Weapon of Flesh (6 page)

His feet stopped walking as if he’d received an order from the Master, his mind overwhelmed by the aromas of well-cooked food.  He peered through the windows at the shadows moving within, catching glimpses of a woman carrying a huge tray of meats, cheeses and bread.  His stomach made his next decision for him, and he approached the door.

The boy paused there for a moment to listen, cataloguing the voices he heard.  There were at least seven people inside, probably more.  He would have to be cautious.  He gripped the brass handle and turned it carefully.  It was not locked.  He pushed it slowly open, and stepped into the noisy interior.

The noise abated somewhat as he swept the room with his gaze.  He noted six men seated at two tables, each wore a belt knife and all four at the larger table wore swords.  There was an unstrung longbow propped in the corner behind that table.  The two women wore no obvious weapons, but their skirts could easily conceal several, though nothing could be hidden in the tightly laced corsets.  Another man stood behind a long counter that occupied one entire end of the room, a pewter mug in one hand and a rag in the other, the two working against one another, though it was doubtful that either would become cleaner or dirtier by the contact.

The boy saw their eyes on him, and wondered what was so interesting about him.

In their eyes he was a stranger, unarmed and alone, which was unusual enough.  He was a bit travel worn, but no dirtier than several of the men sitting at the tables.  His lack of a pack, belt pouch or any kind of a weapon marked him as highly strange.  His clothes were those of a peasant and he wore no shoes, which might mean he was a slave.

“You want somethin’, lad, or are you just gonna sit there and stare at us all night?”

That brought laughter from four of the six men and one of the women, as well as the man who had spoken, the large one polishing the mug.  The boy tensed, knowing that laughter was often a prelude to attack.

When the laughter subsided and no one tried to kill him, he wondered if there might be other reasons for laughter.  He approached the long counter where the big man still stood polishing the dirty mug and said, “I’m standing.”

“What?” the man snapped, ceasing his polishing and putting the mug aside.  “Yer what?”

“I’m standing.”  Everyone was looking at him strangely, so he elaborated.  “You asked me if I was going to sit and stare at you.  I’m not sitting.  I’m standing.”

This heralded more laughter from the four men at the table, but not from the woman or the man behind the bar.

“Listen, lad, don’t try to get wise with me!” the man growled, tucking his rag away and  narrowing his broadly set eyes.  “You come in here wantin’ somethin’.  What do you want?”

“I want food.”

“Well you’ll be showin’ me some money first then,” the innkeeper said, cocking his brow skeptically.

“Money?  What is that?”  The boy had heard the word before, but was unsure of its meaning, and didn’t want to make another mistake.  Unfortunately, he’d already made one, and the room burst into laughter once again.  He was beginning to think that the four men at the larger table would laugh at anything he said.

“You know, gold, silver, even a copper or two.  Money.”  The innkeeper shook his head sadly.

“Oh, coins.  No, I have no coins.  The Master had all the coins, and I didn’t take any of them when I left.”

“Left?”  The innkeeper and several of the others were staring at him more intently now.  “You mean you ran away?”

“No.  I walked.”

More laughter broke out all around the room now, even the quieter of the two women chuckled behind her hand.  The boy was dumbfounded at the meaning of all this laughter, so he thought it best if he tried to explain.

“The Master was dead.”  The laughter shopped short.  “I saw no reason to stay.”

“Did you kill him, lad?” the large man asked, his voice slightly different than before.

“No, the other men did that.”  They stared at him again, so he elaborated.

“Seven bandits came from the woods and tried to take things from the Master.  We killed them, but an eighth was hidden and shot the Master in the throat, then rode away.  The Master was dead, and I knew that my destiny was down the road, so I walked away.  Now can I have some food?”

The room erupted into laughter, several comments regarding his destiny and what an unlikely story it was ringing around all at once.  Finally the large man behind the bar banged a tankard hard on the wooden surface and the uproar subsided.

“Sorry, lad, but no money, no food.  Now get out before you stink up the place permanently.”

The boy sniffed the air, detecting a wide range of scents mingling with that of the food.  His own odor was only that of a bit of sweat and four days on the road.  Surely the man didn’t mean that.

“No money, no food?” he asked.

“That's right!” the innkeeper retorted hotly.

“Give me some money, then.”

This brought a loud snort from the man.  His round face reddened, and his voice came out harsh.  “Listen kid, I don't know if yer stupid or just wrong in the head, and I really don't care, but yer not gettin’ anythin’ from me so beat it!"  With the last words, the man’s huge hand reached over the bar to grip the boy’s tunic.

The boy snatched the man’s fingers in a grip of steel, twisting backward until they popped out of joint.  He pulled hard, using the man’s heavier weight to splay him over the bar, and brought his elbow down on the extended arm.  Bones cracked like kindling and the man screamed in pain.  Other shouts rang out around him, so he thought it best if he finished the man quickly.  He cocked back his hand for the killing blow.

“NOOO!”

The boy stopped.  He looked at the woman who had screamed, simply because he had never heard such a bloodcurdling plea.  He did not release the man’s mangled arm, but his curiosity was burning to know why the woman was so distraught.

“Why not?” he asked, cocking his head at her quizzically.

