A Touch of Magic (16 page)

“Congratulations, you old dog!” Randall said to his friend, as he pounded the table. “Let me buy you a round! Hey wench! Two ales, I’m buying!” he said. He slapped Melinda on her rounded ass as she approached, causing her to squeak shrilly. Randall prepared himself for the customary tirade from her, but she sped back to the bar without a word or glance.

“Looks like you were right about her getting as fat as…” Randall started, before realizing that the entire bar had gone as quiet as the grave. The other soldiers at the far end of the room stared at him, and he looked back at Bobby in confusion. “What…?” he asked, his voice trailing off at the murderously hard look in Bobby’s eyes.

“Melinda and me are getting married in two weeks,” Bobby ground out between his gritted teeth.

“Oh,” Randall said, momentarily dumbfounded.

He regained his composure quickly, as Bobby pushed violently back from the table, his hands balled in to fists. Randall stood up and stepped back from the table, too, his hands spread wide and his eyebrows riding high on his forehead.

“Oh, hey. I didn’t mean nothing, Bobby. How was I supposed to know?”

“An insult’s an insult,” Bobby growled as he advanced, fists raised. “Might’ve been different if the guys hadn’t seen,” he said, jerking his head backward toward the other militiamen. “But now, I gotta teach you a lesson.”

Randall backpedaled as Bobby advanced, still trying to figure out things had suddenly spiraled so out of control. What happened to Bobby? He never used to be like this! He soon found his back against a wall.

“Hey! No fighting in uniform!” a voice bellowed, as rough hands jerked Bobby backwards. Randall didn’t recognize the man, but he wore a militia uniform. He looked to be a several years older than the two boys.

“Lemme go!” Bobby exclaimed. “He put his hands on my girl. You saw it!”

“So’s half the company, you idiot. Take it up on your own time,” the man said, as he pushed Bobby backward by the chest. “That is, ‘less you want to spend time on bread and water.” By now, the rest of the men in the bar had taken up positions between Bobby and Randall.

The man looked over his shoulder at Randall. “Ain’t you the kid Bobby thrashed last year? What, you got no sense?” Randall’s cheeks flared in angry shame, but he was at a loss for words.

“I’ll thrash him again,” Bobby yelled, still pushing against his fellows. “You an’ me, practice swords! Tomorrow morning!”

“Fine!” Randall yelled back, trying to put as much swagger into his response as possible. Inside, his heart was beating a mile a minute. With a quick glance to his left, Randall noticed he was near the stairs and decided that this would be a good time to retreat.

“Yeah, go on and run! Tomorrow you won’t be so lucky!” Bobby screamed at his back.

* * *

“Can you tell me boy, do you just have a knack for getting in trouble? Or are you trying especially hard, just for me?” Erliand said, after hearing Randall relate the story. He shook his head ruefully and continued unpacking his gear.

“No, Master!” Randall said. It was true, too. His brother Joshua was the one who always stirred up trouble, and Randall’s mother always let him get away with murder, on account of him being the youngest. “I didn’t know they were engaged! Honest! ‘Sides, I’ve never known Bobby to have such a temper!” That was true too. All friends fought every once in a while, but Bobby and Randall had hardly ever even crossed words the entire time they were growing up. The two were “thick as thieves” as his mother used to say.

“Drink will change a man. Stress will too. Or hadn’t you noticed that little strumpet he’s engaged to is pregnant?” Erliand asked.

“Pregnant?” Randall squeaked. He was getting awfully tired of surprises.

“‘Course, boy. Perfectly obvious.” Erliand answered. “Might not even be his, but he’s the one stuck with the duty. That kind o’ thing tends to make a man a bit ornery.” Randall just nodded numbly as Erliand went on. “Now tomorrow, I imagine you’ve still got a fight on your hands. Bobby’s an important man now, with a reputation to uphold. And ain’t nobody more jealous than the man who ends up with the town slut.”

