They traveled down the road through dappled shade and to the songs of peeping tree frogs. Before long, the sounds of wagon wheels and conversation replaced the frog calls as Royce and Hadrian reached a cluster of buildings. Rounding a bend, they entered into a proper village with candle shops and cobblers. Buildings here displayed tiled roofs, glass windows, shutters, and eaves. Moss covered old foundations, and thick ivy climbed chimneys and wreathed windows. The grassy trail became a stone-covered broadway where it passed through the village, although it was difficult to see the road, given the crowd gathered upon it.
Men and women clustered in the village square—an open market where merchants and vendors might set up displays to sell buttons, copper kettles, and the day’s fresh catch of fish. Instead, a crowd surrounded a large smoking pot suspended over an open fire. At first, Hadrian thought the two of them had stumbled on a festival. He imagined being welcomed to a communal picnic, but he didn’t smell any food. Instead, he smelled the gagging stench of boiling tar. In the middle of the throng of townsfolk, a dozen angry men held an elderly fellow with his wrists bound behind his back. They led him past four sacks of feathers toward the cauldron of bubbling tar.
“We should do something,” Hadrian said.
Royce lifted enough of his hood to see him clearly. “Why?”
“Molten tar can kill an old man.”
“So?”
“So, if we don’t do something, they’ll kill him.”
“How is this our problem?”
“Because we’re here.”
“Really? That’s your argument? We’re here? Haven’t won too many debates, have you?” Royce looked around. “You’ll notice we aren’t alone. The whole village is in on this. That poor bastard is probably a criminal—a poisoner of children, torturer of women—maybe a cannibal.”
“Cannibal?” Hadrian shook his head. “Honestly, the way you think. It’s—”
“Practical? Sensible?”
“Sadistic.” Hadrian pointed. “Royce, look at his cassock. The man is a priest.”
Royce scowled. “Worst sort of criminal.”
Faces had turned their way. People were pointing at the pair of strangers watching them from horseback. Hadrian, and his three swords, received the most attention. The crowd quieted, and four of the bigger men from out front approached and stood boldly before them.
“Who are you?” the biggest one asked. Shoulder-length hair didn’t quite hide the bull neck that was nearly as wide as his head. Broad jaw, wide nose, eyes sunk deep beneath an eave of brow, he narrowed his eyes into a quarrelsome glare and then cracked the knuckles on two massive hands.
Hadrian grinned and introduced himself by name.
Royce cringed.
“No reason not to be friendly.” Hadrian said while dismounting. Then more quietly he said to Royce, “What difference does it make? We aren’t doing anything illegal.”
“Not yet,” Royce whispered back.
Hadrian stepped forward and offered his hand to the four men.
None took it.
“You a knight?” the bullnecked man asked.
“Me?” Hadrian chuckled. “No.”
“Probably another vagabond lord here to freeload after the funeral.” This was said by the slightly shorter gent to Bull Neck’s right, the one whose friendly orange tunic undermined his efforts to appear menacing. Another of the four, who liked his hair short but didn’t know much about cutting it, nodded his agreement.
“Maybe they’re from the church? Seret and Sentinels consider anyone who doesn’t bend a knee at Novron’s altar a heretic,” said a man standing in the back.
“Well, whoever you are,” the bullnecked man said, “you shoulda brought more men with you if you plan to stop us from feathering Pastor Payne.”
Hadrian let his shoulders droop. “Actually, we don’t—”
“Need more men,” Royce broke in.
Hadrian turned to look at him. “We don’t?”
“No,” Royce confirmed. “But they do.” He rose up in his stirrups and waved for the other men who were holding Pastor Payne to come forward. “C’mon up here. Your friends are going to need your help.”
“Ah—Royce?” Hadrian said as five additional men pushed their way through the crowd.
Not all of them were brutes, and none stood as big as the bullnecked man and his buddy in orange. Two were older fellows with graying hair. Three were young, long and lanky, with pretty, unmarked faces. On the positive side, none of them carried so much as a stick.
“So, do you want to know why Hadrian here carries three swords?” Royce asked the crowd. A few nodded, and he gestured toward his partner with a grin. “Tell them.”
The two had done this before. It didn’t always work.
Hadrian pasted a friendly smile on his lips and faced the crowd, paying particular attention to the wall of muscle in front of him. “In my travels, I’ve found most men are reluctant to fight someone wielding a sword unless they also have one. Most good-natured folk—like yourselves—don’t have weapons. So I carry extras in case a situation like this arises. That way, I can hand out a couple so people aren’t so disadvantaged in a fight.”
Hadrian drew both his side blades in an elegant, single motion. The crowd stepped back and let out a communal gasp.
“So you can have your choice.” He spun the smaller weapon against his palm. “This is a short sword, the workhorse of combat, an ancient, reliable design. Great for close quarters and frequently used with a shield. Or…” He spun the larger one in his other hand. “This is a hand-and-a-half sword, also called a bastard sword—I think because no one knows where it came from.” He chuckled.
No one joined him.
Hadrian sighed. “Looking at the handle, you can see it has room for two hands, but it’s also light enough to swing one-handed. A really nice, versatile blade.” Hadrian slammed both weapons back into their scabbards with practiced ease. Then, reaching up, he slid the great sword off his back.
Once more, people gasped and gave way, backing up another step as the massive blade swung out.
“Now, this is a spadone.” With one hand, Hadrian held the blade out level, pointing at the crowd. “As you can see—it’s big. Sort of a three-and-a-half sword.”
He grinned at them, but the crowd remained cold. Everyone’s eyes followed the tip of the blade as if it were a snake’s head.
“This is obviously a two-handed weapon and not for the faint of heart. You might be thinking it would be a good choice due to its long reach, but most would have trouble swinging it, much less holding it out as I’m doing now.” Hadrian swung the big sword in large sweeping arcs, making it sing in the wind; then he let go and caught it with his other hand. “And while you’re struggling to raise it, I’d stab you with the short sword.”
“I’ve seen him do that,” Royce lied. “Usually catches a poor sod in the stomach. One quick thrust. A wound like that can take days to kill you. And painful.” He shook his head and frowned. “One sad case screamed and moaned for so long, his own mother wanted to smother him with a pillow.”
Faces blanched. Royce was a good liar.
Bull Neck’s mountain-ridge brow wrinkled, and his stalwart friend in orange retreated a bit more, stepping on the foot of a woman behind him. She cried out and shoved him with both hands.
“And if you’re thinking of rushing him…” Royce chuckled. The sound wasn’t at all jovial. Hadrian had never witnessed Royce laughing in good humor. When he laughed, babies cried. “I should mention that he can mow down scores of men with his big sword, and with less effort than you scythe wheat. Of course, doing so is louder and messier. Wheat doesn’t bleed, and straw doesn’t scream.”
Eyes, still locked on the sword, widened. Hadrian knew they were picturing him swinging the blade into the crowd as if through ripened crops.
Royce leaned forward in his saddle, the leather creaking with the strain. The chuckling had stopped, and what smile he wore melted into a grim, straight line. “Now that you’ve met Hadrian, let me introduce myself. I’m the one you don’t want to know.” He paused, letting that sink in. “Let the priest go, or I’ll be forced to demonstrate why Hadrian is the lesser of two evils.”