A small fantasy of sex, swords and sorcery.
It shouldn't be necessary to state this, but all involved are at least 18 years old. In human years.
Please enjoy.
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The seated figure bent forward and added a small twig to the fire, waited a moment to see how much smoke it would make, then added a second. Again he checked for smoke, a scraped-up pile of dirt at hand ready for instant smothering.
The hands adding the twigs had long, slender fingers. A gold ring circled the middle finger of the right hand; the crest on it well-worn, indistinct. Their palms were heavily calloused, as if belonging to one accustomed to survival only by the heaviest sort of toil and one finger was missing its final segment. The hands were however an odd mix of hard living and fastidiousness, for the nine remaining fingernails were surprisingly-well groomed, clean and carefully shaped to square ends.
The fire picked up a little and the figure in its worn grey cloak settled back between it and the rock face. Some, he knew, would build a big fire against the rock, work hard to feed it and risk unwanted visitors drawn by the light. He on the other hand would be as warm from the reflected heat of the small fire without having to worry nearly as much about what it might attract. He knew he was a match for most things in this forest, but still preferred to avoid being noticed.
A thin improvised mattress of layered pine branches stretched out along the rocks, a worn grey leather pack resting at its head. A short, heavy-bladed sword in its scabbard leaned against the pack, hilt close to his hand. A man-tall wooden staff leaned against the rocks to his other side.
The man shrugged his shoulders inside his padded jerkin. Examining himself, he frowned and swept sand and leaves from the knees of worn baggy trousers. The boots into which they were tucked were clearly of superior workmanship, but now retained little of their former luster.
"You've come down in the world, Aldar," he muttered to himself.
The smell of the broth over the tiny fire reached the figure's nose. Leaning forward again, he looked in the copper pot, nodded to himself and pulled it off the fire. Cupping the hot vessel in a fold of his cloak, he settled again in his seat and pulled a wooden spoon from the top of one boot.
One hand casually brushed off the cloak's hood, revealing the wearer's head. Thin-faced, yet with strong features, he carried a well-trimmed, pointed beard and moustache, mainly grey amid rusty remnants of youth. Deep lines in skin darkened by the sun emphasized how long it had been since that youth had passed him by; his grey eyes were almost buried beneath thick eyebrows framing a long, aquiline nose.
Bending forward, he ladled a spoonful of thin broth into his mouth, sucking in air to cool the too-hot liquid. He put down the pot for a moment, pulled his pack towards him and, rummaging through it, pulled out a well-traveled partial loaf of barley bread. Reaching into his right sleeve, his left hand brought out a thin-bladed bronze knife with a bone handle. The blade featured intricate engraving, now almost obliterated by time and much use. After cutting off a frugal serving, he returned the knife to his sleeve and the remainder of the loaf to the pack.
He continued his meal, dipping the hard bread into the soup and saving the last crust to wipe the pot clean. Setting the empty vessel down by the fire, he began to run his fingers over a scattering of rocks he'd moved aside when constructing the bed. Selecting a small smooth stone, he began to whet the edge of the sword, running it up one side of the blade, then up the other. From time to time, he stopped to thumb the edge to check its sharpness. Eventually satisfied, he set the stone aside and began to hone the sword's edge on a scrap of hard leather pulled from his pack. He paused from time to time to check his progress by shaving his forearm with one part of the blade, then another. The fine hairs fell easily to the razor-sharp edge.
Returning the scrap to his pack some minutes later, he rolled his head on his shoulders, as if stiff. A low
crack
brought first a grimace, then a low smile of relief. He looked up, regarded the evening sky for a few moments, pondered the death of a falling star.
Leaning back against the rock face, he grasped his staff by the middle, examined a couple of low-relief carvings on it. Keeping the sword across his lap, he spoke without looking up, his voice loud enough to carry.
"All right now. You've been watching me all this time. How about you show yourselves? I prefer neighbours I can see."
The silence grew, if possible, even deeper. A few seconds later, two slender figures, one a handbreadth taller than the other, stepped noiselessly into the small circle of light. Both were cloaked in worn but carefully mended homespun cloaks, hoods covering their faces. Below the hems of the cloaks could be seen the cross-gartered cloth leggings worn by both sexes of the region. Their feet were covered with home-made turnshoes, each fashioned from one piece of hide stitched into form and then turned inside-out to protect the welt.
The man sat unmoving, his hand resting lightly on the sword hilt.
"Show yourselves, I said."
The two figures turned briefly to look at each other before, as one, sweeping the hoods off their heads. Two rather dirty faces were revealed, both with long hair carelessly braided and falling over one shoulder. The shorter one had fair hair, that of the taller one was a coppery-brown. Both appeared to be in their mid-teens; there was clearly a family resemblance in more than just their green eyes.
"So, neighbours, what is it that you want?" His voice was deep in tone, low in volume and without menace, but clearly not without wariness.
The two again looked at each other.
The shorter one spoke in a high voice, the local accent evident. "Shelter, good sir."
The man waved his hand around the clearing. "Not much shelter here," he smiled lightly.
The shorter one glanced at his taller companion, shrugged.
"Good sir, you are a soldier, from the looks of it..."
"Was," he grunted. "The war's over."
"Not for such as ourselves."
The man grunted again, nodded briefly. Peace between empires might have been declared, but there was but little comfort in that to the thousands of unpaid and hungry troops on both sides suddenly dismissed from their employment. Nor to the peasants, merchants and pilgrims trying to live in the lawless chaos that was the Marches.
"Again," he said, not unkindly this time. "What is it that you want of me, lads?"
Together, wordlessly, they sat down on the dirt, almost a matter of collapsing. Aldar could see fatigue in their faces, streaks on their dusty faces, ones he was sure they would not admit were evidence of dried tears.
"Our family was... destroyed," said one.
"We've nowhere to go," said the other.
The man nodded. It was a common-enough happening these days. The only reason, he thought to himself, that corpses were not more common along the roads was that the wounded generally crept into nearby bushes for shelter before dying.
"Well, you can see that I haven't much at all. I don't think I can feed you, lads."
One brightened. "Oh, but we have food!"
A dirty hand emerged from under a cloak, holding the body of a large hare by the hind feet. From under the cloak of the other was produced a basket half full of greens and mushrooms, a wizened wild apple resting on top.
The man laughed, a deep rumble. "And how did you come by all that, may I ask?"
The two flushed under his gaze. The short one answered heatedly. "We're not thieves!"
The other said, rather more loudly, as if for emphasis, "We... we were out of the village, tending snares and gathering legumes when the bishop's soldiers came."
The man's hand left his sword, went to his mouth in a sign for silence. "Hush now! Softly! Voices carry and I have no desire to bring vermin down on us, be it bears, bandits..." He paused, smiled wryly. "Or bishops."
He thought for a moment, apparently considering his options, then nodded. "All right," he said. "For this night only, you can stay. Can you cook?"
"Yes. A bit."
