Sam Barone: Eskkar & Bracca

Summer of 3161 BC, the Land Between the Rivers. .

Eskkar stared at the hunk of stale bread resting on the tavern’s grimy table and tried to ignore the ongoing argument with the innkeeper. Bracca, Eskkar’s companion, still traded words with the owner, complaining about the day-old bread and the half-filled cups. By now both men had raised their voices, each attempting to shout down the other. Bracca repeated his demands for more food and drink, while the innkeeper refused to offer any more without another coin.

Eskkar gritted his teeth. The innkeeper’s hand rested on the sagging plank table that separated them, ready to grasp the handy cudgel and splatter Bracca’s brains across the room. Of course Bracca would have his sword in the man’s chest before that happened, but the fight wouldn’t stop there. The handful of patrons enjoying the shouting match would join the fray, and Eskkar would have to do the same.

Another senseless fight, and even if no one got killed, the inevitable outcome would be more trouble for Eskkar and Bracca. But Bracca relished tavern brawls almost as much as he liked trading sharp words with angry innkeepers. Eskkar, on the other hand, hated the thought of dying in some dank village hut, a gloomy fate that seemed more likely with every passing day.

Of course the man had cheated them, taking their last copper coin and promising a cup of fine ale and half a loaf of bread for each of them. The ale, so watered down as to be little more than brown water, had vanished down Eskkar’s throat in three unsatisfying gulps. The bread, yesterday’s from the hard feel of the brown crust, lacked any taste whatsoever. Eskkar knew he would end his meal as hungry as when he sat down.

But every tavern owner in the Land Between the Rivers cheated his customers, especially strangers just passing through. Only a fool expected anything different, which made Bracca’s quarrel an even greater waste of time. Not to mention that Eskkar, a barbarian outcast from the north, and Bracca, a Sumerian thief from the south, were considered worse than mere travelers and should expect to be treated accordingly.

Picking up his bread, Eskkar rose, making enough noise so as to draw every eye to his tall frame covered with hard muscle. A long horse sword jutted up over his right shoulder. “Let’s finish our meal outside.”

The brief words, spoken with the heavy accent of someone from the steppes, stopped not only the innkeeper’s tirade, but also dissuaded the regular customers from joining the argument. Eskkar, ducking his head beneath the low ceiling, strode between them without a glance and stepped outside into the bright sunlight.

Squinting his eyes, Eskkar found a rickety table alongside the tavern’s outer wall a few steps from the entrance. Ignoring the bird droppings, he eased himself onto the hard bench. A moment later Bracca emerged, a frown on his face, and slumped onto the bench opposite Eskkar.

“Bastard should have given us at least another cup of ale.”

Eskkar shrugged. “It’s only water, so why fight over it?”

Bracca snorted. “I don’t like being cheated, especially by some farm hand.” He sighed. “Still, I suppose you’re right. Maybe we should come back at night, cut his throat, and take whatever coins he’s got buried under his bed.”

Villagers always buried their valuables underneath their beds, as if no robber would ever think of looking there. A few of the more enlightened hid their goods in the garden, which usually required a little longer to find. Bracca swore he could smell the hiding places, and for all Eskkar knew, he really could.

“If that fat fool had anything of value or even some decent food, I’d do it. But we don’t need another gang of angry farmers chasing us across the countryside.”

For once, Bracca had nothing to say. In the last ten days, they’d left a trail of irate farmers behind them. Eskkar took advantage of the precious moment of silence to take another bite from his bread.

“Why is that man staring at you?”

Eskkar lifted his gaze from the dirty table. Bracca’s soft voice now held just the hint of concern that made it different from the steady stream of words he incessantly bantered about. For the sake of his ears, Eskkar tended to ignore most of Bracca’s never ending comments. But while his friend might talk too much, Bracca knew when to keep quiet. And when to make his words count.

Without moving his head, Eskkar took a quick glance at the idlers hanging about the village center — this pathetic collection of mud huts didn’t rate calling it a marketplace. He needed only a moment to pick out the young man squatting on the far side of the open space who had caught Bracca’s attention.

The man indeed continued to stare, not with the usual open-mouth, I’ve-never-seen-a- barbarian-before, but with closed lips and furrowed brow. Nor did he turn away when Eskkar glanced in his direction. That warranted a longer look. Most people lowered their eyes when Eskkar glared at them.

Over the years, Eskkar had learned to ignore the sneers or rude looks that followed him everywhere. Well into his twenty-sixth season, his powerful bulk and features proclaimed his steppes ancestry to everyone he encountered. Taller than almost all villagers, his unkempt, dark brown hair and scarred face tended to frighten most people. The long sword he carried slung across his back made them even more nervous.

He brushed the hair away from his face, and took in the man, clearly a farmer by the dirt and caked clay that clung to his feet and legs. Only long days laboring in the muck of the fields or the mud of an irrigation ditch stained a man like that.

“Don’t know him.” Eskkar shrugged and turned his attention back to the last scrap of bread that rested on the table. The stale loaf had cost them their last copper coin, and he didn’t intend to waste even the tiniest crumb. “Just some dirt eater.”

The barbarian warriors of the steppes called anyone who lived off the land, whether on farm or village, dirt eaters. The horse fighters killed them at every occasion. A blade or arrow in the stomach let them die a lingering and painful death. The lowest herd animal butchered for food or pleasure fared better.

“Well, I think he knows you,” Bracca said. He shifted his stool, and now faced slightly away from the stranger. “That’s more than just simple curiosity. Have you killed any of his friends or relatives?”

“No, and I haven’t fucked his wife or sister either.” Eskkar swallowed the last hard crust of bread, and licked his lips, wishing there were more. “I’ll go ask him.”

But the farmer must have decided he’d seen enough. When Eskkar turned his eyes back across the open space, the man had vanished.

“Well, he’s gone.”

“And so should we be on our way,” Bracca said. “There’s a gang of armed men coming toward the inn.”

Eskkar glanced over his shoulder. A quick count showed seven men, all carrying weapons, heading toward them. Armed men meant trouble. Villagers seldom carried weapons. Most relied on a simple knife, a dull working tool usually made of low quality copper. But those approaching carried a mix of short swords and longer knives, the kind favored by fighting men.

Eskkar shifted his weight, and moved his feet. Bracca had already done the same, though he still appeared to be taking his ease.

The leader of the little troop, a burly man with a pointed beard barely into his thirties, halted a few steps away from Eskkar and his friend.

“What’s your business here?” The man wasted no time on pleasantries. His beard jutted up and down as he spoke, which made his question seem even more menacing. “Were you planning to work for Ulman?”