These Old Bones

1-2

He struggled to sit up, his back stiff and painful. His neck feeling as if it had fused during the night. He could hear the amused whispers. The stomping of impatient hooves upon the rain soaked ground. He'd turn his head, in a moment, to see who visited him, but he'd do it in his own good time.

"Ho! Old One! Do you mean to sleep the day away?" The fop. A voice filled with arrogance and glee at Brorzjav's tortured waking. "Would you have been this slovenly, had you been given the bounty, and the murderer would have run a hundred leagues before you broke your fast."

Brorzjav turned, now, to gaze at the two riders. The fop had donned his armour. As expected, it gleamed in the morning sun. A shining, matching set more suitable for court than battle. He harrumphed his disapproval. At the armour or the man, the fop could take his pick. Brorzjav cared little.

He scratched his arm pit and closed one eye as he looked at the two. The woman had ridden out in more suitable clothing. All thick leathers, battered and with the scratches of sword bites. Even the hole from an arrow, or crossbow bolt. Brorzjav couldn't be certain from this distance. Her equipment looked better serving, too. Not the unused sword of the fop, but a long spear and simple round shield. Brorzjav figured she, at least, may come out of the upcoming fight alive.

"An overhang makes a poor roof, Old One. Had you asked, I would have paid your stay at the tavern." The woman, scant years from childhood, had a look of pity in her eyes.

"I'd never've asked. I need pity as I need another hole in my arse." It spoke volumes that the woman laughed and the fop scowled. "I s'pect you'll be away to earn your pay?"

"That we are! We'll have the scoundrel by nightfall. Well, I shall." The fop winked at the woman but she did not respond. "Tiera, the mighty midget here, may learn some tips from a real warrior."

"I'd soon learn tips from a pig and learn more, besides." The woman, Tiera, leaned forward and stroked her horse's neck. "Come, walk with us. I'm certain you have more than your share of tales to tell."

Brorzjav fumbled inside his jack and pulled out his pipe and tobacco bag. As he remained silent, tamping tobacco into the bowl, the fop and Tiera glanced at each other, awaiting his response. He sparked his flint, catching the twisted sheep's wool alight at first try, holding the burning material to his pipe until the tobacco caught, then patted the sheep's wool until it no longer burned. He returned the bag into his jack and drew on the pipe until the smoke came free and easy.

"Reckon I might." He gripped the pipe stem between his teeth and, with creaking knees, stood, dragging his pack from the ground and holding the strap as tight as his old hands allowed. "Lead on, Lady Tiera and ...?"

"Alliron Tavar, at your service." Tavar rolled his hand in mock salute. "Ha! 'Lady' Tiera, indeed! He didn't see your drunken crotch grabbing last night. Not much of a lady on show then."

"And you? Slobbering over a barmaid twice your age?" Tiera curled her lip at Tavar, then turned towards Brorzjav with a warmer smile. "Take your bag, Old One? Give that back of yours a rest."

"Nay. I'll carry my own burdens. But, thank you for the offer." He took the pipe from his mouth and tapped his forehead.

"Be thankful that's all she offered! She'd as like stop your heart if she rode you half as hard as flapped at her own crotch." Tavar laughed, but he laughed alone.

They took the next few miles at an easy pace, Tavar regaling Brorzjav and Tiera with his tales. None of them true. Not least as Brorzjav could tell. For one, Brorzjav knew the man who slew the Wyrm of Kiernan, the many toothed snake near fifty times as long as the largest snake Brorzjav had heard of, or, at least, as far as Widr the Boneless told it. This boy had most like never seen Kiernan.

The other tales held as much truth and Brorzjav shared more than a roll of the eye with Tiera as the man talked and talked about himself. After a while, even Tavar seemed to grow tired of his lies and lapsed into silence. Brorzjav brushed his hand through his beard and looked up at the woman. Her spear had notches in it, the shield appeared to have seen the sharp end of an axe and now, as he looked closer, he knew for certain the hole in her leather chest piece had come from an arrow.

"And what of your adventures, Lady Tiera? What tales can you tell for the road?" Even now, after all these years, he still tested people and their fighting credentials, albeit with questions this time than at the end of his sword.

"Nothing much to tell." She glanced down at Brorzjav, the ever present smile fading a little. "I've had a few scrapes. A few bumps. Nothing of consequence. I've never fought a wyrm. I once ran away from a bear."

"If I'd met a bear, I'd be wearing its skin as a cloak, not admit I ran away." Tavar had awoken from his silence only to boast once more and Brorzjav ignored him.

"It was a big bear." Tiera leaned down towards Brorzjav, keeping her voice low and conspiratorial. "And his was a tiny wyrm."

Tiera laughed at her own joke. A big, unladylike laugh that erupted from deep within her gut.

"And here is where we part ways." They had reached a fork in the path. One fork headed east, towards a line of dark hills, the other continuing south and a sharp dip in the land. Brorzjav pointed to the south. "I'm away yonder."

"How could you possibly know which way we're going, Old Man? You weren't there when we were briefed." Tavar's horse became skittish at the fop's tone and he struggled to keep it steady.

"Ah, just a guess, Lord Tavar, just a guess." As Brorzjav began to continue on his way, he stopped and whispered to Tiera. "That man will get you killed. Don't listen to a thing he says. Fight your own battle and you'll do right."

He patted the horse's neck as Tiera nodded, glancing at Tavar, still trying to control his horse. She nodded again as they parted ways and Brorzjav did not take a second look as he walked away. The girl had a head on her shoulders and a fighter's arm. She'd do well. The boy? As likely trip over his own sword than be of any use in a fight. If the girl had any sense, she'd let him go first and tire the murderer out before finishing the job herself.

The slow walk had taken them past noon, but Brorzjav wanted to pass the dip in the land before sitting for water and chew on hardening bread. For once his hands were not cramping from carrying his bag for so long. He considered whether the company had taken his mind off the pain, or whether it was only one of the few good days. If nothing else, the changing weather did not agree with his joints most of the time, today, he felt fine.

The circling crows gave him pause as he neared the dip, his old eyes catching them later than he would like. Mayhap it signalled only a dead sheep, or goat, but he didn't like to take chances. Not least of which because he'd hate to get this far in age and die like a fool.

He dropped the bag from his shoulder, rummaged inside and pulled out his sword, Notch. So named for the single 'v' shaped notch half-way down the blade. Still, apart from that blemish, Notch still had an edge as sharp as the day it left the forge. He tossed the leather sheath on top of the bag and left them both laid across the stubble and grass as he moved towards where the crows circled.

Peeking over the edge of a large boulder, Brorzjav saw the nature of the crows' interest. An upturned cart. A pair of dead horses and, what looked like, from this distance and through his fuzzy vision, two bodies, dressed in dark ochre robes. He couldn't be certain, but it looked like the cart from the day before, that almost ran him over. The one with the priestesses of Elea Kha and the young orphan with the intense eyes.

He took a long look over the scene before standing. There seemed no point in getting any closer to the cart and the dead around it. He turned to return and collect his bag, put the sword away and look to pass the cart by.

Until he heard a moan.