Steel And Flame (Book 1) (8 page)

“Hold up, young son!  This looks a good place for the
evening repast.”

Marik paused in the middle of the road and looked to
the sun.  It hovered several feet above the tree line.  “We still have at least
a candlemark  before dark,” he protested.

“Yeah,
lad-o,
” replied Chatham.  “Yours truly
can tell you’ve never been on the road before.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?”  Marik had found
Chatham’s constant chattering amusing at first, but begun to wonder as the day
progressed if he would have been better off traveling on his own after all. 
Yet despite the perpetual annoyance from the odd man, Marik still felt
refreshed.  As if a poison had been purged and left behind in the Tattersfield
town square.

“It means life’s not like a bard’s tale,” grumbled
Harlan.  “You think it’s march all day until you can’t see the road, up at the
break of dawn to do it all over again?”

He could not tell if they were having fun at his
expense.  Chatham continued, “If your idea o’ a good time is finding firewood
you can’t see in the dark an’ stubbing your tender little toes on the rocks
scattered hereabouts, that’s your own lookout, young son.  Me, I like to have
my camp all set an’ comfy in time for the twilight curtain call.”

Maddock dropped the pack from his shoulders next to a
round boulder beside the road.  Marik’s legs had been itching badly since noon
though he refused to admit it.  Stopping now would be nice.

Chatham called for Marik to help with the camp
preparations, seeing as he would be sleeping in it himself, then sent him to
gather wood.  A tree stand near Maddock’s boulder provided numerous fallen
branches that he carried back to stack in the loose dirt.  Harlan did not seem
to be helping at all as he wandered around the trees and the nearby small
brook.

He debated whether he should ask what Harlan was
doing, but missed his chance when Maddock instructed him to lay his bedroll on
the fire’s far side so they would form a square around it.  “Four is the best
number for a single campfire,” he taught, as gloomy Harlan meandered further
away through the trees.

“Why did we stop now?” Marik asked.  “We probably
could have made it to an inn in the next town before dark.”

Maddock answered Marik’s question with one of his
own.  “Why throw away your coin?  The nights are still warm enough to camp.”

An inn hardly sounded like wasted coin to Marik,
considering the rocks he felt as he laid out his bedroll.  He held his tongue
on the matter.  It had been he who asked to join them, after all.

A tap on his shoulder prompted him to turn.  Chatham
grinned at him.  “Hey now,
lad-o
.  Why don’t you come on over here for a
moment or three?”  Marik rose, uncertain what the man wanted when Chatham held
aloft a hand.  “Ah!  Don’t forget your pig sticker there.”

The jester pointed at his father’s sword. 
Apprehension gripped Marik.  Maybe these men were no better than highway
bandits after all.  Were they going to cut him down for his pack and its
contents?

Chatham read his expression.  He recoiled in mock
shock.  “Hey now!  Don’t judge lest yea be judged, an’ so on an’ so on.  Come
on an’ bring it over here.”

Marik glanced briefly at Maddock.  The stout man’s
mouth had pulled back in a curious smile.  Maddock gestured with his head as if
to say, ‘Yes, get on with it.’

He lifted the plain sheath housing the blade, still
uncertain but resolved.  Chatham stood away from the trees, out of the shade
and grinning as if he beheld humors visible only to him.  Perhaps he did.

“First rule o’ the road!” he pronounced.  “Make your
camp when you can see the terrain.  Don’t want no son-o’-a-whore jumping at you
from behind a rock you didn’t know was there!”

Marik kept a tight expression.  He nodded slightly to
show he had heard.

“An’ first rule o’ fighting; know who you can depend
on!  Roads are dangerous places to walk along.  Some other sons-o’-whores might
take a liking to the extra smallclothes in our packs an’ want a closer look at
them.  I’d trust my back to any o’ these worthy gentlemen, but what I’m itching
to know is how much I can depend on you!”  He finished with a toss of his head,
his finger pointed at Marik.

