale, candle wax, blood, and other fluids. He strode to the riverbank and, notwithstanding an audience, stripped and washed his shirt and himself. On his forearm he discovered a deep bite he didn't recall getting. Chandler stood nearby and talked.

"I've chosen a task for you," said the erstwhile steward. "I wish you to travel with this party. They seek audience with a would-be emperor in the east called the One King."

Sunbright wrung out his shirt, scattering curious minnows in the rippling water. He thought it over, knew the party would have directions and such, so asked only, "Then what?"

"Eh?" Chandler, really Candlemas, was startled by the barbarian's cutting to the heart of the matter. The groundling was not slow-witted. If he survived the journey and audience with the One King, which was unlikely, Candlemas hoped to send him for Lady Polaris's benighted book. "Uh, find out all you can about this One King and come back. Would I were one of those cloud-living wizards who can see down into the world at a snap of the fingers, but alas."

Shrugging on his shirt and lacing his jerkin, Sunbright squinted. "I thought your master, the lord of the castle, wanted information about local grain prices. What's a foreign ruler got to do with that?"

Chandler almost smiled. The barbarian wasn't that bright, and lying was a wizard's specialty. "Oh, quite a bit. People hoard food in times of trouble, so prices go up. If armies attack from the east, there'll be a greater demand there than locally. So it might profit to freight the grain down the river, for instance."

"I see." The barbarian didn't, really. His people lived by barter. Chandler's coins in his pouch were the first he'd ever owned, and he couldn't comprehend their value. How could disks of metal be worth a set price when everything was negotiable? Nor did he believe all Chandler wanted was information, but then wizards were supposed to be devious and mysterious. And dangerous, so it wouldn't do to rile this one with too many questions. It would be best to keep on his good side.

He shrugged as he whipped his hair through its topknot. "Very well. What will I be paid when I return?"

That, Chandler thought, was not a worry. So he lied, "A twentieth part of the profits, perhaps? Or a flat fee? Or would you prefer some magical item?"

The words gave Sunbright pause. Seeing his piqued interest, Chandler pulled from a belt pouch a small corked vial. "I thought you'd welcome that idea. Give me your sword." Sunbright slapped his hand on the pommel so fast the wizard backstepped. "Uh, wait. This will make your weapon more potent! I'll just pour it on the blade, and then the sword can wound enchanted beings!"