The Wounded Man's Gold, Part 1

Later, much later, I started to worry that my coin would run out before I would get the chance to talk to the wounded man. Malak had already left, whisked off by someone younger and more shapely than I. The boy had gone, too, escorted by the woman who had consoled him earlier. She must have been some kind of friend of the family; an older sister, perhaps? She took the news of the boy's father's demise with too much calm to be his mother. Maybe she was just familiar with such scenes. I wondered, briefly, if there was an orphanage in this town, or a temple with an inordinate amount of children that had been abandoned, either by design or by fate, but then I decided want to follow that gloomy line of thought.

The fire in the hearth had burned down to an orange glow that peeked out from under the blackened logs. The occasional snap punctuated the muted conversation that continued in the corners and along the walls of the tavern room. The central tables were all empty and being attended to by a dull-faced youth with a gray rag.

I swallowed the last of my ale and made my way over to the wounded man. I stood at the edge of the table for a moment or two and, when he only looked up at me, grunted and gave a short negative gesture, I sat down across from him.

"Hello."

"Perhaps you missed my intent," he growled. "I have no interest in you. Nor coin to spend."

I blinked away my affront. "I have no desire for your companionship," I guessed that was the best word to use. "I overheard your tale—or part of it, leastways—earlier and wanted to know the rest."

He glanced up, his eyes suspicious and looked me up and down as if I had just appeared there. "There's nothing left to tell."

"There is always something to tell," I said as gently as I could. "The boy's father. Was he a friend?"

The wounded man grunted again and took another sip from his mug. The liquid looked much darker than what I had filled my cup with and it gave off an acrid scent. The man lowered the mug with a smile that bordered on a grimace. His eyes were wet.

I took that for an affirmation. "Then he deserves a better ending," I said. "There are those that love him; they deserve to know what happened to him. His story should be told so that the man is not forgotten."

"I said, THERE'S NOTHING. TO. TELL." He punctuated each word by slamming his fist into the table top with enough force to bend it slightly in his direction—and wake up the slumbering man behind me.

I stood, surprised at the sudden ferocity, and held up both hands. "My apologies. I meant no harm or offense. I merely wanted..."

"I know what you want," he snarled. He got unsteadily to his feet, and he towered above me. He hadn't looked that tall or broad earlier that night. "and I'll have none of IT." He took a step toward me, hands the size of small shields reaching out for me.

I took a step back and bumped into a wall. That was strange; there hadn't been one there moments ago. I glanced over my shoulder and saw, not a post or pillar or any other type of structure that supported the ceiling, but a somewhat diminutive person, scowling up at me. The top of his head was bare, but his cheeks and chin were covered in black stubble. His arms were thick with muscle, his chest deep and brawny. His nose looked like a malformed vase. He wore a shirt of torn mail and a mace hung from either side of his peeling belt.

"Leave that man alone," he said.

"Wha...?" He thought I was the threat? But then I saw that the other man's gaze was directed not at me, but my towering aggressor. "Wait a moment," I felt anger rising, and faced this new man. "Did you just call me a man?"

He smirked, showing a tooth that jutted up and out of the side of his mouth like a hound's.

The wounded man had stopped. "I know of you," he said, "and this is not your quarrel, Seymuhr."

A sudden tension had fallen over the place. The conversation, as muted as it had been, stopped altogether. I heard the sound of scraping wood and saw the few patrons left in the tavern pulling tables onto their sides and then crouching behind them. The tavern keeper was frozen in place. Someone sprinted out the back door to the other part of the tavern, where I heard the dull clatter of dropped pots.

"Then don't make it so," was the reply. His voice was husky, as if his throat had been damaged long ago.

I was directly between the two and I tried to inch myself out of the way. Surely, the wounded man would not take such a direct challenge from a man who was much shorter than he was who was, in fact, a bit or two shorter than I was. The one called Seymuhr put a gentle hand on my shoulder--or at least the gesture appeared gentle and effortless. In fact, he held me fast. I glanced down at his arm and then back at his face, astonished by the casual display of strength.

"Please," I said. "There's no need to fight." I strained against Seymuhr's arm to no avail. I might have been a mosquito pushing against glass. "I was leaving anyway."

I cannot honestly recall if I ever dreamed of a day when two men would find cause to fight over my attentions. My childhood was not the sort that leant itself to such fancies and neither did my physical attributes as I grew into womanhood. Even if I had, I doubted I would conjure up this kind of scene. A handsome prince returning a token before whisking me off to a sun-baked castle by the sea, where my diet would consist of lemoncakes and cheese, perhaps, but not trapped between an ill-tempered lout whose wounds were barely scabbed over and a diminutive protector who smelled like a chicken rotting in a casket of spoiled mead.

"I am unharmed," I added, facing Seymuhr. "You can lower your arm now. Please." Perhaps that would cut down on the odor.

He did, but it didn't.

"There, then. You see?" I turned back to the wounded man. "I apologize for interrupting you, my good man. I hope that your wounds soon heal, and you find prosperity on your next journey." I bowed and hoped that would be the end of it.

Alas.

"Perhaps the tales of your prowess have been exaggerated," the wounded man growled. "Or do you always take orders from women?"

I winced. There was a collective moan from behind one of the upended tables, followed by: "Oh, Will....You fool." The tavern keeper started to cry. Someone else sprinted out of the main room, and more pots fell.

Seymuhr reached up and slapped Will with an open hand. It looked like a slow, almost gentle gesture, yet it was forceful enough to snap the wounded man's head to the side and knock him to the floor. I gaped. Seymuhr looked down at the man as he struggled to rise with the curiosity of a man looking at a strange insect for the first time. His hand curled into a fist and I heard his knuckles crack. I was frozen in place, wondering if I had wandered into the middle of a bizarre performance, for surely a blow that looked so easy could not have had such an effect.

Will had pushed himself to his hands and knees. His head hung low and he shook it as if trying to clear it. Seymuhr looked down at his fist, then shrugged and took my wrist.

"I was leaving, too," he said.

He pulled me out into the night.