The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Tim had no idea where he was going but he followed the man called Engle without the slightest hesitation. His determined steps and eager energy infused Tim with same sense of urgency. Ever since he had entered Traimiss he had heard stories of this man. There was something about the square symmetry of his forehead and his pale blue eyes that inspired trust. Engle lead him back behind The Harpy where a horse black as coal stood waiting. Tim had never been on the back of such a fine horse. He was a little disappointed when Engle hefted to burlap sacks full of grain on its back as and tied them to the saddle. He ran his hand over the horse’s muzzle and whispered something in its ear. Then he slapped it roundly on the hindquarters and the magnificent beast took off without them. Engle patted Tim on the head and led him on a parallel path through the overgrown east gate and into the shadows of the forest. It was hardly a path, more like a scrub trail a fox would follow but it kept them hidden from the road.

“Why did you do that?”

“I’m hoping that we may trick the witless and buy ourselves some time.”

“Do you think Prince Daven will really come after me?” Tim was astonished and his head felt light with the sudden realization that he had truly triumphed.

“I think you did yourself more than proud but you have more to fear of keeping in company with me than your tangle with him will bring. For my part in that, I apologize.” Engle smiled. His lips disappeared in his salt and pepper beard. “Now that we are passed the gate, such as it is. You can take this trail north if you like and get to the other side of Traimiss.” Tim’s heart sank. Engle hesitated and added. “Or you can come with me now and I’ll attend to your hand.”

Tim’s heart leapt with excitement. He knew better than to trust anyone but with Engle it was as if all the worry and doubt was gone. He hardly noticed the steady stream of blood dripping from his hand, or the dull throb beneath the vise like pressure of Engle’s fingers digging in his wrist. His wound was a badge of honor and Tim was proud of it. “So what is your plan? Where will we go?”

Engle raised his left brow and smiled. “I know of a safe place. I was going there anyway after I had concluded my business in town.”

Tim suddenly worried that Engle might not have reason enough to let him come with him. “I don’t think I’ll be allowed back at the king’s stables so you could say I was looking for a place.” He shrugged, noticing that Engle kept moving forward. “I could go with you.”

“Very well, though I’m not certain what kind of welcome to expect.”

“Better than here?” Tim felt a momentary twinge of alarm. He did not want to make his situation worse.

“Infinitely, even in the worst of circumstances.” Engle winked. Then he suddenly stopped. His face turned grave and he raised his finger to his lips. He crouched down and Tim followed suit. He had not heard what Engle did but he knew better than to question it his order. After a while Engle waved the all clear. They started walking again.

“Do you have a name child?” Engle asked.

“What is yours?” Tim replied, trying to change the subject. He gathered Engle had trouble similar to his and felt a kindred feeling toward him. Being with him felt safe regardless of the soldiers pursuing them. Yet he could not forget the disastrous consequences the last time he gave someone his name.

“Engle.”

“Do they want you dead?”

“Some do and I think any who didn’t probably will now thanks to my untimely appearance. Suffice to say I have long since worn out my welcome in the realm.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” Tim offered.

Engle chuckled softly and squeezed his wrist until Tim could no longer feel his hand.

“Now, I have answered several of your questions. You still haven’t answered mine. What is your name?”

“My father was called Tim, I think that is good enough for me.” Tim offered reluctantly.

Engle smiled as if he knew. “Tim it is. I must say you keep some interesting things in this pouch of yours.”

Panicked Tim reached up to his neck. It was gone. His throat closed and he turned back up the path. Engle held him fast.

“I have to go back.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Here my boy.” Engle dangled his pouch in front of his nose. Tim reached for it but he tucked it back inside his tunic.

“Give it back.”

“All in good time. I have questions for you but for now we best make haste.”

Tim looked round behind. “I don’t see them yet. Give me back my pouch and I’ll be on my way.” He regretted trusting Engle as much as he already had.

“Child, I am no thief. I know this is yours that makes it a good insurance against your leaving and leading them back to me.”
“I wouldn’t do that.”

