Bryton Wyld
Rangal Tak stood so close that Bryton’s nose was poking into the big man’s
scarred, dirty breastplate. Bryton looked up at Tak’s paralyzed half-sneer that
pulled his mouth down as Tak caustically blustered, “I said no! You must have my
permit to use a handcart on Godsway. This going to cost you five copper drop,
sailor.”
Bryton wondered if in another twenty years he would be as sour as Tak. Bry took
a step back, pushed the handcart handles down onto the cobbled surface of the
road, stood on a handle so that the tapestry in the cart would not touch the street,
and dug in his pockets for something. A horse had relieved himself somewhere a
few paces back and Bryton had barely seen it in time to avoid it. Tak smelled
worse than the horse apples, though.
As the foot traffic on Godsway parted for the halted cart, Tak held out his hand for
the copper. Bryton, instead, handed Tak a vine-covered disc of the goddess,
Aerin. A vine from the disk instantly grew up around Tak’s little finger and
sprouted leaves. Bryton said, “Sir Tak, I already got a permit for today. Of
course, I’m grateful that one of Baron Navee’s men is here to keep the streets
safe.”
Tak’s face screwed up more than usual. “We gonna’ see if this is real, sailor. We
gonna’ go to Aerin’s house and see.”
Bryton wasn’t a sailor, but Tak called everybody sailor. Tak crowded Bryton with
his chest plate as he started berating him again. Bryton warned quietly, “Whoa,
whoa, Sir Tak.”
Tak crowded him more. “You know you show me this permit before you go onto
Godsway. Godsway is my . . .” Tak bullied Bryton a step back—a step off the
handcart handle. The handle swung up and caught Tak solidly in his crotch.
Tak yelled, “Aiieee!” and fell over in shock and pain, dropping the house of Aerin’s
disk on the cobblestones.
Bryton grabbed for the handcart handle, hoping that the tapestry would not splat in
a pile of horse dung on Godsway; but an instant before Bryton could grab the
handle, the handcart’s rear end bumped down onto the cobblestones. He shoved
the handles down, stepping back away from the groaning Tak, hoping that the
tapestry had missed the pile. He scooped up Aerin’s token, but did not know what
to do next.
A young male incense vendor with two smoking splinters of lanawood sticking up
from his hat put his hand to his mouth at the sight of the groaning baron’s man and
a woman cried happily, “Someone’s killed Tak!”
Bryton’s mind raced for just a heartbeat. Tak might kill him on the spot. Tak
might throw him into one of Navee’s Cliffwall Cells. Maybe Tak would be too
embarrassed to do either? Not likely. Run? It might be worse. Assist the
growling baron’s man? How?
Aerin’s house was just down the street. Bryton shouldered aside a black-and-white
garbed Adept of Rovish, who had a trail of novices following behind, and shoved
through traffic as quickly as he could, mechanically repeating over and over,
“Pardon, sir, pardon, apologies, ma’am,” only once pausing in his apologies to
mutter to himself, “Don’t baron’s men have protection ‘down there?’”
He heard Tak yelling and glanced behind to see the crowds being jostled around in
his wake. But Bryton was already under the Mother Oak’s branches. He turned
the cart onto the path to Aerin’s courtyard archway and saw two women standing
in his way.
The Mother Oak’s limbs would not allow him to take the cart around the women
and he dared not leave the handcart with the valuable tapestry for Tak to
expropriate. One of the women was elegant, tall with white gold curls spilling onto
the shoulders of her grey sheath dress. The other woman was dressed as one of
Tistrin’s nobility, bearing a gentle smile—but she was no noble. She was Jemmin
Well. And that was good. Bryton made a note to flip a coin to Rovish, the God of
Luck, if he survived the next minute.
Bryton reached up with one hand and doffed his floppy black hat to the women,
thinking, “Manners, manners.” He half-bowed and said hurriedly, “Good day, fair
ladies of Tistrin. I have an urgent appointment with Elsa Lesenstock, the Priestess
of Aerin.”
He expected them to move out of the way, but the lithe woman in grey only turned
to him and coolly said, “I am a priestess of Aatar, tradesman.” Jemmin, still
playing the part of a noblewoman, scoffed and fluttered a peacock-eye fan.
Bryton heard Tak scream from too close behind, “Out of the way, you holy idiot!”
Bryton stepped closer to the women, straining to smile more widely as he grew
more desperate. “I am delivering this to the House of Aerin, kind ladies, may I have
the path?”
Jemmin heaved a sigh and they began to stroll back to where the path led through
the courtyard entrance. Bryton looked back and saw Tak was only a dozen steps
behind, his armor clanking above the hum of voices on Godway. Bryton looked to
the lackadaisical women who casually strolled on. His frustration boiled at Jemmin
and he said, suggestively, “You might make haste. I have heard there are
pickpockets about on Godsway today.” Jemmin threw an acidic sneer over her
shoulder at Bryton.
