stepped
back and wiped the blood from his eye. Both fighters circled again, having
taken the measure of each other. Then Anhar charged in, ignoring a straight
left to his face, and thundered a right cross into Urthor’s temple.
The
challenger crumpled.
A
cheer went up from the crowd, and Gard let his mind wander. The fight reminded
him of when he had been village champion, but back then it had been no
challenge at all. Gard held the ring for three years after he left the army,
but a trained killer against farmers and farriers...it dishonoured him to fight
against his friends when he knew he could not lose. He thought he could still
best Anhar in a bout. He was old enough to know there was no need, though. Let
the giant have his glory. He was strong and fought with heart. He deserved it.
Gard
sighed at the memory.
But
no more fighting for him. He’d had enough of blood and death to last him until
the end of days. He was happy being a farmer. There was honour in farming, and
little in dealing death. But there was a pang of regret underneath the thought.
Watching the bout awakened the animal in Gard, just as it did every year. He
turned from the ring and sat down again.
Just
as Gard settled in for a long wait for Tarn and the next bout, there came a cry
from the north of the village. A boy, no more than six, came running into the
square shouting, ‘Soldiers! Soldiers!’
A
startled cry rang out around the village. Soldiers, thought Gard. Here? Then he heard the thunder of hooves on the mud, coming closer.
The
villagers did not look concerned. Their Thane was a benevolent man, and none
here feared him. Perhaps the soldiers came to join the festivities. Stranger
things happened. Gard had seen the Thane’s men take part in the
boxing competition before now.
The
big man closed his eyes, unworried. Tarn would come back soon, and soldiers in
the Spar were no cause for concern.
Then,
when the sound of hooves came closer, he opened his eyes. What he saw made his
heart suddenly race. The men on horseback were not the Thane of Spar’s men. The
crest of the boar was emblazoned upon their cloaks. Even Gard, who spent most
of his life on a farm, knew the crest. It was the old king’s crest. The crest
of the Thane of Naeth, and he seen it recently. On three dead soldiers.
They
were here for the boy. Gard prayed Tarn would not come back. He prayed he would
stay away, just a while longer.
One
of the men dismounted. He wore a short sword at his hip and a crossbow slung
low across his back.
The
crowd, now a good-sized gathering, shrank back from the men. There was no love
in the Spar for the Thane of Naeth’s men. They did not rule here, but all knew
Naeth to be the true power in Sturma.
Gard
moved a little closer. Closer was better, should a fight come to crossbows.
The
leader called out.
‘Peasants,
I am here for a boy,’ his voice carrying well.
Peasants?
thought Gard. He wasn’t doing himself any favours.
‘The
boy has a scarred face. Has anyone seen such a boy?’
No
one called out. Gard sighed with relief. No one here would aid the Thane of
Naeth’s men. Tarn was saved, for today. If he just stayed away.
Gard
spoke before anyone else could. They would take his lead. He was well
respected. ‘There is no boy of that description here in the Wherry. All our
boys are hale and well accounted for.’
‘Is
that so?’ said the soldier. ‘No one here has seen a boy with a scarred face?’
‘No,’
said a rotund man.
Jon Krakauer, David Roberts, Alison Anderson, Valerian Albanov