The Reaver
Dean Chappell saw that the three men who entered the rough hewn shack were
wearing hunting knives, but no swords. When Dean was this far north he stopped
at Jacob’s tavern on the Linn Road to ask about problems in the area. The first
man--the scrawny one--saw Dean sitting in the corner and startled, causing his
buddies to flinch. They must not have noticed Dean’s horse tied up out back.
“Oh. Good evening sir,” the young one that slumped said in a harsh back country
accent.
Dean paused for effect before replying, “Good evening. Headed for Linn?”
They looked back and forth to each other. The scrawny one said, “Where’s
Jacob?”
They knew Jacob, so they were native to the area. “Jacob is down at the spring.”
They passed another look to each other then looked at him suspiciously. “Who are
you?”
Maybe they thought he had waylaid Jacob. They must not have seen the cut of
Dean’s leathers. “I’m a baron’s man.”
The other one put his hand on his hips with his right hand close to his hunting knife
and stepped closer, squinting at Dean. Dean could see that this man was older and
stouter, with a briar thicket of hair on his face and head. He growled
enthusiastically, “You are a baron’s man. I couldn’t see you back in the corner.”
He snatched his hat off his head and bowed clumsily. “People call me Brun, sir.
These are my sons.”
“I’m Dean Chappell.”
“Lord Dean Chappell?” He didn’t wait for Dean to answer. “I heard about you m’
lord.”
He had? This was too good to be true. Dean had not had much success west of
Jarrowfall. Word was spreading. Maintain the aura, Dean. “I haven’t heard about
you, Brun.”
Brun didn’t seem to hear the invitation to explain what he was doing here and how
he knew Dean. Instead, he said, “We came across a camp on Miller’s Mountain
today. Do you know it?”
Dean narrowed his eyes deliberately. “It’s been a year since I was on Miller’s
Mountain.” Not only had the man heard of Dean, he was seeking help. That was a
good sign, but it was going to be a big step from being a favorite of the commoners
to being a favorite of Baron Granger.
The slouched boy said from behind Brun. “May I ask you a question, Lord
Chappell?”
Brun looked back sourly at his son’s talking out of turn, but the boy seemed
oblivious. The boy asked, “Are baron’s men really so good with a sword that they
can fight four or five at once? I don’t think anybody can, but Kurt says baron’s
men can.” He gestured back at the other boy.
Here was a chance to build the mystique. The real answer was that even two
swords against one was terrifying--the two would win if they had even modest
skill. But the one time Dean had faced two outlaws at once--the first time he had
faced any real foe--at a farm outside Belgon, Dean had been able to run for it.
When Dean stopped running, the first man reached him four or five sword strokes
before the second man did. Dean had only needed three strokes, though. Then the
chase went the other way and Dean caught the second man from behind before he
could reach his horse. Bringing in the bodies of two of Royagis’ men was the start
of Dean’s reputation. This happened just after Dean had concluded that being a
young elite soldier for the baron just meant being the least respected in a force of
three hundred. But after bringing in the two outlaws, he saw a way out. Baron’s
men did not go looking for trouble--it was ignoble and unseemly. But Dean was
barely noble and not seemly at all, so he would hunt for trouble until he caught the
Baron’s eye. Dean answered the boy with a slow, confident voice. “Some of us
can handle four or five at once, but not many can.”
The boy started to say something when Brun softly growled. “Later, boy.”
Dean wanted to build his status with these three some more, but that would seem
too obvious with the father wanting to tell him more about what they had seen. So
Dean said, “You saw a camp?”
Brun said, “At first I they might be from that big camp of nomads. But the
lookouts at this camp weren’t any of the nomads and they was outfitted for heavy
travelling. There’s a few of them, but I don’t know any reason for them being
there.”
Chappell said, “You think it could be one of Royagis’ camp?”
Brun screwed up his mouth as if he were considering the question, though the old
man obviously thought that the men were trouble. “I heard some about Royagis,
but I don’t know much about ‘im. Maybe they come to see what they can steal
from those nomads.”
