He’d spoken slowly, moved slower, so he didn’t alert them, but as they’d listened to his long-winded speech, he reached the bush where his blanket dried. His staff was within easy reach, but there was no sense in fighting if it could be avoided.
“Hurry it up, we don’t have all day,” one said in a whining tone, waving his knife in a threatening way to tell Shell to hurry. “And get out of them clothes, too. I think they’ll fit me.”
Shell said, “I don’t have any money, only a little food, and nothing of value. Why don’t you just go find someone else to rob?”
“See anybody else around here? You’re a stupid cow, ain’t you?” It was the angry skinny one speaking this time. He had maybe been clean shaven a month ago, and his beard grew back in sporadic patches, making his face appear dirty, even if it hadn’t dried mud hadn’t covered it. His face was tinged red, and he took an aggressive step in Shell’s direction.
Shell didn’t react or retreat, and still didn’t reach for his staff, only an arm’s length away. He said, “Listen, I don’t want to hurt you. You can leave now, and we’ll forget this whole thing.”
They looked at each other, and the heavyset man nodded once. They charged, knives leading the way, slashing and swinging.
The staff filled Shell’s hand, and his grip was intentionally nearer one end, instead of the usual defensive grip in the center. He swung the staff wildly around his head in a full circle. Another fighter, one who had seen a staff used in a similar manner, would have dived to the ground and rolled out of reach. Shell increased the strength of his grip and used his back and shoulders to let the heavy staff make the second spin while he braced for the strike.
Moving at full speed, the end of the staff struck the thin man high on his shoulder, hard enough to crack bones. When the staff bounced off him, Shell used that momentum to draw it back and jab an end directly into the stomach of the charging second man. The man realized what was about to happen an instant before Shell buried it into the man’s flabby middle, but it had been far too late for the man to prevent it. He flopped down to the ground and moaned in agony.
Shell pulled the staff back and leaned on it, as he said, pointing to the first man he had struck, “That arm is broken, I think.” He didn’t address the other because he was too busy vomiting and groaning to listen.
“Now I’m forced to ford the river tonight, or I can kill both of you so I can get some sleep without fearing another attack,” Shell spoke earnestly, but allowed some of his anger to filter through. When he saw no remorse, he gave up. Both robbers had become silent and were now looking at him with pleading eyes. He went to the first one and ripped away the purse from the strings attaching it to his belt. A faint jingle sounded, dull and muted. Inside were three copper tabs, the smallest coins issued by the King.
One tab paid for a small mug of cheap, watered wine, mostly water. The purse of the other robber held a single copper coin, which was worth ten tabs, enough to buy two poor quality meals. After a brief inspection, Shell found nothing else of value, not even their knives, which were worse than his.
Their eyes followed his every movement, the groaning and puking mostly over; the first held his left arm with his other hand as he rocked in pain. The other man just lay curled up with his knees near his chin in the mud. Shell said, “I could feel guilty taking your money, but I don’t. The inconvenience of wading across the river tonight should cost you more coins than what you have.”
He rolled his almost dry blanket and gathered his other things. He stood near the two robbers and suggested, “You might look for an honest way to earn a living. If we meet again, I will kill you.”
He turned away and chose to walk downstream. At the very edge of being able to hear them, one said in a rasp, as if clearing something distasteful from his mouth, “Dragon Clan.”
Shell smiled. He hurried downstream, watching for a place to cross the river, then decided that if he could cross, so could they. Having them behind him wouldn’t let him get any sleep, so he circled away from the river and made his way back to where he’d left them.
They were gone. He tracked them upstream for a way, then they turned away from the river and into some low hills. The half-moon and bright stars provided enough light to track them, and since they were not trying to conceal their tracks, it was easy. Most of the time they used a well-worn path.
He paused at a pile of boulders, most of them larger than the hut his family lived in, and carefully advanced. Voices drifted in the night air. He moved closer and saw six people gathered around a small fire. He recognized the pair that had attacked him, but another man was doing the fierce talking and shouting. Even though Shell couldn’t understand the words from the distance he watched, he recognized the anger the speaker displayed.
Shell watched as he chastised the injured men. He stood before them waving his arms and still shouting while pointing at the river where the attack had taken place. Two others who had not attacked Shell stood up and hurried off to a hut, only to return with weapons in their hands. The three of them headed along the path Shell stood beside.
He could confront them, but he could lose a fight against three men. Even fighting two opponents was usually silly if it could be avoided. Before at the river, he had surprise and skill on his side, and those two things equaled another man in that fight. Now there were three armed men ready to chase him down like an animal and he realized not crossing the river so he could pursue them had been a good choice. Shell stepped back deeper into the dense underbrush brush and stood still, letting the night shadows of the bushes hide him.
All three moved fast, almost trotting. They were in a hurry to catch up with him. One held twin spears, one in each hand. A second held a bow, and the leader wore a short sword at his hip and a bow over his shoulder. They passed so close that Shell could have reached out and grabbed any of the three. Instead, he waited and watched, allowing only his eyes to move with them as they went past.
Shell again had two choices. Sneak away and hope he could evade them, or follow and try to attack them one at a time, but never fighting all three at the same time. He didn’t like either choice, but a possible third option drew his attention. Only three people remained at the campfire, two of them injured. One had looked like a woman, but he couldn’t tell for sure. He could attack their camp.
Old Man Alba had been right. You can’t tell what might happen just over the next hill. Shell made his choice.
CHAPTER THREE
Shell didn’t believe sneaking off into the dark to escape the highwaymen pursuing him was an option. He imagined sitting alone each night, scared of stray sounds and the highwaymen’s reappearance, and that didn’t appeal. Neither did watching for them around each bend of the paths he followed. They named the tune, so he would sing it.
Waiting in the darkness under the bushes, he hid in the deepest shadows where he could see the clearing in front of the three crudely built huts. The three men pursuing him would probably search near the river all night, but the three people still in the camp deserved a visit from him in return for the harm they tried to do to him. The one he had decided was a woman by her diminutive size and movements, helped set the broken arm of the screaming man. Shell waited until they finished, and the two men headed for one hut while she went to another.