“I can take care of myself,” Marik asserted.

“That might be so,
lad-o
o’ mine
,
but
what I’m asking is if you can be taking care o’ anyone else?”  He drew his own
sword.  Its three foot length gleamed silvery gray in the late afternoon
light.  “This here is my life, an’ all the parts o’ me that want to stay alive
lend a bit o’ expertise to my skill with it.  Since that’s everything from my
hair to my ten little toes, that means I wield it very well indeed.  How about
you?  Why don’t you show yours truly how well you control your life?”

Marik’s discomfort intensified.  Did he want to be
drawn into this?  Both Chatham and Maddock were watching him expectantly.  He
felt a need to act rather than stand there like an inexperienced village idiot.

“Come on,
lad-o
!  This ain’t a fight to the
end, not by any means!  My own humble desire is to see where you rank.”

He placed his faith in his constant practices over the
last several months.  After drawing the blade he dropped the sheath to the
ground.  Marik took the hilt in both hands and charged forward, preparing an
overhead strike like his drills.  He swung down at Chatham, watching the man’s
reactions, ready to change the direction to either side so he would not kill
the other man.

That was unnecessary.  Chatham raised his sword with
the grip up and the blade pointing down.  When Marik’s blade passed the guard,
he quickly angled his blade to catch the opposing steel.  Blade against blade,
Chatham shifted his to the side so Marik’s downward strike diverted to his
right.  Momentum carried the blow down the length of Chatham’s sword until
Marik’s blade struck the ground.

Marik’s eyes had at first been watching Chatham, but
when he realized what was happening he switched to his sword.  After he checked
that his blade had not been damaged by its clash with the terrain, he refocused
on Chatham.

As soon as Marik’s blade had left contact with his,
Chatham had raised his sword so it pointed toward the sky.  He waited patiently
for the few moments it took Marik to remember he was in the midst of a fight. 
When the younger man looked up, he swung his sword down in a quick strike at
Marik’s neck.

Marik knew he could never block in time, that he had
left Chatham an opening so large a wagon could drive through.  He knew with
certainty that he’d been tricked, that these men had never wanted anything
except his coin purse.

Instead of a fiery slice into his neck, he felt
Chatham’s sword tapping his shoulder.  Marik opened eyes he had clenched shut
without realizing.  Chatham grinned in his lopsided manner.

“Well, that wasn’t very effective, was it now?  You
must not want to stay alive very badly if plowing farmer’s furrows is all you
can do.”  His comment and his stupid grin infuriated Marik.  He straightened
his stance and took a firmer grip on his sword.  “Oh-ho, maybe he
can
show me another thing or two.”

Marik’s chagrinned determination wanted exactly that. 
He held the blade parallel to the ground at waist level and swung in a tight
arc.  His sword clashed with Chatham’s but the forward momentum could not be
directed aside this time.

The first strike brought him closer to Chatham.  He
recovered from the slash and prepared to launch a second from this closer range
when Chatham’s fist suddenly filled his entire field of vision.  It stopped a
whisker from his left eye.  Startled, Marik stumbled backward to avoid the
sudden intrusion.

“Rule o’ fighting number two!” sang Chatham.  “Just
because my sword’s out for everyone to see doesn’t mean I’m going to use it! 
Before we continue dancing, how about letting me have a closer look at that
blade o’ yours?”  He sheathed his sword.

Marik irritation flared into real anger.  He checked
himself forcefully.  He’d come this far already, so could play along a little
further.  Chatham took the sword in his hands, looking closely along the blade
and grip.

“Hmm.  Well, I didn’t expect a master sword, but I’d
figured any piece o’ equipment used by a professional would be better than
this!”  He raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“It’s not the sword he usually used.  It was an extra
he left at home.”

“Ah.  Yes, I can see that being the case.  I wouldn’t
think he’d be using this unless he was truly down an’ out.”

“Why?” asked Marik.  He had practiced with it for
months, and he did not care for this fool questioning his father’s fighting
sensibilities.  There was nothing wrong with it he could see.

