Chapter 8

In which Holisz, now known as Hal, leaves the tavern-keeper’s employment, finds employment of a different sort, and ere it come to an end, acquires a chest of ordinary seeming crystals.

The bard, refreshed after a visit to the necessary, resumed his tale.

“I fear ‘tis broken, Hal,” said the tavern-keeper. “Strange hands you have, lad!”

“Ah ... yes.” Hal agreed. “They serve well enough, Master, but not for punching a drunk! If you wonder why he ran away, I showed him my other hand and told him I was born of a demon father! He believed me!”

“Uh... ‘tis only a story, Lad, is it not?” asked the suddenly-fearful tavern-keeper.

“Well, of course!” agreed Hal. “My parents, may the gods save their souls for rebirth when the wheel turns, were but simple villagers. My father worked betimes as a smith, and he and my mother also farmed a small plot. They had the misfortune to be killed by raiders when I was very young. No, good Master, my hands are but slightly longer than your own. I gained the thick nails by grubbing in the dirt with my father.”

“Ah, so that is the way of it!” said the relieved tavern-keeper. “I own I had a start when I saw the hand!”

“Would a demon’s hand break with a simple punch to the nose, good master?” scoffed Hal.

“No, no, certes not!” the taverner said. “E’en so, I own ‘tis passing strange having hands that would grace the hands of a demon! But how are you to work, good Hal, with only one hand? I am not ungrateful, but after all, three coppers are three coppers and not to be spent lightly! If you cannot work...” The taverner looked suggestively at Hal and shrugged.

“I shall help him, good Master!” The voice was that of the bard.

“You, sir?” asked the astonished tavern-keeper. “How now? Know ye aught of the way of tavern-keeping? I mean no slight, but bards sing and tell stories, that they fear to do honest work!”

“I was not always a bard, good Master!” the bearded man protested. “Full oft have I worked at other trades to earn my keep! But allow us the chance and you will see!”

“Well, I suppose it’s only fair to give the pair of you a try,” the tavern-keeper grumbled. “But work ye must, know ye, lest ye be sent away for your sloth!”

And do, ‘twas done. Work the two did, and the tavern-keeper had no cause for complaint.

Yet did a week pass, and naught was said of the three coppers owed. Neither complained, for the bard had earned that much and more from telling outrageous tales to the villagers. A new tale there was every night, and the people returned to the tavern for more, to the enhancement of the tavern-keeper’s purse. Another week passed with no mention of pay, then one more, and during that time Hal’s hand had improved. Indeed, he confided to the bard that it had healed wondrous well! Some there were who remarked on how well he now worked, e’en to suggest that there be something unnatural about such healing! Hal simply laughed, and suggested it had not been broken after all, merely sprained. For he had only struck the man in the nose, not upon the jaw. No, no ... there had been no break, only a bruise. ‘Twas now good as new, did Hal vow! But Hal revealed not the healed hand, for he had acquired a pair of wondrously flexible gloves which he now wore from cock-crow to setting of sun. The glove-maker had been paid from the earnings of the bard, for the innkeeper had yet to mention the pay he’d agreed on.

‘Twas the bard who finally broached the subject, after Hal bemoaned the dishonesty of the tavern-keeper in not paying their wage. “I vow ‘tis time to move on, good Hal. Soon I shall be forced to tell the same tale again, and who can say how the village folk shall react? No, ‘tis best we seek other employment. For while I have gained a few pennies from those who like my tales, yet do fewer come to hear me and as for singing, ‘tis best I not essay that. And as ye have said, for all the work we have done, our host has offered naught of value save oats for your horses!”

“I have ... had payment of another sort,” Hal confessed, without revealing the nature of it. “Still, ye have the right of it. That pay too has less value now than it did, I warrant! Shall we steal away in the night, I upon my great horse and you astride my pack animal? For know ye, the few belongings I formerly possessed are gone now, saving only my sword.”

“A sword, say ye?” asked the astonished bard. “And know ye the secrets of how ‘tis swung?”

“Aye,” said Hal, “and how to use the point to give a merry bellyache to he who thinks me but a simple bumpkin with a red neck! Aye, full oft have I practiced to learn well the way of the blade, ere such be needed.”

“I also know well the uses of a blade,” confessed the bard, “and some there are who would say I know them too well! But as even the most skilled know, chance comes unannounced and a sword be no defense against an arrow! I survived, yet was I unable to continue with my companions while my grievous wounds healed. ‘Twas then I bethought me of what might happen next, and resolved to change my profession.

“A merchant, who had acquired a lute he could not play, exchanged it for the sword I could no longer swing. Thence was I reduced to telling tales, some of which be true I vow, for my voice when raised in song is fit for entertaining cows but not people!”

“An ill fortune indeed,” Hal commiserated, “yet e’en so do ye entertain, not with song but with a tale! And in time, ye will have other tales do we depart early tomorrow, before the tavern-keeper may decide ye owe him for your keep, and mayhap own me for that other pay I mentioned!”

So did the two depart, unseen but not unmissed. For the tavern-keeper’s daughter soon discovered that Hal had left her a gift, that upon the reveal displeased her father mightily!

Their decision made, the prudent bard had prepared for the trip, as had Hal. While Hal busied himself in the stable, collecting his wages in bags of oats as fair exchange for the pennies that the frugal tavern-keeper had forbore to pay, the bard had slipped into the kitchen and bagged up travel-fare, that they not expire from hunger ere they found new employment. From town to town, ever southward following the high road, the three companions traveled.

Know ye, ere departing, Hal had revealed his relationship to the great desert rat, to the astonishment of the bard! For such beasts are ever wary of humans, entering not into villages by choice but making their homes in the forests and desert wastelands where humans visit seldom. ‘Twas a sight to be remarked on, had any seen! Stalwart Hal, voice raised in song as they went on their way, while the rat squeaked in time and the bard practiced upon his instrument! Aye, ‘twas just as well that none saw! Yet such was their circumstance, passing by undiscovered by any, for the rat detected the approach of others in time for Hal and the bard to silence themselves and seek shelter behind a bushy copse or convenient hill.

Betimes, there were fewer trees and only small streams instead of the rivers they had formerly encountered. Hills had been replaced by distant mountains and formerly abundant grasses by desert growths. Yet were there ever springs of cool water to slake their thirst, and always nearby the tracks of small beasts. Again, ‘twas the doing of the rat, whose nose twitched at the smell of water. His excited chitters alerted Hal and the bard to what lay ahead.

Know ye that both were now well versed in desert travel. They camped not by the spring, lest they deprive others of its benefits, but were not loath in setting simple traps for such creatures that their meat enhance the two companions’ simple meals. The rat, know ye, was pleased at the change to desert, e’en as Hal and the bard grew silent with worry. For the other food they’d packed continued to dwindle, as did the oats they’d burdened the horses with.

So ‘twas fortunate indeed that when the rat twitched his nose in different fashion, the bard realized the noises ahead were not those of mere travelers. Indeed, the lusty shouts and clangs of steel on steel during battle captured their attention!