“She’s not a slut!” Randall protested. Melinda could be entirely too snooty for her own good, but Randall was surprised to find that he still liked her enough to feel defensive on her behalf. He busied himself in unpacking, to hide the anger on his face.

“How many times have you been in this inn at night, boy?” Erliand shot, impatiently.

“Uh, just that last time you and I were here, Master.” Randall said. He was almost always at home after dark, like most everyone in town.

“Then my advice to you is to listen to someone who knows what he’s talking about. I seem to recall you giving me the same advice not too long ago.” Erliand retorted. “Now tomorrow, you’ll take your licking, and then we’ll get the rest of this visit over with.”

“What, you don’t think I can win?” Randall asked, angrily.

“Sure, I think you got more than an even chance, boy. But that Bobby fella’s a lot less likely to hold a grudge if he wins. He’ll get it all out of his system. His reputation will be upheld, and you can go back to being friends. Whip him, and you’ll just piss him off more. And that’ll lead to complications. So you just take your licking.”

“Yes, Master,” Randall grumbled as he crawled into his bed. But he had entirely different plans for the morning.

* * *

Randall was up shortly after sunrise. Erliand had already gone, and had left a hastily scrawled note pinned to Randall’s gear.
Gone to town for supplies. Back later.

“He didn’t even care to see how I fared,” Randall muttered to himself bitterly.

He splashed cold water on his face from the washing bowl in the room, and got dressed. He went through his sword and dagger routines slowly, but with grim determination. He wanted to be limber, not exhausted, when Bobby came calling. Even so, he executed each maneuver and pass with growing resentment.

Bobby was my friend, he complained to himself as he practiced feints. But even he always pushed me around too much. I’m tired of being pushed around! I’m tired of being laughed at!

By the time he was finished with an hour of slow practice he was breathing heavily, but more from the anger and frustration within him than from any of his physical exertions. He glanced out of the window, and could already see a small crowd forming through the gauzy material that served as the second-story curtains.

Great, he thought. Everyone is out to see the spectacle. Just like last year. Only
this
time, I know how to use a sword!

He was trying to psyche himself up, and failing miserably at it. After all, Bobby was bound to have had as much sword training as Randall. Perhaps even more, since he wasn’t dividing his time between study of the sword and study of magic.

Magic! That’s it!
Randall thought in a flash of inspiration.

Quickly, he rummaged through his gear until he found a bit of writing charcoal. Sitting down cross-legged, he pulled the bottom of his undershirt down from beneath his tunic. Taking several breaths to steady his hand, he sketched the Buk rune on the hem of the light fabric. He quickly followed this with a couple of strengthening bindrunes.
Here goes nothing,
he thought, opening himself to Llandra. And nothing. The power wouldn’t come. Randall took several deep breaths to calm his mind and tried again.

It took three more attempts before Randall was able to summon enough magic to power the runes, but when he managed it, he could feel his undershirt stiffening under his clothes until it was as hard as boiled leather. But being light and form-fitting, it was better armor than any cuirass that money could buy. And under his tunic, no one would ever even know he was wearing it! It wouldn’t take too many blows before the magic started to fade. Hopefully, it wouldn’t have to.

Unless he hits me in the head like last time, Randall thought pessimistically. Master Erliand won’t be close by to save me with his talisman this time. Wait, of course! He won’t have to!

Randall quickly rummaged through Erliand’s belongings until he found the healing talisman. Just touching it gave him a newfound energy and sense of purpose. He had a hard time wedging it under the now-stiffened undershirt, but it stayed secure once he had it in place.

Feeling much more confident, Randall practically whistled as he went down the stairs. Frank had already opened the bar area and was selling drinks to some of the militiamen. He looked over and called “Hey!” as Randall entered the common room.

Randall stopped. “Yessir?” he asked.

“If you ain’t beat too much, you come on back in here for a drink and some sausage. On the house. Least I can do after you drummed up so much business for me this morning” Frank said, grinning.

Randall nodded and said “yessir” again. But inside, he felt his ire rising again.
I’m not getting beat,
he seethed.
I’m tired of everyone thinking I’m no good at anything!
Wearing a scowl, he stepped outside.