“Just don’t hurt him any more!” she pleaded, but the boy was noticing that the other men were finally getting to their feet.  And their hands were on their weapons.  He released the bartender’s arm and balanced himself.

“I don’t know who you are, Boy, and I don’t know what you want, but you’d best leave or yer gonna regret it.”  The most formidable of the men stepped away from the larger table, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

“Why?” was all that the boy could think to ask.  He had done nothing wrong.  The innkeeper had attacked him, and he had retaliated.  Those were the rules of combat.

“This is why,” the other man drew his sword, a well-kept longsword of medium-hard temper and keen edge.  “Now you’ll be off, or I’ll --”

The boy moved like a stroke of lightning.

As the sword came free and pointed toward him, his feet left the floor.  His palms clapped onto the flat of the blade near the tip, while his foot swept in a short arc to impact upon the weapon’s midpoint.  The finely tempered steel snapped and the hilt spun out of the other’s grasp.  Continuing the spinning motion, the boy’s other foot crashed into the man’s chest.  His opponent’s feet left the floor, and did not touch again until after the wall behind the large table stopped the man’s trajectory.  He lay there stunned, clutching his broken ribs and struggling to breathe.

The boy now stood where the man had.  He was poised in a crouch, the two-foot piece of the man’s broken sword was clasped between his palms near the broken end and held over his head perfectly parallel to the floor.  His eyes scanned his remaining opponents, gauging their nerve, skill and the weapons that still rested in their sheaths.

“We can take ’im, Lem,” the youngest of the three whispered, fingering the hilts of a dagger and shortsword.

“Not me,” his friend answered, eying the crumpled form that lay wheezing against the wall behind them.  He moved his hands away from his own weapons.  “Jorry was a better blade than me, and the kid took him like a cheap whore with a butter knife.  I say give him some food, Marra, and send him on his way.”

“Sure, sure,” the barmaid prattled, moving from where she was tending the injured innkeeper to a cold box.  She retrieved a heavy burlap sack and stuffed cheese, bread and a cold leg of mutton into it then thrust it over the bar at the boy.  "Just take it and go..."

The boy relaxed his stance somewhat, yet remained vigilant, wondering if this was some sort of feint or ruse.  They were all looking at him worriedly, some still fingering weapons, but most trying to look as non-threatening as possible.

“Here, here.  It’s food.”  The barmaid placed the laden bag on the bar and backed away.  “Take it and leave.  We don’t want no more trouble!”

Trouble?  What trouble was there?  They had attacked him, and he had defended himself.  He did not understand their behavior at all!

The boy relaxed his stance fully and walked cautiously to the bar.  He felt like he should say something, but it seemed that every time he opened his mouth, someone laughed then attacked him.  Perhaps silence was more prudent at this point.

He carefully placed the broken length of sword onto the bar and picked up the bag.  He moved to the door, but once again felt as if he needed to say something.

“I only wanted food, not trouble.”  He watched for some response, laughter, another attack, anything, but they all just stared at him.  He pulled the door open and stepped into the night, quickly continuing his journey.

Reaching into the bag, the boy retrieved the loaf of bread and bit off a large hunk, chewing as he walked.  He could hear the voices of the people in the inn for some time as he lengthened his stride and continued his meal.  Many of their words were strange to him; he had no idea what a “hangin’” or “constable” were, and didn’t know why they would need to have the former and get the latter.  He simply walked on, eating and thinking as he traveled.  In the future he would try to remember: no money, no food.  Perhaps he would be able to avoid trouble that way.

The midmorning sun was halfway to its zenith when the faint tremor of galloping horses stopped the boy in his tracks.  He stood still, eyes closed, feeling the cadence through the soles of his feet.  There were six of them, he could tell from the pattern of hoof beats; they were running flat out and were still far enough away that he had time to make a careful decision about what to do.  The decision was simple: stand or hide.

He opened his eyes and studied his surroundings.  To his right was thinning forest with little undergrowth, to his left a stone fence with jagged topping stones and a rolling field with sheep dotting the green.  The fence was higher than he could reach standing flat footed.  It offered little in the way of an obstacle, but there was always the chance that something lay beyond that he could not see.  There was little choice.  The boy tossed over his food bag, took a three-step running start and executed a perfect rolling jump that cleared the sharp topping stones by a hand span.  Thickly thatched grass met his feet on the other side, which was a pleasant surprise.  He recovered his bag and stood quietly with his back against the stone wall and waited for the horses to pass.

When the sound of the thundering hooves reached its height, curiosity won out over caution.  He needed to know who these horsemen were.  Were they after him, or was his caution misplaced?

He gripped the highest protruding stone that he could reach, and lifted himself up; then he gained purchase on the topping stones, and chinned himself to peek over.  The glimpse he got of the receding horsemen yielded a wealth of information:  Three of the six were men from the inn, the three whose friend he had injured.  The other three he did not recognize.  All wore weapons, and their bows were strung and close at hand.  The leader, or so he seemed, wore a helm of bronze and rode a horse both taller and stronger than those of the others.  Their mounts were all lathered as if they had run a fair distance, and some quick calculations lent credence to the theory that they had come from the village.  That they sought him was not a far stretch of his somewhat limited imagination; the trouble he had inadvertently created had followed him.  He would have to be more careful from now on.