A Simple Trade
“Bloody Mothers! You’ve sent Burnd out on a kill?” Nol’s raspy growl cut the air like the burr of a two-man cross saw. He clamped his bear-paw of a hand on the young Captain’s shoulder, but Garner, the middle son of chieftain Lar Aellin of clan Ar Dane, did not flinch away. The weapons-master leaned in and growled like a Schnauzer on a short chain. “Who did ya send him for, boy? And why?”
Garner shrugged off Nol’s hand. “It is my right to do so.”
“Oh, an’ is it now? An’ where does a young whelp come by such notions?”
Squaring his shoulders, Garner spoke curtly. “I’ll not be treated as a child, Nol—only an ancient with too many seasons would see it so.”
An irksome smile twitched at Nol’s lips; remembrance of a youthful bravado long past. But still—such presumption would not do. He thrust out both hands to pin Garner’s shoulders, and he gazed sternly down upon his young charge. “Didja learn no better than that, lad—can ya no’ show proper def’rence?” One hand swept up to catch the boy’s jaw, and his calloused fingers rubbed at the scruff of an early beard. Nol’s lips parted wide, baring jagged teeth. “So, we’s all grown up now, are we? Heh! Couldn’t tell it from this down on yer face—feels more like soft moss t’ blind old Nol.”
Garner twisted and dropped out of the armorer’s reach, and two steps back he straightened to regard his liege. “You’d be well advised to consider how you attend to the forthcoming Clan Lar, Nol.”
Nol snorted and spat. “O’ yah. If an’ when that comes t’ pass, boy—then you’ll get a chance t’ earn yer due. ‘Til such a time, though, ya needs remember—yer Da passed Clan rule on to knobby old Nol betwixt his death and the markin’ o’ his successor.” He squinted hard at the gangly youth. “So for now—you does as I say.”
Garner responded with nothing more than a blank stare, and Nol chuffed. “Just answer the question, then, boy. Who did ya send Burnd after?”
Garner lifted his chin. “As a blood contender for Lar, it is my duty to stand against any who pose threat to the Clan. To my ken, those who ambushed father’s party present more than danger enough.”
Nol’s brow rose like the curtain before a stage act, and he blinked twice, bemused. “So—ya’s done gone an’ figgered out who turned that foul deed, now has ya?”
The young Captain scowled. “Any fool could puzzle it out, Nol, but since no elder will serve justice upon the kinslayer—I’ve taken that duty upon myself!”
In the span of that one sentence Garner’s tone slipped from bright anger to ragged grief, and Nol purposely took no notice as the boy-almost-a-man turned his head and scrubbed a forearm across his eyes. No shame in grievin’ over yer father, boy. Lar Aellin were a fine man—an’ gone only half a season yet. Nol shook himself back to the moment and scrunched his brow down like the straight teeth of a bastard file. “Bah! Make some sense then, boy. Who does ya speak of?”
Garner frowned as though Nol could scarcely discern black from white. “Surely you know, Armorer, that it could be none other than Tarin, of branch clan Hil Dane.”
***
The young man bolted out from the frost-rimmed pond stamping his feet and scrubbing his arms, his skin prickled like a goose plucked and ready for the spit. Tendrils of cold mist caressed his bare skin and he cursed through clenched teeth while hopping from foot to foot tugging on his trousers. He’d pulled the jerkin only halfway over his head when an oddly warbling voice came from behind.
“A brisk morning to you, Master Tarin.”
Tarin spun, surprised and alarmed to be so readily taken unawares. He was venturing outward on his First Trek, that solitary, self-seeking journey from which a young man seeks adulthood through gained wisdom and perspective. These first days he’d delved into the depths of the Outland Forest, far below his clans’ territory and with no particular destination in mind, and until now he had seen no sign of anything—man nor goblin—that made its way on two legs.
But now he locked onto the piercingly blue eyes of this unexpected visitor, here in the deep reaches of nowhere.
Dressed in the gear of a practiced woodsman, the man of middling stature sat cross-legged on a shelf of rock at the clearing’s edge. His posture and his manner were unthreatening and a pleasant smile showed beneath the wide, floppy-brimmed hat that shaded his features.
But even in partial shadow, there could be no missing that face.
