He must needs tread carefully lest the crooked, supporting stick lose its purchase on the slippery cobblestones. Moist days were bad, rain worse, and snow and ice the worst of all.

Curse the day I lost the use of my leg.

He twisted his body, swinging the useless leg around like so much dead wood, then another careful step.

By the time I get to the inn, I’ll be bloody dead of exhaustion instead of just thirsting.

He dared not ambulate anywhere near the middle of the street for fear of being run down by a careless coach driver, or a drunken rider. He would never be able to move out of the way in time. The drink flowed freely these days, with the battle imminent and soldiers getting in a last drunken spree before they were marched off to their deaths.

Or worse. They could end up like me.

Only a few more yards and he could rest himself outside the door of The Troughwater Allotment in hopes that a soldier or an old war crony, though they were becoming fewer all the time, might exit the inn and recognize him as one who gave for King and country. It was a popular place for soldiers; both those that now served, and retired veterans. Perhaps a coin or a pint of brew would be placed in his outstretched hand.

There was no work to be had for such as he. Once, he was young, strong and living life high on the back of a mighty steed; a professional soldier who worked hard, drank hard, and fought hard for what he believed. Oh, the tales he could tell; mighty enemies, loyal friends and bawdy wenches.

A few more feet, only.

He could hear the sounds of revelry as he neared the doorway to the inn. While passing the mouth of a narrow alley between buildings, he glanced at the shadowy interior. One never knew what one might spy going on in the back ways of the town. Betimes, information and knowledge, passed to the proper sources, had kept the grim spectres of thirst and starvation from claiming his soul for a few more days.

No motion gave away any dark and mysterious deeds on this day. But, a second glance showed a slight glimmer, silvery in the deep shadow as if a stray beam of sunlight had somehow escaped its lighted path and delved into the darkness, reflecting a gleam as its last hope.

He debated with himself: Go to his usual spot by the doorway and get his much needed rest and the prospect of a bit of food or drink, or use up precious strength in investigating the alleyway, with the odds on chance that the gleam was nothing useful, but only a shard of shoe buckle or harness rivet.

Glory be, but I’m a fool.

He swung his bad leg a bit further than he had before, and aimed himself toward the alley. A few feet inside, he stopped. His eyes would soon become accustomed to the darkness and he used the few moments to gather his reserves of energy. The smell of excrement, both human and otherwise, assailed his nostrils. He ignored it. He had slept in worse than this.

He felt his breeches dropping a bit lower on his bony hips, feeling himself seem to wither away as he stood. He tightened the knot on the rope around his waist.

No more beams of glimmering sunlight penetrated the darkness of the alley, but soon, his eyes adjusted themselves and he spied a small bit of silver lying near the wall almost at his feet.

A coin of the realm or I’m the Queen. God bless her soul.

He bent painfully and retrieved the coin. Rubbed it on his filthy shirt and smiled.

Food and drink for the day! Glory be!

He turned to leave the alley and a swirl of movement, deeper in the shadow, caught his eye. He stopped and stood still.

I’m weak with hunger. Probably just an old tom hunting his scurrying, bewhiskered lunch.

As he moved once again to turn away, he spied another coin a few feet further in. He managed his way to it and picked it up.

Two in one day!

Though he had no thought that there would be more money lying around the dark alleyway, he scanned the ground all around. If he just left and did not look, he would berate himself all day and eventually find his way back anyway, just to be certain.

There, another coin! And another, each a few feet further into the deep shadows. As he stood smiling, the last coin that he could see in his hand, he realized that he had wandered in to the dead end of the passageway. A wooden fence blocked his way, too tall to leap even had he two good legs instead of just the one, and even had he a reason. He turned to leave the shadows when he again saw the movement from the corner of his vision; like a dark wraith, unmeant to be seen by human eyes.

He turned toward the motion, and suddenly a blackness, deeper than the shadows descended over his head. He instinctively reached one hand for a weapon, but any blade he once carried had been sold long ago for food or drink. A sharp blow to the head dropped him to his knees.

“Aerdian dog!” A deep, ghostly voice said. And another blow sent him sprawling.

“Enough!” Another similar yet different, calmer voice said. “We have our instructions. He is not to die. Not yet.”

Djuhah? What are Holy Slayers doing here?

He struggled to rise, but his feet were kicked from beneath him and he fell once again, this time into unconsciousness.

He awoke to cold water splashed in his face. He sputtered, shook his head and licked some of the moisture from his lips. He realized how thirsty he had become.

