Chapter
Don’t be Afraid of Me Young Master
The afternoon drug on into early evening. As the heat of the day began to cool, the town of Farraway came to life. Merchants, vendors, warriors, whores, and the rest all began to move around as the oppressive heat of the day settled to a dull grind. The reprieve they got was short-lived, but it was a reprieve nonetheless.
Mikel had kept an eye on Helsket - the older man had slept where he’d dozed off and said nothing more for the duration. Although he’d been silent, the quiet didn’t make Mikel feel any better - the talk of dreams bothered him more than he’d cared to admit and when Helsket did finally wake up, Mikel kept what the old warrior had said to himself.
After the two men had talked about the trip a bit more, planned to pick up supplies and thought out as much as possible, they’d lounged around through the harsh heat of the day. Mikel dozed and Helsket read until the brutal heat and light began to dim.
Helsket bumped the couch Mikel dozed on after the two had eaten again and the young man jerked awake covered in sweat.
He looked at the window and groaned, “Ugh. This heat. Why this heat?”
Helsket looked at the window noncommittally, “It’s summer. It’s what the weather is like in the summer. It’s hot.”
“Who can I lodge a complaint with?”
Mikel flung an arm over his eyes to accomplish two things at once. One was to block out the sunlight and the other was to wipe the hot sweat away from his forehead.
“The god of your choosing - after you die.”
“Kill me now then. I’ll complain on all of our behalf.”
Helsket bumped the couch again, “Enough lazing about. We already wasted the day - we need to get moving if we’re planning on leaving in the morning.”
Mikel had lazed around most of the day, working on the brutal hangover that plagued him. He had moved about from time to time - but in the brief times of lucidity to either get more water, get food, or use the lavatory, he steadfastly was not thinking of the next day. In some weird way, the entire thing had become real in a moment and it terrified him to his core. He wouldn’t admit that to Helsket, but it was true.
“What do we have to get ready? I have rations and we can get water on the way out. Do you need anything else?”
“Gear,” Helsket said lightly, “I’m a retired Retainer - I sold all my gear when I got out of the career field. I have a rusty mace, but that’s about it. I see you’ve got a sword, but I don’t see armor or other battle gear.”
“Boring, remember?” Mikel said as he sat up and wiped his forehead again, “Boring trip. Minimize danger. Boring.”
“Remember - danger will find you!” He slapped Mikel’s shoulder, his hand nearly the size of Mikel’s head. The strike blew Mikel back onto the couch.
“I think it already did,” Mikel said as he corrected his posture and held out his hand for assistance.
Helsket grabbed Mikel around the forearm and yanked him to his feet in one smooth motion. Mikel didn’t even have to try.
“What do you suggest then? As you so kindly pointed out this morning I know very little of the world - how am I to know what battle gear to buy?”
“Again - you show wisdom in who you came to first.”
“You’re going to help me figure this out?”
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“Only until you can stand on your own two feet, by yourself.”
Helsket dropped the grip he had on Mikel’s wrist and turned to the front door - motioning Mikel to follow him out.
***
“This is the best armorer in town,” Helsket said proudly while the two men stood in the rumbling crowds of late-day Farraway. Already the tone in the air had shifted to one of a more carnival than heat-blasted morgue, and music and voices had begun to pick up amongst the throng. This was just the opening act for the greater revelry of the night as the whole town, unconsciously, sought to push back against the darkness encroaching upon them from all sides.
“It looks like a hovel,” Mikel said lightly as he crossed his arms in front of his chest and regarded the structure flatly. No smoke came from the chimney and the windows, where they were unbroken, were thick with soot from inside the building. The bricks which made up the majority of the structure were at best slightly broken apart. At their worst whole sections were missing as insects and birds flew in and out of the holes as if they owned the place.
“It’s the finest smithy in town!” Helsket exclaimed as he walked towards the door, “And the only armorer I know who owes me a favor and has a weakness for the cheap southern liquor only I can procure.”
Mikel groaned, “I knew you were up to something.” On the trip over, Helsket, normally happy and fairly even-headed, had been grinning like a madman, unsettling Mikel. He’d suspected something was up, but now it was clear the game was afoot and he was unaware of the extent of the madness Helsket was about to pull him into.
