5: The Traveler's Home
Before the sun had emerged from the East Marsh's horizon, three figures — two upright, one slumped — walked under the town's welcome archway and down the road leading away from Hunt's Hollow.
Despite the mage's grumblings, they had no horses or mules. King Aldric's constant requisition for their use along the Fringes made them scarce in the East Marsh at the best of times, and all the more since a disease had recently taken many more. Aelyn insisted he had the seal of the King and they could seize any beasts they found, but Bran flatly refused, saying he'd have to drag him if he wanted to ride. And though Aelyn looked perfectly willing to do so, the traveler only huffed and turned away.
Garin kept looking at the two men from the corner of his eye as he battled with his overpacked rucksack. Their packs were smaller except for Bran's weapons. The chicken farmer carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and had tucked a scabbarded sword under his bag.
But it wasn't their possessions that drew his eye; there seemed a brightness to their steps, a liveliness to their faces, that spoke of who they were. This was their home, this winding road. All other places were waystones and resting places, the sojourn the only place they could be at peace.
He looked back as the last of the buildings faded behind him and wondered if he'd become the same as these two travelers.
Then his mother's face came to mind, and he cringed. He hadn't had the courage to say goodbye, no more than leaving a brief note. He hadn't had the courage, either, to tell that to Bran. Though Bran thought Garin was wiser than he'd been at his age, he'd still ignored his advice.
He resolutely put her face from mind, imagining instead all the wonders waiting ahead of them. Halenhol, capital of the Kingdom of Avendor, was said to have buildings that touched the stars, and knights in shining silver armor that rode through the streets, and peoples of every Bloodline, color, and shape. Elves, dwarves, and even goblins living beside humans in the greatest city in all of the Westreach — even the World.
Maybe.
The truth was, he didn't know how much of it was a crock of crap made up by bored old men to entertain young children, and how much was real.
He glanced nervously at Bran, wanting to ask his endless questions, but the look of the man's face stopped him. A solemn expression had claimed his features, and with the morning sun behind them and his hood pulled low, his face was cast in shadow. More and more, he wondered how he'd ever thought Bran a hapless chicken rancher.
“You have a question.”
Garin startled at Bran addressing him, but said with forced calm, “What makes you say that?”
“Because curious young men always have questions.” Bran glanced sidelong at him, and the solemnity had been replaced by fey humor. “And feathers that float alike know their flock.”
Garin glanced at Aelyn on Bran's other side. Even if he was inclined to ask his questions of Bran, Silence knew he wasn't going to ask them in front of that mage.
So he plastered on a crooked smile. “I do have a question. How do you old men expect to keep up with my young legs?”
Bran laughed. “Oh, you need not concern yourself with that. Young or old, a traveler's legs will go further than a farmer's.”
Garin started to retort, then paused. “I suppose I'll be a traveler soon myself.”
“Yes. I suppose you will.”
The day grew brighter as the sun rose, but Garin's thoughts fell into deeper shadows. What had he done? He was no traveler. And now that he thought about it, it had been a damned foolish notion, running off with two strange men he barely knew. A boy's idea of adventure, he saw now all too clearly.
He scrunched up his brow. What would a man do? Would he stay to his word? Or would he think better of it and go home?
As they walked mile after mile, he mulled over his dilemma. The longer he took to decide, the further from home he went. A man should be decisive — his father had always told him that before he'd been conscripted for one of Avendor's endless wars. His older brothers had certainly listened to him.
But Garin had always let others make his choices. His daily chores, his meals, his clothes — his mother and brothers had overshadowed what he thought and said. The decision to leave off his duties early to spend time with Bran had been his one rebellion. And this, going on the journey, had been his first, real resolution. Going back on that now would show them all he wasn't a man after all, but just a boy.
Evening began to fall, and still they walked on, only briefly breaking for food and other necessities. The day had grown late enough that other travelers had thinned out on the road. Ahead, the Winegulch Bridge came into view, the river flowing sluggishly below, never smelling of the fruity sweetness that Garin had been told was wine's aroma, but stinking instead.
Garin's heart began to pound harder like they were approaching a bear's den rather than a bridge. He'd never crossed the Winegulch before, never been so far west of Hunt's Hollow. Even if it made him a boy, he had to speak — to turn back or to seek assurance, he didn't know.
“Bran—” Garin started to say, but he cut off as a sudden whoop filled the air.
“Hold there!”
His companions stopped mid-step onto the bridge, and Garin stumbled to a halt after them. Whipping his head around, he saw three men step out from the brush. A glance forward showed another two stomping across the bridge, hard frowns worked into their faces. His heart began to pound harder, like Smith's hammer working out a particularly tough piece of iron.
Dusk, Garin's mother had well instructed him, was the time of day that brigands liked best.
And these were brigands, without a doubt. Their hair hung in greasy locks. Pimples dotted their skin, and wiry, untamed beards grew from their chins. Most of them looked half-starved, faces gaunt and eyes hollow, but for one big fellow, who was bloated enough for the rest of them, if no less healthy looking. In all of their hands, some manner of weapon was clutched: knives, axes, and in the big man's hands, a warhammer.
It was the large fellow who spoke. “You!” he said, his voice not as deep as Garin had expected, but plenty loud enough to send his legs wobbling like a newborn calf. “You'll give us your coin. Now. And everything that man is wearing.” The big man pointed one sausage-like finger at Aelyn.
