Bourninund felt his crotch gingerly and buttoned up swiftly with his gnarled fingers. The man was old, and had bumps and lumps upon scars and calluses, but somehow, despite the physical evidence, he seemed to manage a rendezvous with his large lady friend, the proprietor of the Upright Horseshoe, the coach tavern where they had stayed for the last month, each night.
The owner allowed them to make use of the hay barn each day, apart from Sundays, when the three fellow travellers made the most of the ale and took a day of rest.
“Just airing it, young pup. Ready?”
Renir hefted his axe. The early sun’s rays broken through the gaps in the wooden walls, glinting along the etched blade. It had seen much use already for such a young weapon, but it was as yet unmarked.
“Ready when you are, old fella.”
Bourninund grunted. “Less of the cheek, youngster. And put that away before I stick it up you sideways. Fists today.”
Renir put the axe beside him on a crate, one of the few not splintered. Bourninund called him a sissy for worrying about it, but Renir had put a blanket over the crate to protect his behind from splinters. Renir didn’t care what Bourninund said — he reckoned there were few warriors of any kind of steel who could withstand a splinter in their arse.
The two men unstrapped their sheaths and laid them aside.
“Remember I told you that you can’t block straight with an axe? It’s a limitation, but it’s also a strength. Because the blade is curved, sword strikes glance off. That means you have a chance to hit your enemy before they can get their sword back into play.
“Now, today, remember that. You can do the same thing with a sword, or a forearm when you’re blocking a blow. Watch and learn.”
Bourninund raised his fist, and Renir noted how the muscles on the old man’s forearms corded as he clenched his hands. Renir’s arms showed some sign of improvement, but, he supposed, he had not yet had a lifetime of war to carve him.
He flexed his shoulders, and advanced warily. The boar was full of tricks, but he was learning. He laid him low just as often as he himself was knocked upon the floor.
He swung, his fist a blur, only to be blocked by one of Bourninund’s granite forearms, feeling the shock travel up his arm, but the old man turned the punch, pushing Renir’s arm up. Renir followed through almost instantly with a straight left, but he was now off balance. Bourninund swayed to one side, and suddenly Renir was gazing at pinpoints of light shining on the roof.
Renir shook his head clear and stood once again, raising his fists. It was going to be a long morning.
Chapter Eight
The bar that served as home for the men on Sundays and most evenings was strangely quiet considering that it was only late lunchtime. The Upright Horseshoe had most things they required; rooms, space to practise, and a friendly lady of sizeable girth for Bourninund’s peace of mind. It was perfect for their purposes. It stood on the quieter, poorer, outskirts of the city of Pulhuth. It was a place where people minded their own business, and most of the denizen’s wore one kind of blade or another. It was not unusual to go armed, and it might have even been considered foolhardy not to. After all, an unarmed man only has so many chances of besting a gang of thugs with knives. At least an armed man, in a pinch, can slit his own throat and save himself some pain.
The watch paid the poor quarter no mind, and the poor quarter return the favour to the law. The status quo worked, and suited Renir and his companions. No questions were asked, and in return they left everyone else to their own devices, unless of course they were forced into action. Bourninund had only been forced to kill a man once, though. It was enough to disarm a mugger, usually, but the man in question had been overly sure of his own prowess and had been persistent. Renir shed no tears for the thief.
He was, in many ways, a different man to the one who had left behind his village and his wife many months ago. Somehow broader in his morality. Where once he only saw shades of black and white, now blood had seeped in. In some respects, the view was more beautiful, more fully appreciated, for the additional tone.
Renir was nothing if not adaptable.
And he was thankful, too. There was a war going on to the west, but to be in Pulhuth at night you would not have guessed it. It was not often a topic of conversation in the bar, or any of the other drinking establishments the trio visited. There was no distant clamour of battle, no glow in the night time sky. Pulhuth had yet to feel the warmth of war, but some of its young men had gone off to fight already. Pulhuth, once an ancient capital, remained largely untouched by the invading Draymen, but it was only a matter of time before it, too, was overrun. Far to the south the Thane of Spar was rumoured to be digging in his heels, and Naeth had raised an army of mercenaries which was driving the Draymar back toward the Culthorn mountains. Runtor, in the north west, had finally been fortified, securing the northern pass. The Thane of Naeth’s ragged mercenary army was holding it, for now, but there were more Draymen than Sturmen. They didn’t need to be a canny army, just big.
War had ravaged the countryside. Renir was almost glad to be headed across Thaxamalan’s Saw. Whatever lay behind the frozen mountain range could not be worse than war. Renir had already seen more than one battle, and that was more than enough.
Renir sipped his beer. He was too tired to quaff. But not as tired as he had been a month ago. Longer than that, in his previous life (as he thought of it) he had been heroically lazy, had ran only to fat and if he’d done a days work in his life, he was fairly sure it had been spread out evenly. Even the fish he had occasionally caught were more energetic than he was, and they were often quite dead.
Now, he thought with some satisfaction, he was different. Not better, he realised, in a philosophical sense, but certainly better equipped to deal with all life would throw at him on this journey.
There was no reason for him to fight. He could have gone to Turnmarket, worked in one of the numerous bars there, talked about the weather to the traders, sprouts to the farmers and winked at the serving girls. But he couldn’t return to his village. Everyone there was dead. He had no children, no wife. No dog, he thought, and at least that thought was tinged with warmth.
No, he was now a man with no past, and no future. Fate had not singled him out to carry out great deeds. That was for Shorn, and Drun. He was like Bourninund. Caught up like a fish in fate’s nets. But he would not flounder.
Flounder, he mused, and took another sip of his beer.
What choice did he have? He had friends now, and a purpose. If nothing else, he was a loyal man. He knew himself as few others did, and he had come to an understanding with himself long ago. He would never be a coward, never take the easy way out.
After all, he had married Hertha, hadn’t he?
“You look like a man with much on his mind,” Bourninund said, interrupting Renir’s thoughts. “Still having the dreams?”
Renir had felt he had to tell someone about his dreams. Since his first real wound, from a deep sword thrust to the back of his leg during the battle for Runtor at the northern pass, he had been having strange, powerful dreams. He had shared them with Drun and Bourninund. The sharing wasn’t easy, but while they had been waiting for Shorn there was nothing to do but practise with blade and fist, and talk long into the evening.
Every day Renir woke, his sleep scars deeper than the morning before. They took longer to fade, as though the swords that drew them were becoming more terrible with each passing night. In the morning, when he trained, it was with greater and greater ferocity, as though he tried to slay his sleeping demons in the waking world. But his axe would not reach.