Engle’s mouth turned crooked. “Not intentionally but it is what would happen. Now, if we are very fortunate they will follow Gavran and miss our path.”

“That’s why you weighed him down with the grain?”

His brows went up. “That and the fact that I as good as purchased the grains. I hope they might have a chance of reaching home.”

Tim realized he was teasing. “If his tracks are deeper in the soil then they will think he carries us on his back.”

“If I haven’t instructed them better than to fall for the ruse. I never thought I’d wish for evidence of my failure. You’re a clever boy. Where did you learn to give consideration to deception and escape?”

Before Tim could answer Engle’s hand was over his mouth. He threw his cloak over their heads and dove under a thicket, shoving Tim ahead of him. Engle drew the edge of his cloak under the bush as the men were suddenly on top of them. A man dismounted, his leather-shod foot narrowly missing Tim’s head as he brushed against the thicket. He knelt. His breath was so close Tim felt it move the air by his cheek. Surely he sensed them. The man removed his glove, rolling it awkwardly against his thigh to do so. He checked the depth of the crescent shape prints of Gavran’s trail. Picking up a clump of dirt he rolled it between his fingers.

The man stood in that one place, as if waiting for them to reveal themselves. Tim’s heart beat so loudly he was certain they would be discovered. The man took a deep breath, pausing as if catching their scent before slowly exhaling. Tim began to tremble. He reminded himself that this was not the first time he had been in danger. He closed his eyes trying to use that awareness to slow his heart and prevent the hot stinging tears which threatened his eyes. Engle moved his hand to the center of his back. Its strength and warmth leached away some of Tim’s terror and his heart begin to slow. His breath came more slowly and the tremors stopped. He did not know how long they lay there before the men moved away. Tim was paralyzed until Engle raised him to his feet.

“I hate him.” Tim whispered. He should have known that any momentary triumph had its price. Tim brushed the weeds from his clothes, his hands trembling rebelliously. His eyes started watering in earnest as the circulation returned to his wounded hand and it started to throb with something more than pain.

“That wasn’t the prince. Don’t worry I think we’ve already seen the worst of his bark.”

Engle gently took Tim’s hand and examined his wound. “I am sorry you made such a bad bargain coming with me. I will see to it that you have adequate compensation to get you safely away.”

Tim remembered that other than that defiant bite of the baker’s bread, he had not eaten all day. With the rush of adrenaline beginning to wane, he was becoming more aware of his hunger. At least that is how he understood his growing weakness.

Tim finally looked down at his mangled hand, mistakenly hoping to derive strength of will. The front of his tunic was crimson. The blood started to form a small pool at his feet. He thought of the reddish mud that formed on the road after the slaughter. It looked just the same when his parents died, drawing their final breaths as he watched high above clinging to the rafters. He could not look away from what Engle was doing. The ground began to spin. He looked up but the trees were swaying. He slumped over and vomited, just missing Engle’s feet.

“Is it the blood?” Engle asked sidestepping the mess. He ripped off a part of his cloak and wrapped it around his hand. “Try not to look at it.”

When he had finished and the world had stopped spinning Tim looked over at him and asked: "Where are we going?"

Engle sighed: “It is deeper than I thought. I don’t have enough water to wash it out and sustain you and me both. We are going to head toward the river. That is of course, if you have no other duels to fight this afternoon? Do you think you can walk?”

Tim mustered a smile. “To bad we don’t have your horse.”

“Should I carry you?’

Tim shook his head vigorously. It was humiliating enough that he had gotten sick.

“Had I known I’d have company on the journey back, I’d planned differently. I never think to tie another horse in the woods for these occasions.”

Engle carefully picked their path along hard ground to minimize their trail. The sun shot bright arrows through the blanket of the trees. The light mottled the forest floor with shots of bright gold in amongst the mosaic of green and ruddy brown. The rough bark of the pine trees reminded Tim of thick cracked calluses, the kind his father had. Tim focused on the islands of sunlight to keep from thinking about his hand. Engle had not lessened his grip.