Two black-robed Djuhah stood with arms folded across their chests. They did not speak immediately, but stared as he fought to bring himself to awareness. He sat on the cold, dirt floor of a room, some meager light coming from two small, high windows. A few candles lit up the corner darkness, reflecting on the silver coins scattered around him. His crutch stood in the far corner. His hands were tied before him, but his feet were not.

They know I cannot run.

Maritkan Holy Slayers, or Djuhah, were the fiercest fighters known. They fought religiously, and with much passion for their god, Ohim. Dressed all in black with swirling robes and headbands, the moved like wraiths in the dust and blood of a battleground.

“You are Pebe.” It was not a question, but a statement. The calm-voiced one had spoken to him. “You are known to many in the town.”

Pebe sat silently, listening to the voice and to the grumbling coming from his belly.

I was led into a trap, the coin was bait. And I went willingly, curse my stupidity!

“We will give you much coin, for a small favor.” The Slayer continued. Still, neither of the Djuhah moved.

Pebe gathered what spittle his dry mouth would produce and let fly. It landed short of the man’s boot, but the intent was clear. The man looked at his companion and nodded slightly, once.

“A pleasure.” This from the one who wanted to kill him in the alley.

The man took one step forward and kicked Pebe in the face.

“We will hurt you no more, should you take our offer. Should you reject it, you will no longer have only one bad leg. In fact, you will have no legs whatsoever.”

Pebe spit blood, but in a different direction this time. A couple of teeth went with the gob. He could take little more of this. He was no longer young. “I shall listen to your offer.”

May your mother be impregnated by a diseased goat!

The first speaker, he who seemed to be in charge over the other, removed a pouch from his cloak. He hefted it once, then tossed it into Pebe’s lap. It weighed heavily and Pebe picked it up with his bound hands and opened it. It was full of coins. Mostly silver, but sprinkled with the gleam of gold.

His imagination leapt outward, already spending the money. Drinks, good food, women. Perhaps a horse. A doctor to fix his leg after all these years?

Who will I have to kill?

“You need harm no one, nor lead any to harm.” The calm voice said as if hearing Pebe’s own thoughts. “All we require is information. You are acquainted with soldiers, townspeople, veterans of battles with our own, and even members of the King’s Guard.”

Treason.

“You need not even live your life differently. Merely carry on as the feeble, worthless beggar that you are. Talk, listen, then come to us and tell all.”

And cause the defeat of the King’s army. Intended or no.

“May I have some water?” Pebe asked. The second man laughed. Calm voice said no.

“May I have time to consider?”

“You will meet us, here, at this time in two days. If you do not, you may as well take your own life. Husam Ibn Ohim declares! Ohim declares!”

He turned and left the room. The second Djuhah stood for a moment, as if contemplating how badly he could hurt the beggar, then at a command from his superior, also left. Laughing.

He wondered that the Maritkans needed spies at all. Do even the Holy Slayers lack sufficient confidence in success in the upcoming battle?

Pebe no longer felt his bruises and pain. The weight of the money overrode everything else.

Treason! Would that I had died before this moment arrived. So much money! Once, I would have killed for such an insinuation. Now? How much time do I have left of my life? Is my integrity and honor worth so much as this bag of coin? What of my friends and country?

He sat back and laid his head against the wall.

What friends? Had I true friends, I would not be the feeble, worthless beggar that I am. I have no family left. Why should I care what happens in this war? I shall be dead before too many more years. What does it matters to me who rules over my grave?

The Troughwater Allotment was not overly crowded, but it was always noisy. One could not overhear one’s table neighbors, let alone know of what they spoke.

Pebe sat in a corner, a huge bowl of meat stew in front of him. The steam curled up into his nostrils with the scent of well being. A flagon of ale and a half-loaf of bread completed his meal. He knew no one would bother him, for a couple of reasons. He rarely bathed, as he rarely had the money to pay and had no place of his own to call home; and he was a customary patron here, for generally as soon as he had cadged enough coin, he would invariably enter the pub to spend it. The hostler would never let him beg on the premises. As he ate, he scanned the clientele.

He knew most all of them. There was Jork; a big, blonde lad, and a corporal in the swordsmen. They called him The Mauler, for his prowess in battle. Pebe could see he was a mauler in more than just battle, for he had his great hands all over a wench not his wife.

The smaller man over there, with the shifty eyes and quick, jerky movement that showed that he was always on the lookout, was Mosquito; a thin man with a pointy nose. He was a cut-purse and a snatch. Pebe was some surprised to see him out of prison, for he was not known as the best thief in the kingdom.