A fire—a horrid fire, it must have been—to have been burned so badly...
Tarin could not help but gape at a face mostly sloughed away. A rounded hump suggested a nose, and what must once have been an ear hung as a misshapen flap skewed at an odd angle. Of the other ear nothing remained, and a thin, featureless line marked the absence of lips. Intense blue eyes, eyes that appeared a depthless reflection of the open sky, stood out from the livid palette of scar tissue.
Tarin shuddered; he had heard such a description before, and thought it nothing but colorful exaggeration, but now the truth of those words sat before him.
This is the Burned Man, from clan Ar Dane.
Burnd nodded slightly, as though he’d been watching Tarin’s thoughts. “I see that you recognize me, Master Tarin.”
Tarin carefully bent to retrieve his moccasins, keeping a wary eye on the hideous man. “I might ask—how do you come to know the name of a stranger?”
“Ah,” the apparition seemed to chuckle. “That is no mere happenstance, Master Tarin, but rather the fact that I have come searching you out.”
Tarin balanced on one leg to tug on a moccasin, wanting to look away but unable to divert his gaze. It was disturbing to watch the man’s mouth work through its laborious enunciations. Being little more than a scarred cavity, such a deformity seriously impeded certain sounds—words went missing bits and pieces, mostly those that required the use of lips. Tarin edged toward the longbow leaning against a nearby tree and spoke casually. “So then; who are you, and why have you come looking for me?”
Burnd shook his head, no expression discernible on a face unable to play emotion. “You’ll not want to be making for your weapon, Master Tarin.” He nodded meaningfully to the drawn crossbow positioned just-so on his lap. “But do hear me out. I make pledge, young Master—if you abide me, no harm will befall you in this clearing.”
Tarin cocked his head at the stranger, his heart beating fast and his thoughts distracted by the oddly flat cadence of the Burned Man’s speech. He frowned—what was wrong with what he’d just heard? “Why do you say… no harm—in this clearing?”
A twitch flittered across the hardened scar tissue—a faint smile, perhaps?
“I speak the simple truth, young sir. But you’ll be wanting to know ‘what else’, won’t you, Master Tarin? What remains unspoken?” He dipped his head. “Then here is the full telling of it. Sadly enough, once we have left this clearing, each of his own volition, I must then attend to your death.”
Tarin lunged two steps toward the longbow and just as abruptly jerked to a halt as a barb whickered past, embedding the tree where his weapon leaned several feet away. Darting his eyes back to Burnd he saw the clansman notch a second shaft while the first still quivered in the tree. Tarin’s courage faltered. He is too fast…
Burnd stroked the tensioned bough of his weapon, an oddly intimate gesture, while his cool gaze staked Tarin firmly in place. “Do not compel me to break my vow, Master Tarin, as that was my final warning.” He glanced to the longbow. “I am told you are quite good with that.”
“The best in Hil Dane.”
“How long would it take you to reach the bow; to nock it and to draw on me?” Burnd shook his head. “However quickly, it is more time than you’d take living breath.” He raised both palms, open. “I would have you first hear my words, young Master, and only then decide your action. Is that fair enough?”
Tarin studied the burned man some moments, then nodded.
Burnd extended a knobby finger toward him, much like a reaver marking his harvest. “I have been sent to take you, and so it will be.” He shrugged. “That is my stock in trade, because, as you likely know, I am an assassin.” The burned man paused, and it looked as though his face scrunched into—what? Tarin could not read his expression, but his next words seemed to somehow carry a genuine note of regret. “I don’t ken the reason for this taking, and as I sit here I smell no stench of wrongful death.” Burnd shrugged again. “But such decisions are not mine to render.” Tarin opened his mouth but Burnd shook his head. “There will be no negotiation, Master Tarin. But—for reasons that I cannot explain even to myself—I have decided that I must offer you a chance. A chance to escape—to kill me, even—should that suit you.” He gave another shrug and spoke simply. “You will accomplish none of that, of course, as I am too adept at my dark art.”
Tarin glanced again to the longbow, probably ten feet away. Burnd could likely loose two bolts in the time it would take him to reach the bow and nock it, and he felt coldly certain that just one would more than suffice. He looked back to those blue eyes, two improbable pools of still water in the midst of a blazing inferno. Under the burned man’s penetrating gaze he felt any hope of deception or distraction slip away.