The crowd had already formed a circle outside the inn. Randall didn’t know everyone in town, but he recognized most of the faces, including Melinda’s.
Why does she look so miserable?
Randall asked himself. There wasn’t really time to think about it, though. People parted for him, and he was soon inside the circle.

Bobby was already waiting for him, wearing an angry expression.
Well, I guess he’s not over it,
Randall thought, resigning himself to the situation. There was a helmet on the ground near Randall’s feet, and Bobby had his own helmet tucked under his arm. Bobby looked a pale around the mouth and seemed a little unsteady on his feet. He had probably spent the rest of the evening drinking heavily. Suddenly realizing that he was concerned for his friend, he had second thoughts about the fight.

“Hey Bobby,” Randall said, taking a conciliatory tone. “You okay? You don’t look like you feel so good. We really don’t have to do this. I don’t want to fight you.” Bobby’s expression relaxed, and for a minute, Randall saw his old friend in that face again.

One of the soldiers near Bobby guffawed loudly. “Haw! Had himself a little too much ale last night. Not surprised, after you slapped Melinda on the bum! Ain’t nobody ‘round here got the balls to do that. At least not since he made Rufus spit teeth!” The soldier laughed again and slapped Bobby on the back.

Reminded of why he was here, Bobby’s expression hardened again, but it seemed more bravado than anger. “That’s right,” he growled. “Nobody touches my woman. What’s the matter, Randall Miller? Chicken? I wouldn’t want to beat you if you’re too scared to fight back!”

There was almost a question in Bobby’s eyes. It was almost as if he was hoping Randall would give up. Randall felt a flash of anger. For once in his life, he was not giving up! He was going to prove to everyone in this stinking town that he wasn’t a worthless, second-rate second-born son. He snatched up the practice sword and kicked the helmet out of the circle, snarling “I don’t need that stupid thing!” He was right; he hadn’t trained in the use of a helmet, and they severely limited peripheral vision.

“I’m not a miller’s son any more, Bobby.” he said, fiercely. “You’ll remember that after today, I wager.”

“Randall,” Bobby started, looking a little worried. “Wear the helmet. I could kill you if I hit you in the head. Even with a practice sword. Remember the last time?”

It was like Bobby was purposefully taunting him, reminding everyone about what happened last year. Randall wasn’t about to back down now. He’d only look like a coward if he did. Randall became furious. Who did Bobby think he was talking to?

“Shut up!” Randall snarled, kicking the armor aside as well. “You wanted to fight, let’s fight! Or do I get that pat on Melinda’s ass for free?”

That last gibe struck home and Bobby snarled as he shrugged on the body armor. “You asked for it. I was
trying
to save you a beating,” Bobby growled out.

Bobby wrestled into the bulky armor and stalked forward, the tip of his wooden sword pointing at Randall’s solar plexus. Randall took no real fighting stance, leaving his sword point to rest on the ground while he sized his opponent up. Bobby looked a lot bigger this year. He filled out the armor and actually looked like a real guardsman. But still, there was something about his stance that caught Randall’s eye.

He’s sloppy, thought Randall. Every time he takes a step, his sword drifts to the right. If I were doing that, Erliand would…

Suddenly, Randall hopped forward as his sword slashed up in a backhand swipe. Bobby was too far away for Randall to make a score to his body, but he was just close enough for what he had in mind. His sword slipped inside of Bobby’s open guard, the tip slashing painfully across the other’s knuckles.

“Ow, damnit!” Bobby cursed, leaping back out of range.

He hadn’t dropped his sword, though, which would have meant a quick end to the fight. That same trick had been played on Randall plenty of times, and if this were a real sword battle, Randall would have already been the victor. Your opponent can’t hold his sword if he has no fingers! It felt good to be on the other side of the sword this time, Randall thought to himself, grinning widely and stepped into his own fighting stance.

“Caravan guard, remember?” Randall smirked. “You aren’t the only one here who knows how to fight.”