In another corner sat a mysterious man, alone, and cloaked in shadow. Pebe knew of this man, but none called him by name. He seemed to carry the shadows with him, and strange rumors abounded of his origin and purpose.

Barstow the innkeeper was kept busy drawing droughts of ale and ladling stew into bowls. Two serving wenches served customers Barstow could not get to personally. He was a grump of a man, and Pebe cared not for him. Especially when he refused to serve him unless Pebe showed the color of his coin.

There was Beorn, the smithy, and Ellisius, sergeant of the guard. Of all of them, those two could possibly be his closest acquaintances. He had fought and drank with them in times and battles past, though circumstances had drifted them apart and he had no desire, at least at this moment, to regain their confidences. He wanted but to eat and drink, and find a warm female for a short time. Barring that, he wanted only a safe place to sleep and recover. He had laved the blood from his nose and mouth, but he knew the bruises on his face would soon be turning colors and he would not be able to hide them even with the greasy, stringy hair that now hung over his eyes.

I wonder when I last had a hot bath.

He finished his stew and bread and haled a serving wench to bring him more ale. He watched while Beorn and Ellisius toasted one another and left together. Two high ranking officers entered the pub and sat at the place they had vacated. The officers ordered food and talked. He had seen them in The Troughwater Allotment many times, almost daily, which went for most of everyone he saw there now, including the smithy and the guard sergeant who just left.

Pebe wondered if he was being watched; if the two Holy Slayers were actually here in disguise, following him. He looked around again. There was no one he had not seen before, but if they had been looking him over for a role as informant, then they had been here for some time and could have established their identities months ago.

Why did they need me anyway? Would there not be someone more suited to the task? Or, perhaps because I am the most-suited one to this. People are accustomed to seeing me, and ignoring me. I am as much a wraith as the Djuhah themselves?

He watched the officers as one pulled some official-looking papers from a pouch and unfolded them. The other officer bent closer and the two discussed something quietly and furtively.

A plan was beginning to form for Pebe. He hadn’t quite decided yet, but if he was going to act on the threat from the Djuhah, he would need help. Why should he be alone in the venture, when misery always enjoys company. Perhaps Mosquito was not a very good thief, but he may be of use. Pebe waved him over.

He ordered more ale for the both of them and they spent no little time in furtive and intense exchange.

The next night Pebe took the same place to have his supper. He saw Mosquito at his favored place. Ellisius was there again with some of his comrades, and had greeted Pebe when he entered the pub. Jork was there, with his hands all over yet another woman, not his wife, who sat on his lap. By the time Pebe finished his meal, the two officers from the night before had entered with another of equal rank. He watched and drank as they finished their own meals, ordered ale, and bent over the papers which were brought out of the pouch.

Pebe finished his ale, stood and retrieved his crutch from where it stood against the wall. He began the trying procedure of taking a step, then swinging his bad leg out, and taking another step, eventually making his way across the room.

As he moved, he looked over at Mosquito, made sure he had the little man’s attention, and nodded once. Mosquito drained his mug of ale, and staggered toward the door, making drunken, slobbering sounds as he moved. When he was abreast of the soldier, Jork, he stumbled and fell fully onto the blonde man, spilling Jork’s drink from his hand and the woman from his lap.

Jork stood abruptly, anger showing bright on his face. Mosquito’s face fell with horrid apprehension of what the soldier might do to him.

“You misbegotten bug!” He yelled, and pushed Mosquito with both hands, sending him tumbling into the table where the officers were poring over the documents. Jork followed, murder in his eyes.

One officer quickly stood, but the other two were bowled over with the table, drinks and documents flying. Mosquito scuttled away just in time to avoid being flattened by the diving Jork as he tried a flying tackle on the small man.

Pebe lost his grip on the crutch and fell, but managed to avoid most of the melee as his hands moved furtively and hastily, gathering up the fallen documents. He stuffed them into the folds of his shirt and managed to gain his feet.

The two officers on the ground were still tangled with Jork, as well as the table and each other as the only officer standing yelled out. “Sergeant of the guard!”

Ellisius was already on the move. He cornered Mosquito and was soon joined by some of the other soldiers who attempted to aid in the capture of the drunken miscreant. They finally laid hands on the squirming little man.

“Brutality!” Mosquito yelled. “Help! I am innocent of all charges!”

I daresay he’s had practice in his pleadings.

