he had used before, scabbarded in a harness on his back so that the hilts stood vertically up from his shoulders. I would have needed both hands to wield one of those four-foot blades, but a look at his biceps and forearms told me that he would manage just fine. He reached up to their handles, crossing his arms over his chest to see that they were in the right position, and then bade me get down and come to the back of the wagon. One of the swords, the one he had had back at the inn, had a large and irregular stone set in the pommel, amber and lustrous.
“Choose a weapon,” he said. “What can you use?”
Throwing aside a few top layers of fabric, he opened a chest of armor and another two of weapons. I recalled my encouraging the Empire guards to stay and poke around the wagon a little longer. We would really have had to do some talking to explain that lot away.
I got in the back and touched some of the steel in amazed fascination. As I said earlier, I know little of weapons and I am no fighter, but just seeing this pile of purposeful and elegant arms held me spellbound. I chose.
Orgos looked at me with his mouth open and then roared with laughter, his head tipped back and his teeth showing.
“Can you even walk in that stuff?” he demanded.
I confess to having gotten a little carried away. He made me put a lot of it back. Most of it was too big for me anyway and I could hardly breathe in that helm. I could barely lift my arms and no, I couldn’t really walk. I tried a corselet of light scale and swapped the two-handed great-ax I had chosen for a short sword and small shield. It was a bit of a comedown, I suppose, but I kept looking at the way the corselet sparkled in the light and it made me feel good. Actually, the sword alone was so heavy that I soon had to put the shield away too. It was a good thing I’d put that bloody ax back. It had taken all my strength to get it out of the wagon.
The rain had just about stopped, so that was one less discomfort. I drew the sword and weighed it in my hand, imagining myself a great fighter and betting Renthrette would be impressed. Next time we had some trouble they’d see a different side to Will Hawthorne. Maybe. After a couple of minutes of me waving the sword about, Orgos told me to put it away before I maimed him. Still, a moment later I saw him smile. For the first time that day I stopped worrying and relaxed enough to enjoy the ride.
The road was good thus far, paved and cambered. But as soon as the gate house was lost to our sight in the elms and sycamores which grew around the city, we veered off to the northeast on a series of farm tracks.
Orgos sat quietly beside me, his eyes on the trail. Maybe it was the elation of escape, the satisfaction of outwitting that moron Rufus, or just the feeling that I had done right not to run crying to the Empire, but I felt slightly better disposed to him. And whatever the dangers, I was still alive, free, and touched with something I had never felt before. It had the feel of adventure and all the anticipation that comes with it. Will the Adventurer. Hawthorne the Rebel. A childish and dangerous thought, perhaps, but there you have it. Even at the time I had a pretty good idea that it wouldn’t last.
SCENE VIII
The Wheatsheaf
B y about half past one, with the sun high and the rain gone, we caught sight of the inn set back from the road. I was glad of it, for the air was growing warm and humid despite the early showers and I was ready for the coolness of a shady room and a draught of beer. Or six.
The inn was a large two-storied affair of mottled grey stone with sills and lintels of varnished oak. The sign over the door showed a bunch of full, golden wheat stalks. Its roof was thatched brown and well shaped with two chimneys poking through, one of which released a thin curl of bluish wood smoke. It was all rather picturesque, like one of those cheap engravings that you sneer at in the Cresdon markets. The upstairs
“Choose a weapon,” he said. “What can you use?”
Throwing aside a few top layers of fabric, he opened a chest of armor and another two of weapons. I recalled my encouraging the Empire guards to stay and poke around the wagon a little longer. We would really have had to do some talking to explain that lot away.
I got in the back and touched some of the steel in amazed fascination. As I said earlier, I know little of weapons and I am no fighter, but just seeing this pile of purposeful and elegant arms held me spellbound. I chose.
Orgos looked at me with his mouth open and then roared with laughter, his head tipped back and his teeth showing.
“Can you even walk in that stuff?” he demanded.
I confess to having gotten a little carried away. He made me put a lot of it back. Most of it was too big for me anyway and I could hardly breathe in that helm. I could barely lift my arms and no, I couldn’t really walk. I tried a corselet of light scale and swapped the two-handed great-ax I had chosen for a short sword and small shield. It was a bit of a comedown, I suppose, but I kept looking at the way the corselet sparkled in the light and it made me feel good. Actually, the sword alone was so heavy that I soon had to put the shield away too. It was a good thing I’d put that bloody ax back. It had taken all my strength to get it out of the wagon.
The rain had just about stopped, so that was one less discomfort. I drew the sword and weighed it in my hand, imagining myself a great fighter and betting Renthrette would be impressed. Next time we had some trouble they’d see a different side to Will Hawthorne. Maybe. After a couple of minutes of me waving the sword about, Orgos told me to put it away before I maimed him. Still, a moment later I saw him smile. For the first time that day I stopped worrying and relaxed enough to enjoy the ride.
The road was good thus far, paved and cambered. But as soon as the gate house was lost to our sight in the elms and sycamores which grew around the city, we veered off to the northeast on a series of farm tracks.
Orgos sat quietly beside me, his eyes on the trail. Maybe it was the elation of escape, the satisfaction of outwitting that moron Rufus, or just the feeling that I had done right not to run crying to the Empire, but I felt slightly better disposed to him. And whatever the dangers, I was still alive, free, and touched with something I had never felt before. It had the feel of adventure and all the anticipation that comes with it. Will the Adventurer. Hawthorne the Rebel. A childish and dangerous thought, perhaps, but there you have it. Even at the time I had a pretty good idea that it wouldn’t last.
SCENE VIII
The Wheatsheaf
B y about half past one, with the sun high and the rain gone, we caught sight of the inn set back from the road. I was glad of it, for the air was growing warm and humid despite the early showers and I was ready for the coolness of a shady room and a draught of beer. Or six.
The inn was a large two-storied affair of mottled grey stone with sills and lintels of varnished oak. The sign over the door showed a bunch of full, golden wheat stalks. Its roof was thatched brown and well shaped with two chimneys poking through, one of which released a thin curl of bluish wood smoke. It was all rather picturesque, like one of those cheap engravings that you sneer at in the Cresdon markets. The upstairs
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