The 'poet' speaks

Previously: Mira, a freelance historian and seeker of tales, thinks she has stumbled onto a mystery when she is abducted. After coming to an uneasy truce with her new companions, she begins to learn more about them. She is surprised--and very skeptical--when told that Seymuhr, the brute who tossed her over his shoulder and whisked her into the woods, considers himself a poet in training....

Seymuhr got to his feet, brushing dirt from his back side. His mouth contorted in what I assume was a smile and he made a few rough, moist noises with his throat. What an unlikely appearance for one who claimed to dabble in the softer arts. Most who attempted to move others with their words too some pride in the way they presented themselves; even those who spent more time traveling the back pathways of the land from village to hamlet had a certain quality that made them appealing to the eye, whether it was nice hair, a pretty face, strong jaw line or a pleasing shape. And, in my experience, at least, they all had nice, engaging smiles.

Not Seymuhr. He was shorter than most men—and many women, for that matter, including myself—but nearly as broad as he was tall. That he was strong there was no question, for his limbs were thick and solid, his torso like a chunk of stone waiting to be sculpted. He had no hair, save for the wisps that protruded from his misshapen ears. His cheeks were pocked, his teeth irregular and yellow. His knuckles were gnarled and prominent and dotted with fresh scabs that stood out from the blotchy patches that identified old wounds like broken beads on dirty tile. But his eyes were a deep and piercing blue, a shade darker than I had seen before, and flecked with orange. Maybe I could concentrate on those.

"My knuckles were keys
freeing several teeth from the
prison of his jaws."

He paused, eyebrows lifted like squirming caterpillars, as if asking if he should continue.

I could only gape at him. After a few moments, I looked at Merrick, who gave me a mischievous smile.

"Sneering with disdain,
I popped his eyes, crushed his skull
and split his sternum."

Of course. It would have to be Nogovian poetry. The Nogovs were a peaceful people who lived on the eastern coast, where the tumultuous winds of the Heanen Sea nurtured all manner of flowers in the spring time, eased the harsh air and scalding sun during the summer, scattered the brilliant leaves of the fall and brought sleet and ice in the winter. Their land was a virtual mosaic, no matter when you arrived and how long you stayed and their poetry usually reflected that. I say usually, because its simplicity made it the most abused form of all the arts. Nogovian poetry consisted of three lines of defined length: the first was five syllables, the second, seven. A third five-syllable line finished it.

I looked again at Merrick.

"I call them versus verses," he said with the hint of a chuckle, then called to Seymuhr: "How about something a little...softer, for the lady?"

Seymuhr nodded, tilted his head back and buried a finger into his bristling beard, apparently to scratch his chin. Then, his expression brightened.

"He would have held her
so tenderly, but then I
pulled off both his arms."

Merrick clapped his hands, whether in mock appreciation or genuine affection, I could only guess. I certainly hoped it was the former.

"He can do this all night," Merrick said.

Perhaps, but I could not. "If you ever travel to Govon," I told Seymuhr, "it would be best to keep your gift to yourself. They are protective of their art."

I grunted as I got to my feet, intent on finding some true nature to reflect on, but that was not to be. I froze, heart skipping, as I heard the sound of someone—or something—crashing through the underbrush, heading directly toward our clearing. Merrick's expression had turned serious, and a short blade scraped from his scabbard and glinted in firelight. Seymuhr had a mace in each hand. The monk was nowhere to be seen.

Life is all about timing, being in the right place at the right time—or at least not the wrong place at the wrong time. That simple fact never seemed more relevant than it did at that moment. I shared a clearing and, I think, a common objective with three men who most likely knew hot to fight, yet they were behind me and I, alone and unarmed, stood closest to this new threat.

 

Next, The Wounded Man's Gold continues...

A Hidden Skill

Previously: Asked to recount what made her decide to become a Falcuhn, or freelance historian, Esmiralda tells of a day in her early childhood, while on a ill-fated hunt with her father. After investigating a desolated village, they realize their mistake....

The forest had gone silent, save for the swishing of the leaves above us and the slow crackling of the dying fire. Broo-Fang Tane had melted into the shadows, unseen and unheard; I had barely registered his movement. Seymuhr had his back to us and was relieving himself of all the ale he had consumed earlier that night and, from the sounds of it, then some. Merrick gave me a sympathetic look that I brushed off.

"We were too late, of course," I said. "Maybe if we had...as soon as I saw the smoke, but..."

He cleared his throat. "There was no way of knowing. You could have suffered the same fate. Was she...?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. We didn't find her. We never found her, although we searched and searched. My father...well. Enough of that. What of you? How did an educated man come to be traveling with this brute?"

Seymuhr glanced over his shoulder, correctly assuming I had referred to him, and gave me a lecherous smile. The man must have a bladder the size of an ox.

Merrick chuckled. "In these times, a man who knows how to fight as well as he does isn't such a bad companion, you know."

I had to acknowledge that simple wisdom. It was a large part of why I was still in the clearing, and not clawing my way through the forest.

"But the fight is not all he knows. And, besides, I couldn't refuse an apprentice."

That surprised me. "An apprentice? Him? What could you possibly be teaching him."

Seymuhr hiked up his trousers, turned and sat on a log.

"Why, one of the Arts, of course. Seymuhr is a bit of a poet, and would build on that skill."

I gaped and looked back and forth between the two, looking for the hint of a smile. I saw none, although I thought I detected a twinkle of mischief in Merrick's eye. It could have been a tear. My guess was that someone with arms as thick as Seymuhr's could claim to be whatever or whoever he wanted. It wasn't too much to assume, then, that Merrick had little choice in the matter.

"Oh, yes," Merrick went on. "He is a poet all right."

"I admit, I find that hard to believe," I said.

Merrick shrugged. "If you are attacked and are forced to defend yourself, are you not a fighter? Thrown into the ocean, are you not a swimmer?" He paused and then tapped the side of his forehead. "If you jump from a tree, do you not—however briefly—fly? So it is with him."

He settled back, arms crossed, a satisfied look on his face. Did he think he had just imparted some life-changing wisdom? I hoped not. That would mark him as a follower of Aphor, who was known for the simplistic truths he passed along to his disciples during his time wandering the territories. The problem with Aphorists was that they were never as intuitive as the divine being they emulated. Their truths, therefore, tended to be a bit one-dimensional.

No matter what Merrick's personal beliefs were, I remained skeptical--both of Seymuhr's ability as a poet and Merrick's argument. "If I set a cow on fire, it does not make me a cook," I told him.

But Seymuhr got to his feet, dusted off his hands and cleared his throat. He leaned his head from side to side, stretched his arms and flexed his muscles.

"Would you like to hear a verse or two?" He asked, his voice raspy.

I glanced at Merrick, who was smiling now, and then back at Seymuhr, taking in his sturdy legs, thick chest and powerful arms and the maces that hung from his belt on either side of his hips. I guess I had to.