He walked up to the door, Mikel hanging back to watch as Helsket pounded on it. Rough, black metal studs held the door in place and though it looked as shoddy as the rest of the building, Helsket’s vigorous knocking barely dislodged any dust from the lintel above.
He looked back at Mikel, shot him a gap-toothed grin, and gave a thumbs up. He was quick to pull a bottle of some foul, black-looking liquor from his belt before he turned back to the door to repeat the process.
Mikel pinched the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb, waiting for whatever was going to happen. Although he’d been near dead all day, he’d regretted not leaving at first light that morning. His father and his house didn’t have long - a few months, six on the outside, before Lord Raithson perished the family fell into despondency. He wanted to go back to bed if nothing else and get ready for the next day. He didn’t see how staying up so late would help anything.
Helsket hammered on the door again, this time with enough vigor to shake the frame, and bellowed into one of the broken windows near the entryway.
“Telgil! Open up! It’s me! I’ve got the good stuff for you! You just need to -”
The door ripped open and a man no taller than a child emerged with a half drunken swagger in his step.
“Telgil!” Helsket said as he held the bottle out to the small man, “It’s so good to see -” Helsket’s words cut off as Telgil slammed a fist the size of an anvil into Helsket’s stomach without warning.
Although the man was short, he wasn’t weak. Muscle, corded and rippling, coursed through his arms like steel cable while his neck was as thick as most men’s legs. His legs, although short, were like twin tree trunks uprooted and set to walking for some unknown purpose. At first glance, he was hideously ugly with unbalanced features and mismatched eyes. The man appeared as if he’d been put together by a drunken toddler instead of in the image of some patron deity.
He didn’t speak until Helsket slid to his knees and put them on a closer height match.
“What in the hel are you doing?” Telgil asked, his voice disproportionately deep for his size “Where do you get off banging on my door at this time of night? It’s bedtime dammit, good booze or no!”
Helsket wheezed and held up the bottle again, his other hand over his stomach.
“Take… It… You… Short… Ass.”
Telgil did just that and with a smooth and well-practiced motion popped the cork off the bottle and drained the fifth in a single go. He smacked his lips appreciatively and smiled past Helsket at Mikel - the apparent animosity he’d felt towards Helsket damped for the time being.
“Young master, who might you be? You look to be on the market for some fine armor and swords perchance?”
Helsket swatted at Telgil, but the short, stocky man deftly avoided the blow and sauntered over to Mikel - his mood much improved from the liquor… Or the prospect of selling to what looked like a young lord out on the town for the very first time.
As the man rounded Helsket, Mikel got his first good look at him.
Telgil was short, but what he lacked in height he made up for in width - width from muscle and little if any fat. His arms rippled with thick muscle, as did his legs - his fists and feet were thick and gnarled with veins, calluses, and scars. He wore no shoes, his feet, Mikel surmised, too large to fit in a standard shoe, or as the calluses evidenced, tough enough not to need them.
His neck, like his other appendages, was gnarled with muscle and corded strength. His body needed such a neck to support the melon of a head perched on top of it, with a slicked-back green mohawk adorning him as a personal crest. Mikel’s first appraisal indicated ugliness and the judgment proved true as the short man came into the thrumming lights of the street.
Mikel didn’t know if the color of the man's hair was natural or not - but Telgil’s eyebrows and beard/mustache combo were the same hue.
Telgil stuck out his hand so suddenly Mikel couldn’t stop himself before he took a half step back and laid his sword hand on his hilt.
Telgil left the hand in mid-air and chuckled as his mismatched eyes twinkled merrily.
“Don’t be afraid of me young master,” Telgil said with a laugh, “I only beat people up who deserve it - and,” he added after a second of thought, “People with cheap taste. I don’t cater to low-minded idiots even if they be nobility. You,” He appraised Mikel like a pro, and Mikel felt as if he were a cow getting ready to head to auction - the judge sizing up exactly how much he thought he could sell the beast for, “Appear to be worth my time.”
Mikel removed the hand from the hilt of his sword and gently took Telgil’s offered hand - and immediately regretted the action.
Although Telgil didn’t punch Mikel, or even threaten him, the man’s handshake was so hard and so strong that Mikel could have sworn bones cracked in his hand.