“How would you give me this… this so-named chance, then?”
Burnd nodded. “It is a simple matter, Master Tarin. Ten minutes. Once you depart I will delay ten minutes before resuming pursuit. Consider that brief span of time a precious gift—payable as life or death at this turning moment.”
Tarin narrowed his eyes. “Why should I believe that you will give me even that? How do I know you won’t kill me as soon as I turn away?”
Burnd chortled. “You do not, of course. But use your wits, Master Tarin. If that was my intent I would have slain you as you stood with your back to me, tugging at your breeches with your pale arse dripping water. You would have died without knowing that this day was different from any other; gone to your fate without one last opportunity for a reckoning with your maker.”
Tarin studied the grotesque mask of flesh, searching for he knew not what, and finding no answers he nodded once.
The burned man seemed to sigh. “I would offer one last bit of advice, young sir. The best that you can do is run—try to put distance on me. If you turn to set for me as soon as you’re out of the clearing, then that is when and where you will die. I am sure that you’re very good with that bow, but remember that I have not missed a mark in more years than you’ve drawn breath. It is not with particular pride that I advise you that I have scores of kills. Hundreds, more likely—I’ve grown tired of counting.”
Tarin watched the burned man’s emotionless eyes, and he saw his own fear reflected there. The breeze chilled his sweat-dampened shirt.
Burnd offered a final condolence. “You are young, Master Tarin. If you are fast and enduring, some time will pass before I catch up. I would suggest you use that time on the run to make peace with whatever gods you kneel to.” He chuckled, an oddly rueful note. “That is the one advantage you have over me, young sir—as surely all the gods have long since given me up.”
Tarin left the clearing with only the longbow and quiver slung across his back. He decided to take Burnd’s advice—he was a strong runner; even from an equal start few could stay with him for long. He warmed to his pace, his breath coming easily and his leather-clad feet thudding a muffled rhythm on the leaf-bed of the virgin forest.
Ten minutes lead… I’ll take that and run the bloody Burned Man to ashes.
***
“Tarin of Clan Hil Dane?!!!”
The words burst from Nol’s lips like a smithy’s hammer on an ingot glowing from the coals, and Garner hopped back as the Armorer took a menacing step forward. “What in the name of the Seven Sisters was ya thinkin’? Ya’ve set against yer own brother?”
“My half-brother,” said Garner, “whom I’ve never met and who abides in a distant mountainous branch of the Clan.”
“And what in the bloody underworld does that have t’ do with anything? May the Gods forgive ya, boy. Damned be the man who sends the reaper to his own brother’s doorstep!”
Garner spoke defiantly. “It was the clansmen of Hil Dane who ambushed and killed father, Nol. It is they who are damned to burn in the netherworld, not I.”
***
Tarin ran hour upon hour, drawing strength from the ancient forest god Timbron and breathing endurance from the stands of old-growth OriginWood that soared above the tree canopy like spires stretching for the heavens. The grade steepened slowly as he climbed toward the mountains, ascending toward the vast plateau marking his home territory, and while he knew the straight-on route he’d chosen was predictable enough, that would not matter because he intended to make the Hil Dane stronghold before the Burned Man could catch him. The hunt would end there, under the protection of the outer bastions of the clan’s StrongMen OuterGuard, and soon enough an envoy would be dispatched to Ar Dane with demands for amends.
Stopping at a clear brook that burbled fast over reddish-gray stone, Tarin knelt to splash cold water on his face. He drank deeply and smiled to himself. He was feeling good, he could hold this pace a few hours more and by then he’d have broached the Hil Dane borderlands.
But even that much is likely not necessary. Ha! The Burned Man is more than twice my age and cannot match my length of stride—surely he fell off some distance back. He’ll be flagging badly by now—he underestimated Tarin of clan Hil Dane, and now he—
Tarin abruptly caught his breath and cocked his head to one side, listening intently. He’d heard something—birds, it sounded like—bursting from cover. And a thrashing sound, something moving fast through the brush. He rose and turned to look back over the course he’d just passed, where the forest descended the upslope.