“What is your family name, perhaps I know it?” Engle asked after some minutes had passed.

Tim shook his head. He said too much already.

“You have a shrewd eye and a quick hand. You caught Prince Daven off guard today. With a proper education and training with the right master you could make something of yourself.”

Tim kept his eyes low but his heart jumped excitedly. He imagined what it would have been like to be able to save Ivan and Elsa by his sword.

“If you pulled that feat on one of his fellows, I think Daven would have been as good as his word and taken you as a squire. Unfortunately, he is too young for that kind of generosity when he suffers humiliation. But I suppose it is a rare thing that a man ever reaches that point and royal favor is a privilege easily lost.” Engle paused. “What I can offer you is far better than living in barns and looking for handouts. Perhaps you will consider it an option.”

Tim watched broken twigs crunch beneath his feet as Engle’s words slowly sunk in. He wondered if it was an invitation or an order. Not that it mattered either way. Going back was not an option.

“When can I have my pouch back?”

“In good time. You haven’t answered all my questions.”

"Are you a holy man?" he asked. Tim did not know why he asked him that. It was something to say.

"No, I am no holy man," Engle snickered.

“You are a healer then?”

"I have some knowledge of the healing arts but if you will follow me, I can introduce you to someone who is. But if you are looking for a holy man I’m afraid I cannot help you. I have never met anyone who truly fits that description. Have you?”

"Father Peter." He never cared for the Father. He had seen him relieve himself behind the stables. He was not so different from other men.

"Ah, I take it that he is a holy man in your estimation?" Engle asked, not forcing a response.

"He is a priest.”

“Is that all it takes?”

“They say it is. I know he thinks he is. He preaches in the village when they are tired of him at the palace. I don’t care for any of his talks in either place.”

"Do they tire of him often, at the palace? I heard he was much in favor."

Tim shrugged not knowing how to answer. They came upon a little creek that ran close to the river.

“This will sting, but the water is fast moving and clean.”

Engle pointed where the water ran over the rocks. He held his hand under the flow of the stream. Then he removed the bandage and with his thumb he gently opened the wound letting the water flush through it. He rolled away dried blood and weeks of grime under his fingertips gradually revealing a pink palm Tim hardly remembered. The cold water burned like fire and Tim’s eyes filled with tears. He was determined not to let any drop. Engle pinched the wound as it started bleeding again. He opened a small satchel hidden under the folds of his cloak. He drew out several long yellow green leaves that smelled like foul fish. He rolled them between his palms until their stink filled the air. Then he laid them over Tim’s hand. The weeds burned more that the icy water. Tears streamed down his face but he did not whimper or pull away.

“This will help draw out any blood poison in the wound and knit the flesh together.” He brushed the hair out of Tim’s eyes and dried his tears. “So tell me do you repeat what they say about Father Peter because they say it or because you believe it?"

Tim hesitated. He did not like any priest but at least Father Peter had never tried to touch him. "No one has ever asked me. My mother told that a holy man is one that serves God but that they are hard to find.”

Engle tore part of the lining of his cloak and bound Tim’s hand with it. Then he took a skin of bitter wine and made Tim take a health swig of it. The liquid burned almost as much as his weed bandage but it gave a feeling of strength to his limbs as its warmth spread.

“I agree with your mother. How’s your hand?”

The slimy green leaves started to sooth as much as they pained, the throbbing subsided and the burning sensation stopped. Engle looked at the low hanging sun and frowned.

“It will be dark soon. We should get going. There are wolves in this forest and we have enough enemies as it is. I know a place not far from here that will provide us shelter until tomorrow.”

Engle led him to a growth of cedar trees, each as thick and as tall as they other. They had grown together in a clump forming a crescent shape. They were so close that Tim could hardly slip his fingers between them. Their feathery branches made a soft rustling noise as they caught in the breeze but their thick trunks blocked out all the other noise in the forest.

“Father Peter should try giving his sermons here.” Tim whispered in awe. The aroma from the trees was spicy and pungent. In the shelter of that natural shield, Tim felt closer to God than he had in the hard grey stones of any church he had entered.

