Chapter Eleven- "A Quiet Night's Drinking"

He waits for two more nights in the nondescript Crossroad Inn, he cannot even remember its name. "The Two-Horned Tabuk" ... something like that. Just as the sun sinks another train of wagons pulls in. That evening as the drivers and escort eat and drink, he sits in the corner, studying and listening. The wagons are headed for Ar, a step in the right direction at least, the cargo is nothing but simple trading items, bolts of cloth, Tahari dates. Nothing there to attract the attention of the well-informed robber bands, who are often suspected to be in league with the less celubrious Tavern owners, but nothing can ever be proven.

As the Ahn pass the small crowd gets more raucous, calling for more jugs of paga. The plain kajira serving, although rushed off her feet, is apparently becoming more attractive as time passes, as the drink continues to flow. Her glance darts nervously, as she sways to avoid the reaching hands, her face flushing as the comments made in her direction become ever more suggestive. The Innkeeper takes a mild interest, but his concern is in the accumulating Tarndisks, any damage to the kajira is an inconvenience, any damage to the Inn is always paid for before the train departs. Eder calls for more larma juice, the girl smiles gratefully as she hurries to do his bidding.

Across the Inn a chair scrapes back and one the escort guards lurches drunkenly towards the Warrior's table. The man belches and sits, uninvited, his face florid and sweating, his eyes slightly unfocused.

" 'Ave some page with me." he growls and slams his tankard to the scratched and white-ringed tabletop.

The Warrior shakes his head as he gives his now ritual response.

" It dulls the reflexes and addles the brain .... thank you for the offer, but I choose to decline."

The guard peers at him, and angry set to his face, his eyes narrowed and hostile.

" You refuse to drink with me .... you dare to insult me ?"

Another member of the escort comes across and attempts to pull his companion away, but the guard roughly shrugs him off and leans his large calloused hands on Eder's table. "Well ???"

The Warrior shakes his head and replies softly..

"I drink only juices and water, I will drink that with you, but nothing else. I intend no insult." The guard pushes himself back balancing on his toes in a fighter's stance, he half-draws his short sword. The Inn suddenly quiets, watching expectantly, the Innkeeper reaches for a large wooden truncheon, in case the whole place erupts.

Eder looks up, still calm, his voice quiet.

"I advise you, friend, not to draw that sword, you are slow from drink. If you insist on doing so, remember that it gives you the right to kill you ... and I will.

Enraged by the lack of reaction, the guard's sword clears the scabbard, swinging in an arc behind him, he steps back and brings the pitted, but edged blade whistling down to split the table in front of the Warrior who merely smiles and comments acidly, his eyes calmly regarding the guard, and scanning the others for an sign of reaction. There is none.

" As good a way as any to blunt a blade."

" Sleen.." the guard hisses as he swings his blade back for another strike, only to be met full in the protruding gut by the remains of the table propelled by Eder's feet. Momentarily winded he folds, struggling for breath, as he straightens his eyes meet those of the Warrior, cold like ice-chips, bright blue. Eder's face is composed a half-smile teases the side of his mouth, he swiftly draws the scimitar from the harness over his shoulder, the slightly curving blade glimmers in the light of the firepits, tapering to a slim, razor point. The blade tip circles, dancing as if an extension of the black gloved hand.

The guard attacks.. raining powerful blows at his slimmer adversary, the scimitar moves swiftly, deflecting rather than blocking, defensive rather than aggressive. The guard pulls back, seeming to be surprised at his lack of success.. as he moves the tip of the scimitar draws a thin line on the back of his hand, a small trickle of blood appearing. He looks, unbelieving and gazes at the Warrior who continues to breath evenly, still smiling gently.

Goaded beyond reason, the thick-set guard moves forward again, stabbing with the swordpoint. Parrying easily, Eder rakes the man's thigh with the blade, another trickle appears. The dance of blades continues, at each disengagement another mark appears on the guard... forearm... shoulder... bicep.... a vertical slash has opened one side of his face. The Warrior is unblemished, hardly breathing... the guard's breath whistles through his open mouth.

The remaining guards begin to call to the combatants to cease, clearly aware that their fellow is over-matched. One, obviously the leader of the troop, better clothed with a padded leather jerkin, calls to Eder.

" You have bested him, surely that is enough."

" He was warned, I told him what to expect, yet he persisted. Now he will learn a final lesson before his eyes close for the last time." The Warriors tone is as cold as his eyes, he presses forward, now the aggressor as the other tries furiously to defend himself.

Blood fountains from deeper cuts, carved into the body of the man with the razor edged blade of the scimitar. Only the sword arm remains untouched as Eder's smile splits into a grin of pure malice. The guards tunic hangs in tatters, his breeches flap, his eyes show abject terror.... still Eder presses his attack.

The guard turns to run, but his right leg collapses under him, hamstrung by the flashing scimitar as it strikes with surgical precision. The man falls to his knees, sobbing, casting his short sword along the sawdust covered floor, patches reddening as his blood drips from the scores of wounds, not all serious but each designed initially to weaken, and latterly to incapacitate and maim. The Warrior steps forward with three rapid strokes he slashes open the other's shirt exposing his chest, more welling blood shows the track taken by the steel.

The scimitar weaves an intricate web, although faster than the eye can follow in reality, it seems to those present to move in slow-motion. The Innkeeper and the veterans of the escort gasp in horror as Eder steps back, the slave-girl empties her stomach in the corner. The head of the guard flops to one side, his neck half severed, the skin of his forehead opened to expose white bone, the ears cut off, the nose split and opened, the teeth visible through the strips of flesh that hang from his ruined face. The Warrior wipes his blade on the tattered clothing of the corpse, he checks the blade for nicks and spins to growl at the kajira.

" Where is my drink." he rasps to the stunned serving girl, who kneels trembling in a pool of vomit and spilt juice.

He turns again the the Captain of the escort. "You are a man short now, I travel to Ar, I will take his place."

The Warrior sits, reaches for oil and a whetstone from his pack and begins to restore the edge on his blade. He drinks the goblet of larma juice and rises from his chair. He heads for the stairs.

"I bid you goodnight, be well. I will be ready when it is time for you to depart."

As he leaves, the remaining patrons begin to speak in low tones, the Innkeeper drags the dead man out into the night, checking the pockets before he kicks the body into a ditch.