He knew he was not going to make it to the courtyard before Tak caught him.
Bryton turned around, reversing his grip on the handcart handles and swung it to
one side, blocking Tak’s path. Tak smacked into the side of the cart, and
staggered, but did not fall. Behind Bryton, Jemmin screamed. Bryton knew that
there was no chance that she was really frightened; she was probably providing a
distraction so that she could pick the lithe woman’s pocket. Bryton trotted
backward on the path, pulling the cart toward the women, hoping that Tak was
stunned.
Tak scrambled around the path, crawling under the canopy of the Mother Oak as
he huffed and growled. Bryton yelled frantically, “Sir Tak, this is Aerin’s House.
The Goddess won’t like it if you kill me here and neither will Elsa Lesenstock.”
But Tak was not listening. He bulled onto the path, short sword in hand and
stabbed at Bryton, who jumped back, turning the cart to parry Tak’s sword with
the cart’s handle. The sword slid along the handle, slicing into Bryton’s hand. He
yelped, dropping the cart and lurching backward holding his hand, which stung as
if on fire. Tak pursued him as Bryton fell back onto one of the women. In a
horrifying instant, Bryton realized that in his uninjured hand, he held two fingers of
the other hand, severed or nearly so. And that was when Tak’s sword stabbed just
above Bry’s hands into his abdomen. He hunched forward, his hands now pressed
against the wound in his gut. He moaned, “Oh, I’m gonna’ die. I truly hate this.”
Tak grabbed Bry’s hair and pulled his head back, tugging him free of whomever he
had fallen on. But Bryton could only watch, barely conscious from the shock of
the attacks. But then Tak dropped Bryton, just as he was about to slit his throat.
Bryton just looked up at Tak, who stood, confused. Tak hacked down at Bry with
the sword, but there seemed to be no effect, except that Bryton flinched away from
the blows. The world swam before Bryton’s eyes. He could hear Tak screaming
and a woman’s calm voice answering. Tak barked again, then it was only women’
s voices. Shivering with cold, Bryton curled up and slept on the cobblestones.
End of excerpt of short story
Bryton Wyld, (c) John Arkwright, 2008
Rangal Tak stood so close that Bryton’s nose was poking into the big man’s
scarred, dirty breastplate. Bryton looked up at Tak’s paralyzed half-sneer that
pulled his mouth down as Tak caustically blustered, “I said no! You must have my
permit to use a handcart on Godsway. This going to cost you five copper drop,
sailor.”
Bryton wondered if in another twenty years he would be as sour as Tak. Bry took
a step back, pushed the handcart handles down onto the cobbled surface of the
road, stood on a handle so that the tapestry in the cart would not touch the street,
and dug in his pockets for something. A horse had relieved himself somewhere a
few paces back and Bryton had barely seen it in time to avoid it. Tak smelled
worse than the horse apples, though.
As the foot traffic on Godsway parted for the halted cart, Tak held out his hand for
the copper. Bryton, instead, handed Tak a vine-covered disc of the goddess,
Aerin. A vine from the disk instantly grew up around Tak’s little finger and
sprouted leaves. Bryton said, “Sir Tak, I already got a permit for today. Of
course, I’m grateful that one of Baron Navee’s men is here to keep the streets
safe.”
Tak’s face screwed up more than usual. “We gonna’ see if this is real, sailor. We
gonna’ go to Aerin’s house and see.”
Bryton wasn’t a sailor, but Tak called everybody sailor. Tak crowded Bryton with
his chest plate as he started berating him again. Bryton warned quietly, “Whoa,
whoa, Sir Tak.”
Tak crowded him more. “You know you show me this permit before you go onto
Godsway. Godsway is my . . .” Tak bullied Bryton a step back—a step off the
handcart handle. The handle swung up and caught Tak solidly in his crotch.
Tak yelled, “Aiieee!” and fell over in shock and pain, dropping the house of Aerin’s
disk on the cobblestones.
Bryton grabbed for the handcart handle, hoping that the tapestry would not splat in
a pile of horse dung on Godsway; but an instant before Bryton could grab the
handle, the handcart’s rear end bumped down onto the cobblestones. He shoved
the handles down, stepping back away from the groaning Tak, hoping that the
tapestry had missed the pile. He scooped up Aerin’s token, but did not know what
to do next.
A young male incense vendor with two smoking splinters of lanawood sticking up
from his hat put his hand to his mouth at the sight of the groaning baron’s man and
a woman cried happily, “Someone’s killed Tak!”
