Chapter Eight

From a completed epic fantasy novel told across two time periods.

The Old Man

It was not as he anticipated. Smoke rose from more than a dozen buildings, each sporting solidly constructed wooden rooftops. A path through the center of the village could be discerned by packed ice, a few inches lower to the ground than the rest of the white landscape. Massive logs were piled high in various locations, suggesting that the growth was not finished.

A young man had halted his movement across the town upon seeing the old man’s approach. From the distance of more than two hundred paces, it was difficult to make out the expression on his face. The old man’s pace did not waver as the villager hollered something inaudible to the old man’s ears. Within ten heartbeats, men and women emerged from the buildings, most armed with axes and other tools. The old man unconsciously sized them up, and saw no reason for concern.

The villagers began to form a semicircle as the old man closed within twenty paces of them. From the center of the group, a man in a cap of saggy black fur who looked to be nearing his fifth decade stepped forward. “Greetings, friend. What purpose do you have for traveling so far north?”

“I am searching for an herbalist,” the old man said.

“Aye, I know of who you speak. Your journey is not complete. She is still farther north.” The man paused as if expecting a response. The old man had not heard a question, and so gave none. “You know of our village?”

“No.”

“You will continue straight through?”

“I could use supplies and some new footwear,” the old man said, his toes nearly numb within the remains of his boots.

The village’s apparent representative looked back at his companions. One nodded, then another, and another. The youth who had first seen the old man did nothing but stare at him. He was just past adolescence, of average height, but muscles were evident even under layers of fur and wool.

“We can provide you with some food, if you have coin,” the representative said.

The old man continued to stand still. “I do.”

A glance at the old man’s ragged boots. “We can replace your boots as well, though it will take a few days.”

“Fine.”

“Follow me, then,” the man said. “There’s warm food and cold ale in the tavern.”

It was more expansive of a tavern than he had expected, with five tables placed throughout the common space. To one side of the room was a bar, a door behind it which the old man assumed led into the kitchen. A fire was burning in the hearth on the back wall, but it was not strong enough to heat the entire room. The old man sat alone at a table while the man he had followed passed through the door behind the bar. The youth had trailed them both and stood in the doorway, making a point to be seen. After a few moments of silence, a woman entered through the main door, her face mostly hidden beneath a thick brown hood. She carried a small wicker basket filled with cobbler’s tools.

She looked down at his ice-encrusted boots. “You’ve come a long way. I will take measurements for a new pair of boots. Do you need assistance removing those?”

The old man considered her offer. Do I appear so ancient that I cannot even remove my own boots? He looked up to shake his head. The woman had put her hood down, revealing her face.

The old man felt as though he had suddenly lost his wind. So similar. The same eyes. Older, but an identical shine. By the lines on her face, it was clear that she had seen more than four decades, which he knew made her too young to be the woman he had mistaken her for. And, of course, that woman was gone. The façade of indifference to the world collapsed and he was, albeit momentarily, a vulnerable young man again. He had thought that man dead, indeed had worked to kill and bury him. Now the tsunami of emotions, complex and seemingly intensified with age, assaulted him.

It all occurred in but an instant. He steeled himself and repressed that younger, weaker version of himself. He cut his gaze off, and went to unlacing his boots. When he had removed them, he looked back up at the woman. She gave no indication of having noticed the impact her appearance had made on him.

She used a length of cloth to take his measurements. He sat in silence, becoming overly aware of his own breathing. When the woman completed her task, she stood up, and looked at him with a neutral expression. “I need two days,” she said. The old man nodded. She took the hint of his discomfort and left the tavern without another word.

An old fool. That is what I am, he thought as he put his worn boots back on. Movement from the bar saved the old man from the unwanted, yet painfully familiar ache of self-reflection. He was too honest to deny it would not be more than a temporary delay.

Sensing the man’s intending hesitation, the old man put a nondenominational silver coin on the table. The man had removed the cap he had been wearing, revealing a receding line of newly greying hair which covered the back of his head. It accentuated the wrinkles on his face, a feature the old man had not noticed earlier. The weight of responsibility has aged him. Luckily, I have not seen a mirror in some time.

The man put a bowl of stew on the table, along with a wooden spoon, and the old man set to eating.