The mage narrowed his eyes, and Garin noticed he had delved his hands deep into his mysterious pockets. He wasn't sure if he was more nervous about the highwaymen or whatever his companion had in store for them.
“Now, now, wait a moment.” Bran wore an amiable smile and raised his empty hands. “I can tell from your accent that you're not from around here, and from your clothes, that you were conscripted not long ago.”
Their assailants exchanged glances that Garin would have thought apprehensive if they hadn't had them surrounded with sharp steel.
The big man stared at Bran, unmoved. “Then you know we mean business.”
“I know you're running away,” Bran corrected. “And I know exactly why. I, too, ran from war once. I'm a deserter, as surely as you are.”
Garin stared in astonishment. He'd guessed Bran had been a warrior — but a deserter? The King's wars might be many, but men didn't run from their duty. It put his companion in a new, uneasy light.
“What of it?” the brigand barked. “So people think you're a coward like us. Don't mean we won't rob you!”
“Of course not,” Bran said, speaking as if he were trying to soothe a horse. “We'll give over our gear in just a moment. But I just want you to be fully aware of what you're doing.”
The highwayman took a step forward, and his companions followed his lead. Garin was sure he'd start sweating through his tunic, and jerkin besides. He gripped his belt knife tightly as if the small blade meant for cutting meat would be much help against former soldiers with proper weapons.
“We know what we're doing,” the big man sneered. “Now, I'll give you to the count of five. One—”
“You really don't know what you're doing, I assure you.” Bran, far from seeming uneasy, jabbed a thumb at Aelyn. “For example, did you know he's an elven mage?”
The brigands, ready for blood a moment before, all stumbled back, though their weapons raised higher. Garin was ready to run himself. He'd accepted Aelyn was a mage — but an elf besides?
The big man, however, narrowed his eyes. “Show me your ears!” he commanded Aelyn.
The mage didn't move, his molten eyes leveled at the big man. Under that stare, Garin would have turned tail, but the deserter seemed unmoved. In a swift motion, however, Bran swept the hat from Aelyn's head, and pointed ears sprang up from beneath the ink-black hair.
The mage hissed at him, but Bran hardly seemed to notice. “See?” he said pleasantly. “An elf. And everyone knows elves possess magic.”
The deserters backed away another step, and even the big man seemed to be having second thoughts. Garin recognized him now for a bully. Small as Hunt's Hollow was, it had its fair share of bullies. But as Garin knew from experience, until a bully broke, he didn't back down.
“Then I'll break him first!” the large man growled. “Forget the counting! Hand over the bags now, or I'll smash your head in!”
“But you don't even know who I am yet,” Bran said pleasantly. “See, in addition to a deserter, I'm a bit of a sorcerer myself. I'll warn you once — drop that hammer.”
Far from dropping it, the big man raised the big weapon, and Garin stepped back, wincing as he waited for Bran's head to cave in.
“Kald!”
The hammer's shaft burst into flames.
The brigand stiffened in surprise, then howled and threw his hammer to the ground, staring at his charred hands. “Yuldor's fucking balls!”
Bran shrugged, not seeming the least alarmed. “I warned you, didn't I? Now, I only ever mastered a few cantrips. Imagine what this fellow next to me will do if you stick around. Let's see… How about I give you until five? One—”
The brigands were bolting before he'd finished the first count, disappearing back into the forest. Only the big brigand remained.
“Same goes for you,” Bran reminded him. “Two—”
The man eyed his still-burning hammer on the road, then growled a curse and made for the forest at a lumbering run.
Garin stared, open-mouthed, at his companions. “Who are you?” he whispered.
The chicken farmer — who was no chicken farmer, Garin knew all too well now — had gathered a solemn look again. “Exactly as I said. A deserter. A failed warlock. And many more half-realized roles.” He glanced at Aelyn. “Sorry about the hat.”
The mage had bent to retrieve his pointed hat and was brushing irritably at a bit of horse dung that had crusted onto it. “I very much doubt you are,” he snapped as he fixed the hat back on his head, ears tucked into it.
Bran shrugged. “I'd be lying if I said I wasn't also amused.”
“Why did you let them go?” The question burst from Garin.
Aelyn eyed Bran as well.
The man looked between them. “Many reasons. In my experience, violence should always be a last resort. Men who use it too quickly, like our would-be smith here—” he gestured at the hammer “—get themselves in far more trouble than out of it. But more pertinent here…” He looked off down the road. “Acting the brigand, too, I can claim in my past.”
Something was stirring in Garin's stomach. Hunger, yes, and a bit of the need to relieve himself. But under that, the warm glow of awe, and the cold shiver of fear.
“Who are you?” he asked again.
“You'll learn soon enough, and regret that you did.”
“Enough,” Aelyn cut in. “We must walk miles yet before we make camp to be sure we're far from those fools.”
Garin's stomach grumbled, but he followed as the elven mage set a quick pace across the bridge. He was tired, and scared, and still had to piss. But one thing had left, he realized. No longer did he wonder if he should stay or go.
For better or worse, he'd made his decision to follow the road where it willed him. Even if he still didn't know the first thing about those he traveled with.
Thanks for reading these sample chapters of A King’s Bargain! I hope you enjoyed them.
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Whatever your decision, I’m grateful you took the time to check out the story and wish you well!
Josiah, aka J.D.L. Rosell
