The Badgerbane Part I

 

 

As the sun rose upon the world the vast reach of Chetwood yawned and sighed in the morning breeze. Many leagues from the Great Road there ran a small brook, babbling over root, stone and dell. It fell and carved its way for many miles, sometimes growing bold and loud, and at others shy, vanishing beneath the earth only to reappear again. The water was seldom disturbed by either man or beast-  that was until today.

Two grassy banks rose either side of the brook as it wound from east to west through the lower reaches of the Wood. Upon the south bank there came a man, tackling fern and nettle with his dogged steps.

The man had fair hair, long and windswept, and a trimmed beard that hugged only his chin. There were a few trace lines upon his tanned face, either from middle-age or the winds of the world, but his eyes showed a wily cunning.

He appeared at first glance to be a traveller well used to the road, for what he wore could not rightly be seen: he huddled in a dark cloak. But he had well-worn boots of leather, rippled with creases and dusted in mud; and upon his right shoulder there was a brown baldric, and a knife sheathed upon the strap.

Presently he leaned over the southern bank and looked at the shallow yet wide stream. He muttered to himself and appeared to be mulling something over. Then he fumbled at his neck and drew out a leather necklace from which a silver coin hung. Loosening the thread he took the coin in his hand and flipped it. He looked at the outcome, shrugged, and fastened it back around his neck. Then he stole a quick glance left and right before venturing to ford the brook. The pebbles chimed and slipped at his first wary step, and the shallow water lapped against his boot.

'South or East?' called out a sudden voice.

The traveller stopped and looked up. There upon the northern bank stood Scarlock in his autumn hues, yet he was now wearing a green cowl. He cut an imposing figure, leaning upon his longbow.

'What?' said the traveller.

Scarlock lifted himself from the longbow and considered.

'South it is,' he said.

The traveller looked at him with confusion.

'I can almost always tell where a man is from, even with one word,' Scarlock explained. 'So. What brings a southerner to the Chetwood?'

'A coin flip,' answered the other.

'Ha!' exclaimed Scarlock. 'You leave yourself to chance? A worthy outlook. But it seems chance has served you an ill turn, for none can pass the borders of the Chetwood without payment.'

The man rolled his eyes. 

'That is meant to be my job. Let me guess, you wish for coin?'

Scarlock shook his head at the notion.

'I do not trade in coins, for I have no use for them.'

The man quirked his eyebrows at him.

'You're a terrible toll man, did you know that?'

'Thank you,' answered Scarlock with a grin, and he took a mock bow. 

The man watched him with some amusement.

'Well what is it you demand?' he asked. 'All I've got are the clothes on my back.' Then he stopped to think and added: 'Actually I did come across a man who offered me work. Threatened to give me his leggings as payment. Is that what you're after? because you can have them.'

'Payment to the North shall not be made in material goods,' laughed Scarlock. 'Rather the passage itself has to be earned, I think. What is your name?'

The man faltered, as if caught off guard. 

'Jo--,' he began, but then he changed his mind at the last moment, '--ohn...just John.'

Scarlock's smile grew wide. 

'Well 'Just John',' he said, 'I've always wanted to know how the South measured up to the North. Shall we find out?'

The man considered. 

'You mean like this?'

Then he drew the dagger from his shoulder. He flicked it in his hand and held it up. It was of good craft, nimble and sharp. 

Scarlock regarded it, and nonchalantly he drew out his hunting knife. It was a modest length and threatening enough, but certainly larger than his opponent's.

'I was thinking more along the lines of this,' he said wryly.

The other man looked at it for a moment before shrugging. He pushed aside his cloak to reveal a black scabbard, and he drew his sword. It rang musically as he ran his thumb down the length whilst flicking the hair from his face. Then he poised the blade at the ready, as if this were his new answer.

Scarlock put away his knife and sized up the sword. The corners of his mouth drooped with an approving nod.

'Impressive,' he conceded.

But then he answered in turn, and took up his longbow, gripping it like a staff. It was man-high in length from end to end.

'Yet I think this is bigger.'

The two men now stood either side of the brook in momentary silence save for the babbling water that flowed between them. The swordsman then snorted and smiled.

'Well,' he said eventually, 'we can pull ourselves out and turn the brook yellow if you'd like? I'm not a bad aim when sober.'

Scarlock laughed. 

'I can see this contest cannot be decided through the measure of arms. And yet I cannot let you pass until you are worthy to enter the North.'

The other man sighed, and rested the sword against his shoulder.

'Well I intend to pass whether worthy or not,' he smiled back.

'Ah,' countered Scarlock, 'but you could be any body with all manner of intentions, good or bad. And I like to ensure the Wood remains wholesome and free from taint, if I can help it. Nothing proves the worth of a man than a good bout. Shall we instead turn the brook red with an even duel?'

The swordsman considered the challenge and then looked around indifferently.

'I suppose I've got the time,' he says. 'Fists?'

'Fists,' agreed Scarlock, bowing his head in good sport.

And so both the men stooped carefully to lay down their arms, Scarlock setting aside his quiver and longbow, and the swordsman unfastening his cloak and baldric. Neither man took their eyes off one another. Then they each rose and slowly forded to the center of the brook, meeting face to face.

'First man to be washed away?' asked Scarlock as he pulled down his hood. Then he offered his hand.

The swordsman took the hand and shook it in agreement. Then they readied themselves.

'Life's a merry game,' murmured Scarlock, and his autumn eyes bent over the knuckles of his balled fists.

He swung first; and so the bout began.