Talkin' by the Fire with a Stranger

I was sitting by my fire after a long day of fishing, like I always do, when a stranger approached and asked to sit. Normally, I’d show my guttin’ knife to anyone fool enough to sneak up in the night, but this one didn’t give me the impression he intended anything tricky. Might be the scrawny lad was just naturally light footed. His face was friendly enough so, I nodded him on and he all but collapsed on the ground. He was some stray Wystran pup, probably one of those roamers you always hear about.

“Long travels, eh?”

“Aye,” he sighed. “Longer than I ever thought possible.”

He was an age with my own boy. That’s to say he was young, too young to look so weary. Yet he was covered in strange tattoos up to his jaw—I've heard that denotes manhood in the far north. When I asked, he just smiled wide, showing his crooked yellow teeth. “Won these when I was a fightin’ man,” he chuckled. “These be the marks of a warrior.”

I laughed, but his eyes grew cold; it was no jest. He pulled up his shirt revealing yet more tattoos across his chest and shriveled stomach; the boy was bloody starving. Cutting between the fine lines of his marks was the most wicked scar I've ever seen. It ran down from his collarbone past the waistband of his trousers.

He caught me lookin’ and said: “That’s what sent me away from the Wyse. Not that the south offered much better.”

What a Wystran would call “south” is hundreds of leagues east from my little village on the western shores of the Merrow. Fact is, a Wystran would have to cross ten on the Many Lakes before he reached even the Merrow, which is akin crossing the South Sea to Skan’basan on a dinghy from the way I’ve heard it told.

“How’s a lad like you end up here, of all places?”

“I reckon I came here to find what really lies in my heart—whatever that means,” the boy let out a tired gasp. The more we spoke, the more I felt "boy" was too reductive a word for him. He was young, but he'd well earned his manhood.

“I’m trying to see the good in things for once," he said. "I lived a bad life before. A bloody life. My brother used to tell me that bloody lives only end in death. Someone needed to break the cycle, I suppose that was me, given brother's good and dead now, himself. Good man, my brother. He taught me how to live, how to survive. Though, he also taught me how to kill, so I suppose there’s that. Little good his goodness did him, though. Too much blood he left behind.”

The boy—the young man stretched his back and groaned, gripping his left hand as though to nurse an old wound. “Father’s still kicking. Took up the sword after swearing it off 'fore I was born. He wants vengeance—not on the southerner who cut down my brother, but on the whole bloody south! I'm done with vengeance, myself. Back then though, bet your ass I was chompin' for it. After my brother died, I tracked the fuckers who cut him down on the road; went farther south than I knew possible and ended up in a city called Siva. You probably know it.”

I nodded. My father used to ferry merchants up the waterways, but I never again dared to travel so far from home after he died. “Bloody ridiculous, ain’t it?”

“Truth in a bottle, friend,” he pulled out a flask of cheap, half-drank liquor, took a swig and handed it to me. I gladly partook. 'Twas only fair since I was sharing my fire.

“Too many damned crowds...” he said, lips puckering from the bitter brew. “The buildings are so tall you can’t see the horizon. No trees in sight. I’ve been to Valencia since, and it’s not much better, but at least there’s some fuckin’ greenery.

“I spent a few weeks, doing my best to blend in. Which was a hard thing for a boy like me to do, being I hadn’t been free of the Wyse for more than a month or two. But I supposed if I stayed covered up, most folks would keep to themselves.

“It took some askin' round, but I found the piss drinkin' fucker who stole my brother. He was some high and mighty knight and he lived in a giant house made of limestone bricks. I found my way inside, and I hid in the wardrobe until he went to undress for the night. Then, I stepped out and told him who I was and why I was there. See, that’s how we do things in the clans: you have a problem with a man, you bloody-well tell him, man-to-man. Except this wasn’t the clans, this was ‘high nobility.' The bastard just laughed. In hindsight, I should have just turned around. But I didn’t know then, what I know now. Instead, I ran at him, axe in hand and this knife in the other,” the young man held out a nasty single edged dagger with a polished antler as a handle.

“My, would you look at that!” I said, having never seen such a weapon.

“Nice ain’t it? Wish I could say it's of my own design. My brother put this together for me after I felled my first Elk, years ago. Been with me ever since,” he cleared his throat, rubbed at his left hand again. “Anyway, I charged the knight, fire in my heart. He flashed out a blade faster than I knew possible; didn’t even know he had a sword on him—tells you a thing or two about my sense of honor, back then. That’s where I got this beauty...”

He gestured to a different scar across his chest that dug into his left armpit. I shook my head and snorted in disbelief. I hadn’t heard such a tall tale from a stranger. Rather, not one I believed. Lot's of braggarts and boasters in my parts. It was a relief to have a genuine conversation, I've spent so much time alone on the lake.

“Don’t remember much after that,” he said. “I jumped out his second story window, crashing into his garden. I’m not sure if he meant to leave me for dead or just didn’t care enough to give chase. After that, I thought I had my fill of blood… but I found myself mixed up with a different gaggle the last few years.”

“Oh, who was they?” I asked, eager to hear more. But the boy shook his head, a mournful expression on his face. It killed me to see it, he was too young to be so seasoned. So exhausted.

“Too soon to be tellin’ that tale, friend. Maybe next time.”

I wouldn’t have believed any of what I heard from someone else. As I said, I've met too many liars trying to compensate, but something about this lad told me he had nothing to lie about, nothing to compensate for. We shot the shit for another hour or so, at that point I was mostly telling him about my wife and kids. He was a good lad, polite and understanding.

I offered him a spot in the camp, as it was well into the dark of night and getting cold. But, he declined and just thanked me for the company and respite. I wished him the best and clapped his hand in mine. He was gone by the time I realized I never asked his name.