Bryton’s mind raced for just a heartbeat. Tak might kill him on the spot. Tak
might throw him into one of Navee’s Cliffwall Cells. Maybe Tak would be too
embarrassed to do either? Not likely. Run? It might be worse. Assist the
growling baron’s man? How?
Aerin’s house was just down the street. Bryton shouldered aside a black-and-white
garbed Adept of Rovish, who had a trail of novices following behind, and shoved
through traffic as quickly as he could, mechanically repeating over and over,
“Pardon, sir, pardon, apologies, ma’am,” only once pausing in his apologies to
mutter to himself, “Don’t baron’s men have protection ‘down there?’”
He heard Tak yelling and glanced behind to see the crowds being jostled around in
his wake. But Bryton was already under the Mother Oak’s branches. He turned
the cart onto the path to Aerin’s courtyard archway and saw two women standing
in his way.
The Mother Oak’s limbs would not allow him to take the cart around the women
and he dared not leave the handcart with the valuable tapestry for Tak to
expropriate. One of the women was elegant, tall with white gold curls spilling onto
the shoulders of her grey sheath dress. The other woman was dressed as one of
Tistrin’s nobility, bearing a gentle smile—but she was no noble. She was Jemmin
Well. And that was good. Bryton made a note to flip a coin to Rovish, the God of
Luck, if he survived the next minute.
Bryton reached up with one hand and doffed his floppy black hat to the women,
thinking, “Manners, manners.” He half-bowed and said hurriedly, “Good day, fair
ladies of Tistrin. I have an urgent appointment with Elsa Lesenstock, the Priestess
of Aerin.”
He expected them to move out of the way, but the lithe woman in grey only turned
to him and coolly said, “I am a priestess of Aatar, tradesman.” Jemmin, still
playing the part of a noblewoman, scoffed and fluttered a peacock-eye fan.
Bryton heard Tak scream from too close behind, “Out of the way, you holy idiot!”
Bryton stepped closer to the women, straining to smile more widely as he grew
more desperate. “I am delivering this to the House of Aerin, kind ladies, may I have
the path?”
Jemmin heaved a sigh and they began to stroll back to where the path led through
the courtyard entrance. Bryton looked back and saw Tak was only a dozen steps
behind, his armor clanking above the hum of voices on Godway. Bryton looked to
the lackadaisical women who casually strolled on. His frustration boiled at Jemmin
and he said, suggestively, “You might make haste. I have heard there are
pickpockets about on Godsway today.” Jemmin threw an acidic sneer over her
shoulder at Bryton.
He knew he was not going to make it to the courtyard before Tak caught him.
Bryton turned around, reversing his grip on the handcart handles and swung it to
one side, blocking Tak’s path. Tak smacked into the side of the cart, and
staggered, but did not fall. Behind Bryton, Jemmin screamed. Bryton knew that
there was no chance that she was really frightened; she was probably providing a
distraction so that she could pick the lithe woman’s pocket. Bryton trotted
backward on the path, pulling the cart toward the women, hoping that Tak was
stunned.
Tak scrambled around the path, crawling under the canopy of the Mother Oak as
he huffed and growled. Bryton yelled frantically, “Sir Tak, this is Aerin’s House.
The Goddess won’t like it if you kill me here and neither will Elsa Lesenstock.”
But Tak was not listening. He bulled onto the path, short sword in hand and
stabbed at Bryton, who jumped back, turning the cart to parry Tak’s sword with
the cart’s handle. The sword slid along the handle, slicing into Bryton’s hand. He
yelped, dropping the cart and lurching backward holding his hand, which stung as
if on fire. Tak pursued him as Bryton fell back onto one of the women. In a
horrifying instant, Bryton realized that in his uninjured hand, he held two fingers of
the other hand, severed or nearly so. And that was when Tak’s sword stabbed just
above Bry’s hands into his abdomen. He hunched forward, his hands now pressed
against the wound in his gut. He moaned, “Oh, I’m gonna’ die. I truly hate this.”
Tak grabbed Bry’s hair and pulled his head back, tugging him free of whomever he
had fallen on. But Bryton could only watch, barely conscious from the shock of
the attacks. But then Tak dropped Bryton, just as he was about to slit his throat.
Bryton just looked up at Tak, who stood, confused. Tak hacked down at Bry with
the sword, but there seemed to be no effect, except that Bryton flinched away from
the blows. The world swam before Bryton’s eyes. He could hear Tak screaming
and a woman’s calm voice answering. Tak barked again, then it was only women’
s voices. Shivering with cold, Bryton curled up and slept on the cobblestones.
End of excerpt of short story
Bryton Wyld, (c) John Arkwright, 2008
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