“Shh! They might be insulted. But indeed many have prayed here. It has always been a safe haven. We will be shielded from the wind and concealed from anyone approaching from the trail or the river.”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

Engle’s smiled and his voice softened. “Welcome to Duessa.”

The Raven and the Wolf: Chapter 9

Engle reached up and poked at the curtain to part a small hole where he could peak through to the other side and watch as soldier after soldier pushed his way into The Harpy. His hands itched every time they came into contact with the undyed wool and turn bright red over his freshly healed burns. He had spent the several days hiding in Delilah’s back room with nothing but an ale splattered bloodstained cloth separating him from the rest of her patrons. Yet he learned that with her and Simon defending the worn partition, it was a good as any oak door.

The burning farm Engle encountered was only the first of many. They were not random victims-nor did he believe that the attacks would continue to be confined to the Andronian border. What was happening would sure to spread like a cancer. These were not the typical raiders. He had seen enough purses laden with gold nailed to doorposts to know that no bribe could sate their blood thirst-on the contrary it seemed only to incense their rage. They cut a swath of violence across wetlands and deep into Drake where he eventually lost their trail. Engle came back to Traimiss because he realized if he was going to have any hope of stopping the raids it would take the strength of the Lisseon army. He hoped, rather than believed, William would look at the desperateness of the situation and overlook his transgression for the greater good.

The fact that there had been an attack on Great Road and only days before King Waldhar’s caravan crossed it, would certainly lend weight to Engle’s warning and defend his bold return. As storming the castle gates was not a plausible way to gain an audience, he had been waiting at The Harpy until either Stephen or Daven showed up. Delilah and her obliging girls had filled him in on all of the gossip in town-who was married, who was pregnant, who was pregnant and unmarried that they were now determined to torment. It was everything Engle did not need to know with a smattering of what he did.

Engle slumped back against the wall and closed his eyes. He did not know how long he dozed there but his senses jarred him awake at a grumbling protest from Simon. Engle looked through the curtain in time to see Daven toss his purse across the room. His eyes followed the money to Delilah’s hand. She shook his direction and winked.

Daven looked taller than he remembered. In the endless drivel that Delilah’s girls had shared was also the story of what had happened between Daven and Byron. Byron entered The Harpy only an hour before. Engle pulled at the hole until he could see where Byron was sitting. His return to duty was reportedly premature but there were no doubts about the man’s determination. Engle remembered him as an undisciplined fighter for all his stony silence. He learned control it in time, nevertheless the incident at the games was not unforeseeable. Engle had warned many young men to temper their strikes when facing him. Daven was no exception. He was gifted but untried in battle. He could hardly be expected to match Byron, a seasoned soldier. He lacked his cruelty and his rage. The match ought not to have happened.

Engle watched Daven slam down one stein and tip back another. The arrangement was that Delilah would think up some pretense to draw Daven behind the curtain, where Engle would have time to tell his story. If Daven maintained his current pace he would useless inside of a half an hour. It was going to be a very long afternoon. Engle leaned back and closed his eyes. At least he could catch up on his sleep.

“Wake up!”

Engle started, knocking his head against the wall. Delilah kicked the bench for good measure. The curtain was wide open. Engle turned his head quickly.

“You won’t want to be missing this.” Delilah barked. Her body was the only thing shielding him from plain view.

“You needn’t bother. There’s no one here to see you. He’s emptied the place.”

Engle’s first thought was that Daven had challenged Byron again. He threw on his cloak and drew the hood low over his eyes. Delilah grabbed him by the hand and led him outside.

The sun was a blistering white light compared to the dimness of The Harpy. They skirted the edge of a cheering mob. He had trouble keeping up as he was whipped into bystanders and pulled through openings in the crowd that closed before he reached them. He mumbled apologies. She whirled him in and around people, releasing his hand with the same abruptness so that he nearly toppled over four villagers standing at the crowd’s perimeter. His awe of her brutal strength was quickly forgotten as he raised his eyes to the entertainment. His hand fell to his sword as anger blazed up into his chest.