“How much do you know about swords, young son?  Really
know?”  Chatham saw Marik preparing to answer a different question and
clarified.  “I’m not meaning swordsmanship,
lad-o
.  I’m meaning the
actual swords you hold in your own two paws.”

“Not much,” he reluctantly admitted.  “Not many people
around the town own blades.”

“Well then, it seems I got my work cut out for me if
you’re going to learn anything at all during our brief travels along these
pathways through life.”

“What?”  Had Chatham said what he thought?  But why
would any of these men bother?  “You mean you want to teach me?”

“Nah, nah, nah.  More like,
show
you a thing or
two.”

“Why?” he repeated, suspicion shrouding him.

“Why not?  It’s like I said before, my forgetful
soon-to-be sparring mate.  The roads are full o’ sons-o’-whores.  It’s a lot
easier on me to have you looking after your own skin instead o’ me looking
after both o’ us.  Besides, traveling with these two excellent
conversationalists is boring as all hells.  It’ll help keep the evenings
interesting an’ give me something to do instead o’ staring into the fire an’
growing that much older while my arse freezes to the ground.”

Marik groped for and adequate response.  Better
swordsmanship would be worth learning, no question.  Having the opportunity
fall from thin air like this made him suspicious.  The tall man before him must
be after something else, and Maddock had merely sat against his boulder the
whole time, contributing nothing to the situation.  Did he care one way or
another?  The stout man had as much as told Marik in Tattersfield that he would
be responsible for his own hide.

He decided to see what Chatham’s idea of ‘showing him
a thing or two’ would be.  If it turned out to be the man’s inane silliness
playing him for a rube, he would quit.  “Fine then.  What do you want to show
me?”

Grinning, Chatham said, “Ah!  You’re a quick one, no
doubt there!  But before I show you mine, you’ve got to show me yours!  I want
to see what all this practicing you’ve been doing actually looks like, because
it sure doesn’t seem to have helped your skills overmuch.”

Marik could feel his face burning.  He bit back an
ugly reply.  Instead he reclaimed his sword and began his drill sets starting
with the overhead strike.

“Hmm.  Well, it’s better than nothing I suppose,”
mused Chatham.  “Doesn’t improve your actual skill with the blade but it does
build your muscles so you grow up big an’ beefy.”

Ignore him,
Marik counseled himself. 
He’s trying to play with your head.
  He
quickly ran through his remaining practices while Harlan returned from further
downstream.  The man had caught a family of pheasants and started cleaning
them.

“You’re gripping the hilt right anyway.  A firm grip
is a man’s best friend, that’s what I always say.”

“You’re the only one here who needs a firm grip, you
ugly clown,” Harlan commented in his surly manner.

“Shocked, am I!  Yes, shocked to my core!  To think
you’d deflower the tender young ears o’ our young master swordsman here with
such scandal!”

“You’ll lose the light soon, fool.  Finish up.”

“I plan to, an’ am perfectly capable without your dour
commentary my pessimistic partner.”  He turned his attention back to Marik, who
still had no idea what to make of his new traveling companions.  “You seem to
know most o’ the basics,
lad-o
.  That’s good, because I would have left
you beside the road with a beggar’s cup otherwise.  Now let us continue your
education in the finer arts.”

Chatham abruptly abandoned his foolish posture.  He
became as serious as the caravan masters Marik had encountered in his quest for
odd jobs.  “For starters, you were watching my face an’ then your own sword
during that first strike. 
Never
do that!  See here?  Always watch an
opponent’s shoulders!  That’s where you’ll see him start to move…

*        *        *        *        *

The following day, Marik peered ahead along the road
while they walked.  Chatham was annoying Harlan by attempting to place a flower
picked from the roadside in his companion’s hair.  Why did Harlan put up with
Chatham’s foolishness as much as he did?  He never seemed to derive any
pleasure from being around Chatham yet never seriously lashed out at the man.