“Silver,” the man said. “That’s more than enough for this. Tell me what else you need, and I will find what I can.”

The old man’s eventual reply never came as the door to the tavern was pushed open. A large man entered, wearing a huge fur overcoat that was stained on one side with old blood. His boots were caked in snow and ice, and he wore a sword at his hip, pommel pointed forward, easily in view of anyone whom he faced.

He walked directly to where the old man was seated, and did not halt his advance until he was less than a hand’s length away from the village representative. His eyes though, were fixed on the old man. “Who is this, Harold?”

The host, Harold, had taken a step back. “Someone passing through.”

“You collected his tax then, on our behalf?”

“Not yet.”

“That was not smart, Harold,” the man said. “Now I have to visit more often to ensure this doesn’t happen again. And it was only a coincidence that I arrived at this exact time to see your cheating. Who knows how many times this has happened before?”

“No one has traveled through here in more than a year,” Harold said, his eyes on the floor. “I swear it, Virson.”

“Says the man who failed at his sole duty.” Virson jabbed a finger against the old man’s shoulder. “The price for entering the emperor’s northern realm is three silvers.”

The old man scraped the bottom of the bowl with his spoon, then put a spoonful of stew into his mouth.

“Is this old man addled?” Virson asked Harold.

“I don’t believe so,” Harold said.

“Then he’s just a fool,” the man said, unsheathing a sword at his hip.

The blade did not fully leave its sheath before it was battered back down by the old man’s sword. He was standing, the effort a single motion.

“I am a fool,” the old man said. “Of that I have no doubt. But I will not be extorted.”

Virson gasped, outraged. He jumped backwards and removed his sword, lunging at the old man, who lazily parried his swing.

“You dare assault an Imperial Defender?” Virson asked.

“I suppose so,” the old man said.

Virson again rushed forward. But with each swing he blocked, the old man pushed him further back toward the door, his blade was before Virson’s at every instance. The Imperial Defender stumbled over the step in the entranceway, narrowly holding himself upright. Back against the door, he attempted to spread out. The old man would not allow it. He hit him with the flat of his blade and pushed him out the door, where he tumbled onto his backside and sank into the snow. The old man followed him out into the cold.

Villagers had gathered around the tavern. They watched in awed silence as the old man stood in the doorway, a blank expression on his face. The Imperial Defender was breathing hard, his eyes seething with rage, as he lifted himself upright and pulled his weapon out of the snow.

“You have made a fatal error,” the man said, glancing to the side where the villagers were amassed.

The old man said nothing as he looked upon the Imperial Defender, but he could see the man’s body shaking, and the effort it took for him to catch his breath. When he finally slowed his breathing, he attacked.

The old man was instantly on him, the flat of his blade slamming into his face, breaking his nose. The man fell back hard into the snow, his gloved hands clutching his face, blood dripping down to paint the ground bright red.

The old man stared at his opponent. He could see tears in his eyes, one of which was twitching. Blood was forming a small pool in the snow. Virson reached inside his overcoat and made to withdraw a throwing knife. The old man was too fast. His blade went through the man’s chest. He quickly pulled the sword out, and the Imperial Defender fell face first into the snow, dead.

The old man looked at the villagers. As one, they gave him a look of stunned awe. After a moment, Harold walked over to the corpse. “You gave him every opportunity to live,” he said to the old man. “He could not hazard the blow to his pride. We need to bury him. Bury him, and hope the emperor never learns of this.”

The old man furrowed his brow. “Emperor? Other than the port towns, there’s nothing on this continent except a handful of villages.”

“Aye,” Harold replied. “But he is trying to change that. He already has a network of tax-collecting thugs set up. This continent attracts many desperate and cruel men. He is uniting them, and those of us who came here to flee oppression have found ourselves more at home than we had expected.”

The old man wiped his sword clean on the dead man’s overcoat. On the thick wool shirt that was underneath, he saw a bronze sigil. Upon closer inspection, he saw it was a serpent.

The woman who had taken his measurements came over to him then, her mouth open slightly, her breath pluming in the air. “I’ve never seen anything like that. He had no chance against you.”

“Years of experience,” the old man sighed.

“Stay at my house tonight,” Harold said. “I will tell you the way of things here.”

The old man nodded. Harold’s invitation was not the one he had wanted, but it was still welcome.