The Lesson

     Even by Tabernathy Inn standards, the night was rowdy--the crowd around the central arena more boisterous, the fighting more fierce, the betting more rash, and the drinking more frequent, more potent, and (to the innkeeper's pleasure) more costly. For as the evening wore on, more than one patron pounded a table, bellowing, "A round of your best ale, sir!"

     Perhaps it was the farmers relaxing after the haying season. They'd had excellent weather and so, a fine harvest and felt freer to spend a few coppers here, and a few silvers there.

     Perhaps it was the fine rich caravan passing through not two days before. The merchants got good prices from the buyers looking for Borderland imports to take back to the cities. Now the merchants were lustily backing, and betting on, their favorite champions in the arena.

     Perhaps it was a rash of fair-weather adventurers returning before the snow flew to relate new tales around the fire as the evening's meal settled. They were soon drinking and outdoing each other in their bragging and boasting, leading inevitably to the evening's climax--"Best me in the arena or bite your tongue!"

     Or perhaps it was some of the bordertown's favorite challengers being present, making the matches more personal for the patrons, and more feisty for the fighters.

     Whatever it was, eventually a table of merchants grabbed Almira from her bench and hoisted her over the low arena wall, yelling, "Do your stuff, darling! Ten silvers from each of us if you can shut that braggart up!"

     Betting tripled, as they'd often seen both Almira and her opponent, a rangy red-haired loudmouth who sometimes wintered there and always had a "one-better" tale to tell, few of which were believable. The crowd would listen to so much of it and then send in one of their professionals to silence him for that evening.

     But there were always those who saw promise in him. "Sure and this will be the night, lad!" As a result, his tales and fighting were improving and he was worth an occasional bet. However, no one believed half of what he claimed and, as he still had a brashness that grated, tonight it would be Almira turning him off.

     A fair-looking brunette, five-foot-ten, she was limber and lithe in typical fighter's leotard and armor, designed for unencumbered movement once sword was drawn and scabbard cast aside. She paced her side of the circle, stretching her muscles, shaking her arms and legs, flexing her fingers, bouncing a bit on the balls of her feet. The hanging lanterns flashed points of light from her studded leather jerkin, her banded helm, and scabbard. As yet she had not drawn her sword. She was sizing up this Eryan the Barbarian, or the Mouth, as he was variously called, deciding how much he'd improved since last she'd met him in the arena. What new tricks had he learned? Had his composure matured yet or was he still apt to react before thinking?

     "Five solid blows and he's down, sez I, and here's five silver to back it!"

     "Don't be too sure. There's got to be something more to him than mouth. I'll up you to ten!"

     The crowd's betting died down, as they jostled for the best view. The six-foot-six red-head flexed his muscles and slashed the air with his sword.

     "What, ten silvers only? Why, I'm worth ten gold to you, man! Not three weeks ago, I slew a wild boar rushing me full tilt, with one dire thrust of my blade. And you think this..." Eryan waved his blade her direction, "this Azmurian... is any match for the likes of me!"

     He turned to face the wiry Almira--Almira, the renowned, who never needed to brag, as all for miles around told frequently of her skill and fierceness in battle, and of her daring and curiosity that led her into danger for the thrill of it. Someone was always eager to be the first to tell of her latest exploits. For a moment, Eryan's mouth and his ring-mail ceased clattering as he held his position with longsword extended.

     The fire in the hearth cast shadows of the crowd flickering across Almira's bare tanned arms and legs as she scuffed her leather boots against the dirt of the arena floor. Out swished her longsword, her scabbard thudding onto the hardpack as she tossed it away and dropped into a crouch.

     The patrons quieted as if holding their breath. Nothing moved but the shadows. The fire crackled and hissed.

     "Aii-eee!" she shrieked. The hair on the necks of the nearest patrons tingled.

     Eryan lunged in with a mighty right-handed slash.

     She danced back, and let him slice air, then darted in under his guard to slap the flat of her blade at his chest. It rang against the ring-mail. The rafters roared with her backer's cheers and laughter.

     Eryan's face reddened as he tried not to gasp audibly. He backed off and circled, regaining his breath.

     Slash, clang! The fighting resumed, now lunging, now parrying, feinting and circling. The patrons continued to guffaw at his outrageous moves and cheer her nimble ones. But now and again a voice would shout out, "Good one, lad. Follow it up!" And Eryan pressed in again, warming to her style. She, in turn, sensed the time for play had ended, and began to counter in earnest, whacking away his heavy-handed slashes and coming at him from first this side, then that, with her own deft blows.

     At first he attempted to evade her, but she was lighter and faster than he. He then tried a feint with a backhanded recovery, guessing her next move, and was rewarded with a clash of swords as his parry succeeded.

     The crowd muttered grudging approval. Best yet, she saluted before coming at him with a deluge of blows to both sides of his blade.

     Dancing away, she flipped back a few strands of hair that had escaped from the thong holding her long auburn tresses out of her face as she fought.

     Eryan, though, instead of retreating form the rain of blows, tossed his sword to his left hand and plunged in after her, almost catching her off guard, ringing his blade soundly against hers.

     She arched an eyebrow at this new ability and immediately dashed under his left arm. With a smack she laid her sword flat across his back with all her might, sending him sprawling.

     "Better luck with your next boar!" she quipped.

     The crowd roared and slapped each other's backs. Winning betters pounded the tables for more ale. Silver and copper clinked and clattered as bets were paid off.

     "Good show, lad. A few more fights with her and your sword will speak as loudly as your mouth!"

     The good natured merchants backing the young man helped him up. Though losing their bets, they had been entertained and had seen enough to know he'd be worth betting on again someday. If they could only stand the tall tales until then!

     Eryan brushed dirt from his ring-mail and retrieved his sword and scabbard. By the fire, someone struck up a raucous chorus of an old battle song and the drinks flowed freely.

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Created July 9, 1997. Last modified February 19, 1998.

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