There—a flock of birds fanning out above the trees. Something just flushed them …
With a morbid sinking in his belly, Tarin leapt the creek and scrambled up the opposite bank.
By the Bloody Darklords, the Burned Man is gaining on me! Faster, I must run faster…
***
Nol slumped against the trunk of a thick Sedgewood, the color drained from his ruddy complexion.
By the Hex of Asture, this can’t be so...
His haunted eyes rose to focus on Garner; he didn’t think the boy yet grasped the enormity of his action. “When did Burnd go out?” Nol’s words, spoken softly, carried the monotone of resignation.
“Yesterday morning… word had come in that Tarin was ranging the outlands.”
It’s done, then. Even the most seasoned warrior would fall to Burnd—mayhap even Nol the Armorer. And poor Tarin is scarcely more than a boy.
“Armorer,” Garner spoke forcefully, “Do you not see? It had to be Tarin who killed father. Father was fiercely loved throughout the settlements, clansmen were proud to follow him! Only Tarin had both the cause and the opportunity to see father dead.”
Nol peered dumbly at the young man. “And what be that cause, boy?”
Garner shook his head angrily. “Leadership of the clans! When a Lar falls, tradition calls for Rule to pass down to the most able of his sons. That would be Tarin, or me, or Palen in Fae Dane. Fae Dane sits a great distant from the site of the ambush, but father was not so far from Hil Dane on that day, bound there with the intent to arbitrate a dispute among local chiefs.” Garner smacked a fist into a palm. “It is obvious, Nol, that the slaying of father was Tarin’s work. He would next lay in wait for Palen or I, and when rid of us both he’d lay claim to the mantle of the three clans.”
Nol looked numbly to the ground. Bloody Gods, the boy truly believes this tale he’s spun for hisself. I knowed he was hurtin’ from the loss, but this?
“Garner…” Nol’s voice trailed away for lack of words.
“Nol, you know of what I speak. The Lar sires sons by different mothers, and when it’s time for leadership to be passed on, the half-brothers contest each other for the rule. The survivor is proven best able to prevail, and so becomes the new Lar.”
Nol shook his head. “Garner, your da disavowed that tradition once he took rule. You knows that. Aellin never forgive hisself for the death o’ his paternal brother, an’ he ruled that such a custom would n’ere again hold sway in the Dane clans.”
Garner squinted at Nol. “Then why did father sire three sons by different mothers? You cannot say that that is not of the old ways.”
Nol cursed and spat his chew to the ground, its taste gone bitter. “Aye, that’s an old one, sure eno’—just diff’rent from what yer thinkin’. Why does any man bed more than one woman? I’ve sired pups by a half-dozen m’self, but no sens’ble woman will put up with the likes a’ Nol for long.” He peered at Garner, his heart weighing heavily. “Lad, your da was in the prime o’ his rule. Yer right about one thing—the clansmen loved him, they’d lay down their lives for him if need be. Lar Aellin had no reason t’ b’lieve he’d not carry the clan banner for many more seasons, no reason t’ plan fer change any time soon.” Nol laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Lar Aellin thought he had all the time—an’ so he’d not yet told ya, had he?”
Garner peered at him questioningly, and with his distant gaze fixed on a sad surety Nol spoke softly, almost musing to himself. “Garner, ya poor, fool, boy. Ya doesn’t know what it is that ya’s done…”
***
Tarin plunged on through the forest, fighting the pain of cramping muscles and desperately gulping too little air into lungs that burned as if a branding iron had been thrust through his ribs.
Run… I can make… the borderlands… ahead of him. Don’t give up… run…
Sounds would erupt from somewhere behind, frightening—the squawk and flutter of birds flushed, or something larger crashing through the foliage. But he could not spare the time to turn and look, as time was everything now. His life hinged on scant minutes, or less, and running out.
run… run… run...
Fueled by sheer will and little else now, he careened loose and gangly like a puppet on tangled strings. He angled down a stream bank where water churned and tumbled fast down a rocky channel, and, looking to the opposite bank, he leapt for a stone midstream. The rock slid and caught and his foot jammed; he yelped as his ankle wrenched and a bolt of fire shot up his leg. He tumbled headlong, landing hard on the opposite bank. The world spun and tilted as he clawed up the bank on hands and knees, and when he tried to clamber to his feet a scathing lance of pain caused his leg to fold and he fell to the spongy soil. He bent forward to peer blurrily at the ankle, already beginning to swell.