It was strange that someone who lived this close to the border would not have
heard much about Royagis. “Who are the nomads? How many did you see?”
“There’s plenty. There’s probably more people in their camp than live around
Linn. Maybe there are even two or three Linns. I don’t trust ‘em.”
“How long have they been there?”
Brun answered as he crossed the room to the keg, without asking Dean’s leave--
not that Dean was insulted by commoners who did not defer to him. It showed a
coarseness and maybe even a soft contempt on Brun’s part, but Dean worked for a
living and did not have time to fret over what he saw as trivial. Brun poured
himself an ale from the tap. “They got here last spring.” So they’d been in the
Barony half a year.
Dean wondered if Jacob minded that Brun served himself. Was Brun going to steal
ale under the nose of a baron’s man? Now that Dean thought about it, he
remembered the way that the three had flinched when they had seen him sitting
there. Maybe they were just surprised or maybe they had been planning to steal
everything in the place. Jacob lived in the other room of the shack and all his
possessions must be in there--though Dean was sure Jacob didn’t have much to
steal. Brun had known who Lord Dean Chappell was. That had flattered him, but
maybe the three had come for him. No, if they had come for him, they would have
swords. But maybe they were here to send him into an ambush on Miller’s
Mountain.
Dean stood and walked over to join Brun at the keg. Jacob slouched in though the
open door, all bowed over with two buckets full of water. The conversation turned
to elk hunting.
Dean chatted with them and paid for ale for each. It was near dark when the three
left. After the sound of their horses’ hooves had faded, Dean said to Jacob, “You
didn’t say much to those three. Are they friends of yours?”
Jacob grunted. “Brun spends a lot of time trying to figure out how to live like a
lord, though he don’t own any property, m’lord.”
“He told me about a camp up on Miller’s Mountain. You think he’d lead me into a
trap?”
Jacob thought about the question too long.
Dean’s mood darkened. “I see.”
End of excerpt of short story
Reaver, (c) John Arkwright, 2007
Dean Chappell saw that the three men who entered the rough hewn shack were
wearing hunting knives, but no swords. When Dean was this far north he stopped
at Jacob’s tavern on the Linn Road to ask about problems in the area. The first
man--the scrawny one--saw Dean sitting in the corner and startled, causing his
buddies to flinch. They must not have noticed Dean’s horse tied up out back.
“Oh. Good evening sir,” the young one that slumped said in a harsh back country
accent.
Dean paused for effect before replying, “Good evening. Headed for Linn?”
They looked back and forth to each other. The scrawny one said, “Where’s
Jacob?”
They knew Jacob, so they were native to the area. “Jacob is down at the spring.”
They passed another look to each other then looked at him suspiciously. “Who are
you?”
Maybe they thought he had waylaid Jacob. They must not have seen the cut of
Dean’s leathers. “I’m a baron’s man.”
The other one put his hand on his hips with his right hand close to his hunting knife
and stepped closer, squinting at Dean. Dean could see that this man was older and
stouter, with a briar thicket of hair on his face and head. He growled
enthusiastically, “You are a baron’s man. I couldn’t see you back in the corner.”
He snatched his hat off his head and bowed clumsily. “People call me Brun, sir.
These are my sons.”
“I’m Dean Chappell.”
“Lord Dean Chappell?” He didn’t wait for Dean to answer. “I heard about you m’
lord.”
He had? This was too good to be true. Dean had not had much success west of
Jarrowfall. Word was spreading. Maintain the aura, Dean. “I haven’t heard about
you, Brun.”
Brun didn’t seem to hear the invitation to explain what he was doing here and how
he knew Dean. Instead, he said, “We came across a camp on Miller’s Mountain
today. Do you know it?”
Dean narrowed his eyes deliberately. “It’s been a year since I was on Miller’s
Mountain.” Not only had the man heard of Dean, he was seeking help. That was a
good sign, but it was going to be a big step from being a favorite of the commoners
to being a favorite of Baron Granger.