The boy could not be more than nine or ten though it was possible he might have been as old as twelve if his impoverished circumstances were long standing. A young page or squire would have been equally inexcusable as an opponent but at least there they might have had some training. Engle forgot all about caution and charged ahead. Delilah was faster and threw her arms around his waist to prevent him. Again he her strength surprised him.

“Think of why you are here.” She warned.

Engle stopped. He hated her for being right.

"Have you reached your decision?" Daven slurred, looming heavily to one side as he tried not to look as stinking drunk as he was.

“How much has he had to drink?” Engle hissed.

Delilah shrugged. “At least five or six.”

“You were supposed to keep him sober enough to be useful to me.” Engle growled back.

“Humph.” She grunted back at him. “He’d have been sober enough in the morning for you to talk him. No one would have questioned Simon for dragging him in the back room to sleep it off. Neatly done. Just like we agreed.”

Her comment angered him but he was too focused on what was happening to challenge her. Engle raised his hand to show he would wait. He left her and pushed his way through the crowd. He watched with begrudging admiration as the boy squared his shoulders, jutted out his chin and jerked his head at Daven.

"Sire I beg you..." pleaded a voice just behind him. Engle recognized the voice as Captain Williams’. Williams was one of the few officers not afraid of Daven and Engle felt a glimmer of hope that this would be the end of the matter. He tugged his cloak a little tighter around his chin.

“The king and he subjects commend you, my dwarf knight!" Daven made an exaggerated bow in the direction of the boy but his eyes never left the crowd. “Now, time for you to get your hands on a proper weapon.”

The villagers laughed and applauded, ignorant chattel. Daven stepped up to Williams and held out his hand for his sword. A smile played upon his lips but his eyes were stone cold. Williams gave over his sword and said something in a low voice Engle could not quite make out.

"Tell me do you really suppose you can win?" Daven called over to the boy, still standing toe to toe with Williams.

"I can always use ten in gold," was the firm reply.

Daven smiled and Engle thought he saw a twinge of genuine admiration touch his eyes. The feeling was not enough for him to stop the contest. He handed the boy William’s sword.

"I suppose you can handle steel reasonably well."

Engle had seen enough. He started forward, but someone suddenly wrapped their arms around his waist. Engle spun around furiously to see Delilah.

“If you meant for me to do nothing then why bring me out here to witness it.” He shoved her away but her grip was like iron.

“Think what you’re doing.” She whispered hastily. “I have no mind to lose my head over you. Nor do I think you spent the better part of the week camping in my back room waiting to talk to him only to give yourself away for that scrap. Let him finish his business here and we will grab him afterwards.”

Engle knew she was both wrong and right. He could not formulate an argument one way or another. Hundreds if not thousands of lives depended on him getting his message through to the king and Daven was his best chance for that. Engle let Delilah drag him into the crowd.

In the meantime the boy had taken William’s sword. He held it both hands and raised it shakily over his shoulders. It was foolish to think he had any chance, yet Engle believed in him.

The boy swung his hips awkwardly. He shifted his weight from foot to foot to find his balance. The sword wobbled and wavered until his settled into his grip. Daven let him take his practice swings. A nod from the boy signaled he was ready, as if he had been fighting in contests all his life. Lieutenant Roberts stepped forward to judge the game. He waved them forward until they faced each other across an imaginary line. They held their swords forward waiting for his signal. Roberts nodded first to Daven then to the boy. Roberts seemed to hesitate as he looked at the boy. Daven was shaking his head like a swimmer trying to knock water out of their ears. Engle knew that the weight of his sword in his hand was more apt to awakening his deadly skill. But no amount of head shaking could awaken reason out of drunkenness.

