[The Squatter of Amon Rûdh]

“That’s a nasty scratch you have there, friend.” came a gruff voice from Halasan’s side. “That’s the work of an Easterling, or my eyes deceive me.”

Halasan turned to face the speaker. He was a man of middle years, grim of countenance yet with a touch of humour about his eyes. Dark hair shot with grey framed a face scarred from countless battles; one ran the whole length of one side from temple to chin, the nose had been broken more than once and many other wounds besides had left their marks. Several days’ growth of beard did nothing to improve the stranger’s looks, and nor was the overall appearance any different. His clothes were of poor quality, travel-stained and much-repaired; his shoes were in dire need of a cobbler; his hair was unkempt and there were twigs caught in the seams of his cloak, souveniers, no doubt, of his last night’s camp. On closer inspection, though, the newcomer’s gear was not all of such poor stuff, for beside him at the bar was an axe worth a king’s ransom: huge and black-bladed, its head adorned with a tracery of silver, and its haft polished by decades of use. The weapon was spotless, and its edge was keen.

“Such they are,” agreed Halasan. “I’ll wager you’ve felt their handiwork yourself.”

“Once or twice,” replied the axeman, and took a deep draught of mead. “They know my work too.”

“Theirs is enough for me at least,” said the wounded man. “This shoulder of mine aches like the plague.”

“There may be something I can do,” answered the other. “I’ve taken a couple like that myself. Find somewhere to sit and I’ll have a look.”

“I’d like to hear your name first, friend.” Halasan rejoined gently.

“It’s too great a name for me: Haleg I am, named for a better.”

“And I am Halasan, and yours is a friendly face after bitter days. ”

The only free booth was near the door, shunned for the draught. Haleg draped his cloak to fend off the chill and pulled a length of silk and a needle from a pouch he carried. With careful and practiced movements he cleaned and then closed the wound in Halasan’s shoulder.

“Soon be as good as new, that.” he said, taking another drink. “How came you by it?”

“I’d sooner eat before I tell that tale” said Halasan gravely.

Over a simple supper of meat and bread, washed down with tongue-loosening mead, the two travellers exchanged stories. Halasan told of his betrayal and flight, and Haleg related a little of his own history, although he did not tell much.

"My father placed my hand on this axe before I was an hour old," he said gravely. "He taught me its use as his father taught him, but he would not be pleased that I earn my crust on his training. He never liked mercenaries, a mercenary killed him, and now I eat by my blade, although more often I don't. These rags and this bundle are the wages of honour; but honour has not made the nights less chill, and sometimes I regret my choice. It was given me to choose between vengeance and prosperity, and my revenge was terrible.
‘…their lord beside,
with linkëd hands there lightly took
the oath unbreakable; blood thereafter
it spilled like a sea…’"

As he said this his eyes blazed for a moment, but the spark was soon extinguished and he lapsed into silence for a time and would speak no more of the matter.

When next Haleg spoke it was to announce: "You'll be needing some fresh clothes, I'm thinking; or at any rate those need repair. I know a good seamstress here: it’s thanks to her that these poor things have served me so long. Come with me and I will take you to her."

With that Haleg rose, motioning Halasan to follow him. They settled their bill and left the inn, Haleg leading the way off the high street and into the tangle of dwellings and workshops that abutted it. The axe slung on his back glinted in the moonlight and Halasan was uncomfortably reminded that he had met the strange warrior only that evening.

He felt his panic rising, but quelled it as his companion led the way behind one of the houses, which doubled as workshops in this part of the settlement. It was too late to run if others were expected, but only one set of footsteps answered Haleg’s knock and Halasan relaxed as the door opened.

[ March 18, 2003: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]