The Burnt Man

The farmer, Ted, hands me a bag of food. There is a note of regret in his eyes as he turns away. He knows he has got the work of two men from me in payment for his straw-scented hospitality, aware that he is unlikely to see such a tireless farmhand again.

Hard, physical work. Take up the wood, bring down the axe hard. Split the timber. Repeat. I let myself go into the repetitive work. Fill my senses with the actions and the scent of the wood. Hold my attention on the feel of my muscles, so swiftly refreshed after the un-natural ravages of the stone.

The man brings out tea and thick cut cheese and bread. I eat. Taste the cream that lies in the butter. Wipe sweat from my eyes. I work.

Ted's missus puts her mug down on the table with a decisive thump.

'He has to be gone by tomorrow, Ted!'

Ted looks at his wife in surprise at her outburst. Outside the thump of her tea is echoed by the steady chop, chop, chop of wood being cut for the winter. Ted's misses glares at her husband, preparing herself for an argument. Ted, as predictable as February rain, supplies it.

Ted Hall ... Dandy-head to his friends ...straightens up slowly, running his fingers down his sweat-dampened back, easing each vertebra into place as he comes upright.

I am a ship in a sea of fools. She is an insidious worm chewing at the flesh of the apple. My patience runs thin, yet I watch her wriggling with amusement.  I keep my anger banked, a well-tended fire for the future.

The Dunlander is certain he has located the second stone. Nestled like a ravenous cookoo in the soft bounty of the halflings' Shire. By report a pretty, placid land of nothing and no-one, populated by childlike bumbling farmers intent on buccolic pleasures. Insular, isolated and adrift in a fantasy where the sun always shines and the butter is as fat and yellow as their own creamy cows. For folk such as these, not even lesser Men, but for these bovine- bellied gardeners, the last blood of the North spends itself.

The scratch of pen on paper, the flowing lines of my strong hand. The quiet splutter of the logs in the braizer; cold in the north, even in summer. The rich red wine. I am a man flushed with pleasure, deep in success.

In the deep quiet of the dead of night, my favourite hour. I am blessed with the need for little sleep. Is this a change in me, wrought by my service over these long years, or a gift of my blood? I do not know, but the joy of the silent hours is a precious pleasure.

Well, ''there aint no use cryin' over split milk'' , tha's what my Gammer says. She aint usually getting a slap round her head from my Ma if she spills milk, though. My Ma's got a powerful slap. I usually ends up cryin'.

The world is a game - and how I love it. My fingers pick up and place each pawn. See the elven maid Celebhir wither in the high tower, the Rook's emprisoning rookery. This northern Woman, a Queen in my hand. The second stone discovered - my Dunlander's quest - like a Knight in a tale.

My Poppinjay clicks his piece down upon the board, pulling me from my distraction. He smiles, a slow lazy pleasure. He knows I will not chide a man for using his intelligence. The word slips from his lips, his eyes dance with the rare moment -

'Check'