Daven made two large passes several feet clear of the boy. The gestures were exaggerated, intended to push the boy back and absolutely under control. The crowd gasped at the effect and the boy took several steps backward. Daven winked, presumably at Williams. Then he held his arms wide open inviting an attack. The boy made a few ill-guided strikes that Daven dodged easily. The boy had spirit but little control. The mob laughed and cheered. Daven jumped about in mock horror and fear of the boy's unsteady sword. His insolence angered Engle even more. Delilah kept a firm hand on his arm.

The boy lost his balance, stumbled and rallied. He kept swinging but was breathing too heavy to sustain more than a few minutes of fighting. The weight of William’s sword was too much. Daven toyed with the child, hopping briefly into striking distance and then moving out of range before the boy could raise his weapon higher than his waist. As the boy’s blows slowed and drooped. Daven stepped forward and made a playful jab that came very close to striking flesh. The boy dropped his sword and jumped back. The sword tangled his feet but he regained and kept himself out of the dirt. The crowd laughed. The boy turned scarlet.

Daven let him pick up his sword. Clearly he had done just what he intended.

Engle plucked off Delilah’s fingers: “Let go of me woman!”

“You want to stop this.”

Engle spun on her angrily.

“You’ll not be meeting with yon prince I’ll wager.” She drew her hand back and opened her palm. “I don’t suppose you came without some proof of your story. Trust me to get the message to the king. Then you can stop this farce in any way you see fit.”

Engle had with him the coin the burned woman had given him. That was his proof to the king and possibly his way back into favor. He did not want to give it to her but what choice did he have?

As Engle fumbled for the coin, the boy was driven back into a corner. He lost his sword again as he twisted away from Daven’s clumsy advance. Daven gestured for him to pick it up. Engle know what was coming next. As the boy bent down, Daven planted his foot squarely in his bottom and his face planted squarely in the dirt. All his worldly treasures flew from his tattered pockets and scattered on the street. As he clamored to his feet he snagged the leather string around his neck and a small pouch landed on the ground. Howling laughter accompanied his humiliation.

"First rule never turn your back on your opponent." Daven counseled smugly.

Engle only had eyes for the boy. He scrambled to his feet and spit out a mouthful of dirt. He squared his shoulders and tightened his jaw. With one hand, suddenly strengthened by rage, he clasped his sword as he wiped his cheek with the back of the other. Engle held his breath. The boy struck back at the prince with all his might. He was not sure if the boy made contact until he saw that Daven had stopped his gloating mid bow. A narrow red track suddenly appeared on the back of Daven’s hand revealing flesh beneath skin. A thin string of red beads dripped down onto the hilt of his sword and stained the blade. Engle knew what was coming next. With a lightening reflex and a flick of his wrist, Daven responded by knocking the boy’s sword from his hand. It was a blind strike, passionless reflex born from years of practice and constant drilling under Engle’s supervision. The boy’s sword fell to the ground with a sickening clatter.

His blood flowed generously on the ground and red puddle formed at his feet. The boy gaped and his wriggled his fingers. Engle expected them to fall to the ground next to his sword. They did not. Daven moved toward the boy, holding his sword level to Tim’s throat.

"I ought to kill you where you stand," his voice scarcely rose above a whisper.

“Enough!” Engle cried. He tossed his precious proof to Delilah and charged through the crowd. “Tell the king to look to his southern border.” He instructed over the noise of the crowd as she fell behind. "I believe you owe this boy ten in gold." Engle said Daven as he maneuvered behind him.

"Engle," Daven exhaled. He lowered his weapon and slowly turned round.

Engle removed his hood with a slight inclination of his head. "Sire, You have not forgotten me. That is touching." He looked past Daven to make sure the boy was still standing. By some miracle it appeared that he had retained all of his fingers and was far luckier than Byron in that respect. Engle brushed roughly past Daven making certain that the contact was enough to knock Daven back a step. He caught Williams’ sword with the toe of his boot and spun back toward its owner. "You have an account to settle with this young gentleman, am I correct?" Engle glanced back at Daven. He did not protest and obediently took the money from his belt and tossed it at the boy.

“That should settle my account.” He returned hoarsely.