The slouched boy said from behind Brun. “May I ask you a question, Lord
Chappell?”
Brun looked back sourly at his son’s talking out of turn, but the boy seemed
oblivious. The boy asked, “Are baron’s men really so good with a sword that they
can fight four or five at once? I don’t think anybody can, but Kurt says baron’s
men can.” He gestured back at the other boy.
Here was a chance to build the mystique. The real answer was that even two
swords against one was terrifying--the two would win if they had even modest
skill. But the one time Dean had faced two outlaws at once--the first time he had
faced any real foe--at a farm outside Belgon, Dean had been able to run for it.
When Dean stopped running, the first man reached him four or five sword strokes
before the second man did. Dean had only needed three strokes, though. Then the
chase went the other way and Dean caught the second man from behind before he
could reach his horse. Bringing in the bodies of two of Royagis’ men was the start
of Dean’s reputation. This happened just after Dean had concluded that being a
young elite soldier for the baron just meant being the least respected in a force of
three hundred. But after bringing in the two outlaws, he saw a way out. Baron’s
men did not go looking for trouble--it was ignoble and unseemly. But Dean was
barely noble and not seemly at all, so he would hunt for trouble until he caught the
Baron’s eye. Dean answered the boy with a slow, confident voice. “Some of us
can handle four or five at once, but not many can.”
The boy started to say something when Brun softly growled. “Later, boy.”
Dean wanted to build his status with these three some more, but that would seem
too obvious with the father wanting to tell him more about what they had seen. So
Dean said, “You saw a camp?”
Brun said, “At first I they might be from that big camp of nomads. But the
lookouts at this camp weren’t any of the nomads and they was outfitted for heavy
travelling. There’s a few of them, but I don’t know any reason for them being
there.”
Chappell said, “You think it could be one of Royagis’ camp?”
Brun screwed up his mouth as if he were considering the question, though the old
man obviously thought that the men were trouble. “I heard some about Royagis,
but I don’t know much about ‘im. Maybe they come to see what they can steal
from those nomads.”
It was strange that someone who lived this close to the border would not have
heard much about Royagis. “Who are the nomads? How many did you see?”
“There’s plenty. There’s probably more people in their camp than live around
Linn. Maybe there are even two or three Linns. I don’t trust ‘em.”
“How long have they been there?”
Brun answered as he crossed the room to the keg, without asking Dean’s leave--
not that Dean was insulted by commoners who did not defer to him. It showed a
coarseness and maybe even a soft contempt on Brun’s part, but Dean worked for a
living and did not have time to fret over what he saw as trivial. Brun poured
himself an ale from the tap. “They got here last spring.” So they’d been in the
Barony half a year.
Dean wondered if Jacob minded that Brun served himself. Was Brun going to steal
ale under the nose of a baron’s man? Now that Dean thought about it, he
remembered the way that the three had flinched when they had seen him sitting
there. Maybe they were just surprised or maybe they had been planning to steal
everything in the place. Jacob lived in the other room of the shack and all his
possessions must be in there--though Dean was sure Jacob didn’t have much to
steal. Brun had known who Lord Dean Chappell was. That had flattered him, but
maybe the three had come for him. No, if they had come for him, they would have
swords. But maybe they were here to send him into an ambush on Miller’s
Mountain.
Dean stood and walked over to join Brun at the keg. Jacob slouched in though the
open door, all bowed over with two buckets full of water. The conversation turned
to elk hunting.
Dean chatted with them and paid for ale for each. It was near dark when the three
left. After the sound of their horses’ hooves had faded, Dean said to Jacob, “You
didn’t say much to those three. Are they friends of yours?”
Jacob grunted. “Brun spends a lot of time trying to figure out how to live like a
lord, though he don’t own any property, m’lord.”
“He told me about a camp up on Miller’s Mountain. You think he’d lead me into a
trap?”
Jacob thought about the question too long.
Dean’s mood darkened. “I see.”
End of excerpt of short story
Reaver, (c) John Arkwright, 2007
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