Run. Mustn’t stop… just a sprain. Run.
He rose slowly, cautiously, trying to ease a little weight onto the foot, and he cried out. He began to limp; awkward, painfully slow, and he realized that this could not continue. He glanced back over a shoulder.
How far back? I can no longer hope to outrun him.
He hobbled up the narrowing valley that the stream plunged through, frequently pausing to look back, and his hope rose with each scan of the vacant landscape. But then a cold fist tightened around his heart as a figure dropped down the opposite bank a ways back. Even at this distance he could make out the dark red face shaded by a floppy-brim hat. The Burned Man leapt lightly across the creek and began climbing the bank
This is it, then, I can flee no more.
He lifted his gaze up the slope and felt for the longbow slung across his back, grateful that it, at least, had survived his fall.
I’ve got to set myself up and wait—kill him before he kills me.
His swept his gaze in a half circle, spotting a smaller gully that branched off on a narrow tangent and appearing to come to an end some fifty yards up. He turned and began hopping on one foot, and as he approached the gully’s apex his mind raced.
Where would I have the best cover, and a clear shot at the gully’s entrance?
A fair-sized outcropping of rock looked to be the best bet.
How about poor cover—an unlikely choice?
There. A fallen tree trunk a distance away from the outcropping, rising just a few feet above the ground. Hobbling to it, he hunkered prone behind the decaying trunk and began to scoop out a shallow gap beneath. He pressed his face into the dirt, peering with one eye through the narrow cavity, and with adrenaline pumping he wondered if the scent of damp earth and rotting wood might be his last mortal sensation.
The Burned Man came into view at the mouth of the gully and turned his gaze up to the rocky promontory that Tarin had spotted first, and Tarin saw his hand move to the weapon’s safety. Burnd padded upward, crouched low and holding the crossbow at the ready, moving to keep cover between himself and the outcropping. Tarin notched an arrow and craned his head backward. A large tree stood a short distance back from his prone position—if he missed he would move there for a second attempt. He cursed his choice of unlikely vantage.
I’ll have to rise to loose my bolt, and he’ll then be able to target me.
Moments stretched interminable and just as short as the blink of an eye, and then it was time. He pressed a grimy thumb against each eye to mash away the stinging sweat, and he drew the bow and thrust himself up into a sitting position. Burnd’s eyes flashed wide and the crossbow began to swing around, and Tarin released his bowstring at the same time he heard the thwack of the crossbow’s release. Burnd lunged to one side as Tarin dove low, and he heard the arrow whicker past overhead.
Go now! Before he can fit another!
He lunged to his feet, ignoring the rage of pain in his ankle, but in two long strides he felt a thump on his back. He tried to ignore it but could not—he staggered up short, his strength flowing away like water from a bucket rusted through. Confused, Tarin looked down to the wicked arrowhead that protruded from his chest amidst a welling stain of bright red, and his gaze lost focus. He tried to drag an impossibly heavy foot one more step but it wouldn’t budge—his eyes rolled up and he collapsed to the dry leaf bed.
***
“Father never told me… what?” Garner looked perplexed.
Nol rubbed meaty fingers over his brow, massaging the headache that formed behind his eyes. He turned his sad gaze back to the boy. “It were like this, Garner. As I said, Lar Aellin was terr’ble stricken o’er killin’ his half-brother, an’ so after he were Lar he forbade that practice forevermore. But Aellin knew how close folk cling t’ their lore and their creed, and he fretted that when his time were done the Clan might go back t’ the old ways.”
Garner nodded fervently. “He was right, Nol—the clan fully expects rule to pass down in the traditional manner. I hear the clucking of tongues and the furtive whispers, and I see the sideways glances cast my way. The Clan wonders why I’ve done nothing to avenge father’s death.”
Nol grunted. “I’m no’ so sure about that, Garner, but what I do know is that Lar Aellin took a queer action after his three boys was born not so far apart—an act meant t’ lock out a return t’ the old ways.” He lowered his voice to a momentary hush. “It were somethin’ what likely would’a been agin’ clan law, an’ so Aellin told nobody but me and old Counsel Getrag, may his spirit rest easy.” Nol’s gaze strayed past Garner’s shoulder. “I jus’ figgered he told his boys, too, after they come of age…”
Garner canted his head, puzzlement marking his face. “Told us what, Armorer?”
