From Man to Man



  From Man to Man

  By D. E. M. Emrys

  Copyright D. E. M. Emrys 2012

  Published by Four Branches Publishing

  This ebook edition 2012

  Copyright © D. E. M. Emrys 2012

  D. E. M. Emrys asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  This novel is a work of fiction – nought but words, thoughts and fireside mythmongering.

  All characters and events within are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this novel may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  Exceptions in the case of quotes and extracts for reviews or articles can be requested by contacting fourbranches@hotmail.co.uk

  Though I might have said this before, I’ll say it again.

  For David, who always told me

  I was in for big things, no matter what I did.

  This is for you Dad.

  Rest in Peace.

  From Man to Man.

  I.

  'I never meant to let you down.'

  Draven lifted a stray curl of his wife's hair from her face. She smiled in her sleep as if knowing he was there. As silently as he could, he leaned over the bed and kissed her softly on the cheek.

  'I've tried everything.'

  Rising slowly, as quietly as he could on the wooden floorboards, Draven retreated from the bed. By the fractured light from the shutters he made for the bedroom door. The walls of the house were thin and he heard a creak from the neighbouring room.

  'Best be off before Kale wakes.'

  Reaching for the door behind him, still facing the bed and his sleeping wife, Draven paused. Drawn, painfully drawn like poison from a wound, he found his eyes stray to the chest at the foot of the bed. Shut away from the world under key and lock, he lingered a moment longer.

  The chest stared back blankly.

  'I promised…'

  The chest never gave up staring at him.

  A stained apron had been discarded atop the chest. He had tried being a server at the tafarn, only to start a bar brawl. A pair of muddy boots sat before the chest. He had tried being a hand at the farm, only to get into a punch-up over accidentally letting the chickens out. A horseshoe, a misshapen pot, a scattering of nails – proof that he had let her down.

  The chest never once looked away.

  '…I gave you up for her.' Draven looked to his wife, to the chest, to his wife, and back again a hundred times or more. 'I've known your way of living too long, it's time I left it behind.'

  Even though he turned his back on both his wife and the chest, Draven had chosen between the two. Trembling, he opened the door. A cold breath greeted him as he stepped from the room. It coiled along his neck, curled at his chin. It bid him to reconsider. He glanced back over his shoulder.

  "No," Draven said to the chest.

  Silence.

  'Good.'

  He snatched the axe from its resting place against the wall and left. This time he did not look back.

  II.

  'So, it's come to this?'

  Draven stared down his opponent. The axe was heavy in his grip, knuckled white. Circling to the left, boots crunching on the forest floor, his breath came even and steady. He circled back to the right, sizing, gauging. Hefting the handle high, blade glinting in the sun, Draven's muscles coiled.

  'I've traded my old enemies for just this one…'

  The axe thundered home.

  '…I miss the old ones.'

  Crunching the head back and forth, Draven wrenched the axe free. Even as the spray caught him in the face he swung the axe again.

  Twice more he struck, then a dozen times more. He felt nothing – thought lost in the rhythmic economy of each axe-fall. The spray continued, shards and splinters flying.

  Draven's opponent groaned.

  With a final yawning cry the tree surrendered. The ground rumbled as distant thunder, branches cracking as the trunk crashed to the floor. Draven advanced on his fallen foe, axe resting over his shoulders.

  The dull drum of other axe-falls wore at his patience, the heat of the summer day stifling under collar. He dared not work bare-chested for the other fellers kept enough of a distance without seeing the scars of his old life. He ignored them and they ignored him. It had worked. So far.

  'So, it's come to this.'

  The trunk bled sap from its mortal wound, the final crackling of branches rattling a dying breath.

  A voice cut through Draven's thoughts as he knelt beside the tree. "Strong arm – t'ain't no tree-feller's arm, though!" The voice was gruff and hoarse, more used to shouting than speaking.

  Straightening up, Draven turned on the speaker.

  The speaker picked his way through the graveyard of stumps, scratching at the seat of his pants. Paying little attention to the other fellers working in Splitter's Cross, the stranger pulled short of Draven and crossed his arms.

  "You've just moved into Hidann?" The stranger's tone was more accusation than question.

  Draven nodded. He did not recognise the stranger. Portly but stout of muscle rather than glutton, the man was thick of beard and brow, sleeves rolled to the elbow, leather apron marred with soot and pocked with burn-holes. His forearms bulged with muscles as he wrung his large hands together, the hairs on his skin scorched and blackened.

  The stranger tugged on his fist-length beard. "Things t'ain't working out for you, I heard. Started a brawl in the tafarn the other night? Cost ya job and a day's labour mending the chairs you broke."

  'What's it to you?'

  Draven grunted.

  The stranger rambled on. "Job at the farm ended the same way. Broke Herdsman Raines' nose and spent an hour or so fetching the chickens back."

  The axe was a welcome reassurance to Draven as he remembered how his other jobs within Hidann Village had ended. Though the other fellers had yet to take notice of the conversation, Draven could feel their ears pinned back as if they were eyes on the back of his neck.

  "T'ain't had much luck working as a villager." The stranger smiled a gap-toothed smile. He rolled the word villager on his tongue as if it were a promise of riches.

  'What do you know?' Draven let the axe drop to his side. He caught himself tensing. 'Stop it.' The urge took more than a thought to banish and Draven forced his hand to settle the axe against the tree.

  The stranger glanced to the axe. Draven could not help but smile when he saw the man waver. The axe was still in arm's reach and the stranger stood within the axe's reach. It would take a moment and nothing more.

  Draven growled, "Villager work takes a little getting used to." He stepped away from the tree, leaving the axe behind.

  The stranger visibly relaxed. "Aye, that it does. Takes time to settle in – took me long enough when I became a villager."

  Draven pulled the bandana from his crown and mopped at the sweat on his brow. "How do you know?"

  The stranger’s brow furrowed. "Know? Know what?"

  "Don't try pulling the wool over my eyes. Villager this, villager that. I came here to get away from it all – I'm trying to get away from it. But, you're bringing it all back."

  "T'ain't no harm meant by it, by Fraid and Govannon's bloodied blades I swear it!"

  Draven fixed the man with his best glare. "Start talking or start walking, now."

  "You're a Merc-"

  Draven interrupted the stranger, "I was."

  "No offense meant, none at all! I seen you visit the Huntsman last winter. You and that other one – the big man with the big
axe."

  "So?"

  "So, nothing! Nothing at all."

  Draven clenched his jaw, retying the bandana about his head. "What do you want then?"

  The stranger looked down, feet shuffling in the scattered splinters and twigs. "Got a job for you," he murmured.

  "What kind of job?"

  "Not one for a tree-feller's arm – not a villager job."

  Draven turned his back on the stranger. "Sorry – not interested."

  "But it's what you do!"

  "I'm retired." Draven fetched the axe from its resting place. The haft felt good in his callused palm, though not half as good as a sword-grip.

  His thoughts strayed to the chest at the end of his bed.

  "I can pay! Forty silver-marks. Twice as much as feller wages – for a day's work. All you'd have to do is-"

  Draven spun on the stranger, cutting him off. "What's your name?"

  The man took a step back. "McGowan.”

  Few of the other fellers looked up from their work but Draven took no notice of them. "What do you do, McGowan?"

  "I'm the village Blacksmith."

  "Well, McGowan the Blacksmith, I'm Draven the feller – best you remember that before I remember what I was before this -" he raised the axe, nodding to it. "This might not be the tool of my old trade, but it's got a blade all the same."