"I am glad to see you are putting your skills to such a good use." Engle fingers itched for Daven turn his blade on him. He knelt down and helped the boy pick up his money and his scattered possessions. He pocketed a small leather pouch whose precious contents had burst forth. Engle scooped several the pale blue stones and slipped them into his pocket. All the while he counted the passing seconds until Daven spoke again.

“He has all his fingers. Is that mercy or was it your intention to take his hand as well?” Engle observed, breaking the silence. The crowd was still all around them but had moved back a considerable distance.

Daven gave a ragged laugh. "Should I feel grateful upon receiving reproof from a man of such distinguished honor and wit? That you would risk your life and my father’s anger to come all this way to council me?”

“I cannot vouch for my honor or my wit. You must judge for yourself.” Engle stretched his lips in forced a smile and he met Daven’s gaze evenly. He gently pushed the boy behind and let his fingers play loosely over his sword.

Daven’s face spoke in volumes that his voice never found. His eyes were bloodshot from more than just Delilah’s ale. Engle could see that he had not been sleeping well if at all. His complexion was pale beneath the flush of his humiliation. Daven could say nothing. Engle did not know what possible defense he could make of his actions. After a long silence he shrugged.

Engle took the boy’s hand to lead him away from the crowd.

"Is that the final word from the man who repaid my father's generosity by seducing his queen? Or did she refuse you? Is her virtue still intact?"

Daven struck just as Engle turned to face him. Engle fixed his eyes on Daven’s face and did not blink. The blow fell short, fanning the skin at his throat. Daven held it just shy of contact.

“Why stop when there is so much more for you yet to shame.” Engle replied, pushing the boy behind him.

“Defend yourself. Let us see how well the pupil has learned from his master. I will bathe my sword in your blood!" Daven voice grew louder with each word until he sprayed the ground with his tears and saliva.

Engle fought the instincts he had spent a lifetime honing to keep his hands loose at his side. His brain calculated a dozen different ways to cut the prince down, his hands recalled several others. He would sooner cut-off his arm, rather than act on any one of them.

"Are you so eager to die?” He asked.

Daven was silent yet his brow struggled against betraying anything but rage. He took several shallow breaths until his complexion was no longer purple, only red.

“Do you seek greater reproof?” Engle persevered. “I will give you what you so eagerly seek.” He stepped forward so that Daven’s blade grazed his throat. “If it pleases your soul and your drunkenness, strike me down. I will not oppose you and my honor will not suffer the consequence for it.”

“Raise your sword.” Daven implored him.

“Know this. By my oath to your father and for the sake of the honor of she-whom you have chosen to so publicly besmirch-I should strike you where you stand. I would kill you. It is for her sake and hers alone that I leave you the spoil of your life. Such as it is, it means more to her than the shame of a hundred of such remarks. I’ll not raise my hand to you, even to save my life.” He loosed his sword and tossed it aside. “Do as you will.” He slowly moved back and opened his arms wide. “See if my blood it can reclaim your words."

Daven adjusted his grip but his sword shook more violently with each passing moment. At last he lowered his weapon and let his head drop forward as if too heavy to bear.

Engle turned from one boy to the other. “Come. You must let take care of that for you,” Engle gestured to his injured hand. The young boy nodded in agreement and then retrieved Engle’s sword for him.

Daven kept his head down staring at the cut on his hand, the blood as dripped over his knuckles to form a small stain on the ground. Engle wondered if he noticed how similar the two pools of blood were or if that would make the slightest difference to him now.

“My Lord, I take my leave.” Engle delivered a curt bow. He could not speak with composure.

More is coming...

Life both fuels and intrudes on the creative just as much as any one or any thing else. I promise more is coming. Summer is a busy time for all-as it should be. Never-the-less for you faithful followers I appreciate your patience as the rooms needed painting and I welcomed my first niece.

Saw Julie and Julia last night and it was just the sort of inspiration I needed to get me blogging again. It's Labor Day, school is back and I am back...

Expect another installment of The Raven and the Wolf by the end of the week.