“Gods be merciful, I wish I weren’t havin’ t’ tell ya this, Garner. But there likely be little time t’ spare now.” He looked hard at Garner. “Ya’v heard o’ the Craethen Hags—the old witches what live in the deep forest, far beyond clan bound’ries?”
Garner frowned in confusion, and then abruptly barked out a laugh. “Those are phaery tales for the wee ones, Armorer—meant only for scaring the youngsters straight. Surely you do not expect me to believe in the Craethen Hags?”
Nol nodded morosely, not looking directly at Garner. “Aye, I do, boy. And soon eno’ you’ll have little reason t’ doubt me. Because ya sees, Garner, while his three sons was still wee babes, Lar Aellin gathered ‘em t’gether and carried ‘em out into the forest deep, where he sought out the wily old spell-binders. An’ there he made a bargain.” Nol peered at Garner. “With their enclave bein’ all women, don’t ya see, their line would wither away if they didn’t, from time t’ time, barter their sorcery for the means t’ carry on...” He paused meaningfully, and after a moment’s thought Garner wrinkled his lips in disgust.
“What your father received in trade,” resumed Nol, “were three tiny amulets, each scarcely larger than a dayfly, linked t’gether by sorc’ry and bedded with the same curse…”
***
Burnd walked toward the body that lay crumpled on the rough terrain, keeping his crossbow trained steady. He nudged it with one toe and saw that his shaft, broken off from the fall, had likely passed through the heart. He rolled the corpse onto its back and looked into dull eyes that stared up unblinking. He knelt down to pull out the remainder of the shaft, and he spoke softly. “I must admit that I’m a little sad to have caught you, Master Tarin—as I’ve never experienced so difficult a pursuit.” He leaned over to push a pant cuff up, looking at the purplish, distended tissue around the ankle. He nodded. “I could tell that you’d begun to open distance on me. I suspect that I may not have caught you at all if not for the sprain...” He placed a gentle hand on the still chest. “You nearly caught me with that shot you flung off from a most improbable vantage—very well done.” He smiled sadly to himself. “Such a shame, you had tremendous potential. Given a few more years, perhaps a successor to my calling?”
He straightened the body and arranged its clothing, and he picked up the longbow and looked at it admiringly. “A fine piece. Much too good to be left as an ‘omen’, in my opinion, but—I do as I’m told.” He laid the bow across the body, stood and gave a slight bow, and turned to begin walking back down the gully.
***
Garner scowled. “Why do you waste our time with children’s tales, Armorer? You speak as though you provide a revelation, though you surely cannot expect me to—”
Garner winced, and then jerked forward as if slammed by a fist between the shoulder blades. His fingers flew to his tunic, below the collar bone, and he pulled them away to stare blankly at the blood there. He raised his gaze to Nol, who stood nodding sadly, and choked as he tried to speak. Nol stepped forward to catch him as he fell, lowering him gently to the ground.
“I am truly sorry lad, for I fear yer time is done. Ya knows that Burnd never leaves a mark unfinished.”
Garner looked up, blood foaming at his lips. Nol looked at the spreading patch of blood and nodded. “Thru the heart—I’d best hurry.” He knelt and spoke quietly. “Yer da were afraid that when his time was spent his sons would go agin’ his word—that they’d go back t’ the old ways, t’ the creed what had forced him to kill his own brother. An’ so each son had a tiny amulet, bartered from the Craethen Hags, planted under the skin at the base o’ his skull. The amulets was sentient; empowered by witchcraft and linked by sorc’ry. When one brother killed another the amulets would know of it, and the deed would be reversed.”
Garner’s tongue lolled from his mouth as he rolled his head from side to side. Nol nodded sadly. “It’s so, lad. Your father meant only t’ stay your hand, but in trying t’ kill yer brother, you’ve turned the act on yerself.”
***
Tarin’s eyelids fluttered open and a black veil was swept away. He lay still for a moment, chilled and confused, and then memories came rushing back with the returning beat of his hear