Throughout the confusion, no one noticed Pebe as he made his way to the door and exited the inn.

He was on time. The Maritkans were late; no doubt watching his back trail to see if he had betrayed them as they would have him betray his own countrymen.

Would that I had the ability to pace.

He’d had the opportunity to look over the documents he had pilfered from the officers the night before. There were maps, battle plans, troop counts and placements. Everything the Holy Slayers could possibly have prayed for. With this information in the hands of the enemy, Aerd and King Ginse would be sorely pressed to come out of the coming battle alive.

Thirty minutes had passed since Pebe arrived at the rendezvous spot. There was sudden movement in the darkness, and then, they were there. They manhandled him into the same room as before. It was actually a small hut, built in the small space between a fence and another building, with the heavy, wooden door as the only access. Pebe barely managed to hang onto his crutch.

“You have information for us.” Again, the statement rather than the question.

He knows. They have other spies, then. No doubt so do we, in their camp.

“I have a few documents that you may find useful.” He reached into his shirt and withdrew the small bundle of parchment. The underling of the two reached for it, but Pebe held back. The Djuhah started for him, but a word from his superior stopped him abruptly.

“What do you want?”

Pebe did not hesitate. “More coin.”

The man instantly produced a pouch from his robes and tossed it to Pebe, who caught it deftly, weighed it in one hand and nodded. Once again, the other Djuhah reached for the documents, and once again Pebe withheld them.

“You are treading on dangerous ground, beggar!”

Pebe stood adamant.

What can they possibly do but kill me? My life, as I enjoyed it, was over long ago.

“This is the one and only time that we will meet. In these documents is enough information for you and your brothers to defeat Aerd. I want no further contact.”

“We shall consider. After seeing the documents.” He reached out his hand. Pebe hesitated, but finally relented and handed over the bundle. The two black-robed Slayers bent toward one another, intent on studying the parchments. Pebe, his back against a wall, used it as leverage and swung his crutch in a mighty arc, catching the underling across his shoulders. A loud crack sounded as his crutch snapped in two, and the Djuhah fell to his knees.

“Maritkan scum!” Pebe yelled. “Bottom of the dung heap!”

Hurry!

The superior Maritkan drew a scimitar from somewhere beneath the folds of the robe. “Now, you will die like the dog you are, Aerdian!”

Before he could swing the scimitar, the wooden door burst into splinters as two soldiers of the kings guard erupted into the room with a huge, steel ram. They were followed by more soldiers, who scattered left then right, until the two Slayers were surrounded by twenty of the King’s finest, with swords drawn.

Ellisius, sergeant of the guard, then entered the room. “You are reknown as great and fierce fighters, and I respect you for it. But can two, even two such as you, hope to win against such overwhelming odds?”

There was complete silence for a moment as twenty armed soldiers faced down two legendary Djuhah Holy Slayers who might be ready to die for their cause. Their eyes moved quickly, left and right, taking in all possibilities. Then, at the same moment, they locked eyes with one another and gave nearly imperceptible nods.

“At least,” the underling said to Pebe. “You will die first!”

Pebe tried to dodge as the sharp blade of the scimitar swept toward his chest.

“Praise to Ohim!” The other one yelled as he swung his scimitar toward the nearest soldier.

The black robes swirled, and before the soldiers could react to what was happening, three of them were down, spewing blood. The fighting was fierce, and both Slayers sustained many wounds and narrowly escaped steel death many times in just a few seconds. They twisted; they turned and danced the dance of war, the best warriors ever seen in the empire of Aerd. Three more of the King’s best went down.

But as good as they were, even they could not defeat ten to one odds, especially in such a confined area. Soon, they both lay dead at the soldiers’ feet.

“If only two can fight like that,” one man said in a shaky voice. “What could a whole army do?”

Ellisius gave him a sharp look, then strode over to Pebe who lay against the wall. Pebe’s hands held his belly where the scimitar had deeply sliced him. Blood ran over his hands and his face was pale, nearly white.

Ellisius kneeled in front of Pebe. “You did well, my old friend.” He said.

Pebe only nodded.

This is my time. I will die here.

“If not for the message you sent by way of Mosquito when we arrested him, they may have gotten away with it. Sorry we took so long to get here.” Ellisius bowed his head in sadness.

Pebe held out one bloody hand and Ellisius took it in both of his.

“Defeat them, Ellisius.” He said weakly. “Defeat them, for me.” He closed his eyes, and died.

©2001 Nomad