Chapter 1 - Unexpected Company
The light breeze gently rustled the canopy of leaves, creating flickering shafts of afternoon sunshine on the forest floor as Abergar wandered dreamily among the lofty trunks that made up the Chetwood. He had travelled northward for many weeks from his homeland in southern Rohan and it seemed to him that nothing held greater beauty than the constantly changing landscape of the northern lands. The gentle wind bore aloft his spirits so high that he felt need to give voice to his happiness and so he unstrapped his beloved lute from his shoulders and sat against a large oak tree while letting his fingers gently give voice to the happiness in his heart.
'Ah,' he thought as he felt another light breeze in his hair, 'the world could not be a more perfect place at this moment. The forest is coming alive and responding to my music.' He could not have been more right; though not in the manner he intended.
SNAP!
The sound of a cracking twig just to his left startled him and he opened his eyes, just in time to see the dark-garbed man moving toward him from barely half a dozen paces away and swinging his axe. For less than the span of a sneeze Abergar noted, with strange detachment, how beautiful a sudden ray of sunlight seemed glinting on the axe’s sharpened blade and then, terror making his heart to lurch into his throat, he threw himself bodily to the right, just as the hurtling blade buried itself deep into the trunk where his neck had been, sending splinters of bark showering across his body.
In less than a second fear had him back on his feet, half stumbling and half catching a foot in the strap of his lute. By good fortune the brigand's axe was buried deep in the trunk and it took the man a moment or two before he could free the weapon. By this time Abergar had disentangled himself enough to face his enemy and he quickly surveyed the man.
"If you want money, you have come to the wrong person," he warned. The worn clothing indicated someone who had not slept in a house recently but the eyes in the half-masked face told Abergar this was not someone ready to see reason. "I don't want to fight you. I mean no harm," he added, hastily.
"Good!" replied the brigand, hefting his axe and dropping the blade downwards, "then this will be easy," and with a cry he leapt forward, swinging the blade upwards at the minstrel's belly.
Abergar leapt backwards, his hands bringing his lute up instinctively to protect himself. The axe head's upward swing struck the instrument along the neck, jerking it out of his hands and high into the air. Then the shoulder strap snagged on the lower edge of the axe the lute jerked downwards again, smacking the brigand hard across the side of his head and making him grunt in pain as he reached to untangle the lute from his axe.
That was all the distraction Abergar needed. Rushing forward, he grabbed the brigand by both wrists, twisting them hard as he bore him backwards against the tree trunk. The man growled in pain from his wrist and then again as his head met the hard bark of the tree with a loud thud. Then Abergar's boot caught his knee with two well-aimed blows and he stumbled.
Abergar felt a momentary thrill as the hand holding weapon loosened and the axe dropped from the brigand's grip. But the man was not down yet and satisfaction was soon replaced by pain as his head thrust forward and connected sharply with the
Stunned, the minstrel fell back, clutching his face until all the air went out of his lungs as a knee connected sharply with his stomach. Then a blow - it could have been a fist or it could have been a boot - landed on the side of his head and he went down, scattering a cloud of leaves from the thick carpet that lay on the forest floor.
Something hard and smooth was beneath him and Abergar’s hand closed around the neck of the lute. He could hear his attacker’s heavy footsteps close by as he bent down to get something...his axe! Looking around, Abergar saw the brigand lift the glittering weapon from the grass. He was barely six paces away and Abergar reached instinctively for the belt at his waist.
"You'll pay for that, friend!" said the brigand without humour, straightening up and hefting the axe once more. "As will you," replied Abergar, releasing the small-bladed knife he kept on his belt. "You should have made certain I was defenceless!" And with those words, he flung out his arm and hurled the knife straight at the brigand's face.
Had he been a better knife thrower, Abergar might have killed the man. As it was, the knife struck handle first, right between the brigand’s eyes – though not with the force Abergar had intended – and then bounced off into the undergrowth. Nevertheless, its passing snapped the brigand's head back with enough force to draw forth a loud curse from his lips. But he recovered much more quickly this time and his eyes flashed at Abergar with murderous hate.
He charged forward roaring in fury, with axe held high and the blade swung downward at the prone minstrel. Abergar rolled to the side, avoiding the blow and, as the axe buried itself in the soft earth, swung upwards with the other hand that had grasped his lute. The belly of the lute struck the axe-man hard in the jaw and he stumbled backwards releasing the axe. Then Abergar spun sharply, swinging the instrument again; this time catching the stunned brigand in the belly. He bent double but recovered enough to close his hands on the lute. Turning, he wrenched it out of Abergar's grip and then charged bodily into the musician. Both went down in a heap of scattering leaves, with the brigand on top.
"Think you're clever, do you, minstrel?" he roared and, before Abergar could respond, punched him hard across the jaw and then pinned the neck of the lute across his throat. "Let's see how you like THIS!" he snarled, leaning down and pressing down hard on the lute.
Abergar struggled, but the weight across his windpipe increased, cutting off the air to his lungs. He kicked out furiously against thin air and grasped desperately against the lute to prise it off but, try as he might, he couldn't get a strong enough grip to pull the instrument away. He thrust his right arm out, groping frantically around in the undergrowth for a branch or a rock....anything to free himself with.
"Stop struggling, you bastard!" spat the brigand, pressing harder on the lute.
Abergar could feel the heat prickling across his face as lack of air turned it red. He could feel his chest burning as his lungs strained for air and he could feel something hard and smooth in the fingers of his right hand as they found the little throwing knife that had landed there. He grunted in desperation as he curled his fingers around it, but the noise alerted the brigand, who saw Abergar’s arm coming up from the side. Before the desperate blow could land, the brigand's left hand released the lute and caught the minstrel’s wrist, stopping the blade.
The brigand shifted his position, now settling his left knee against the edge of the lute to replace his now-occupied left hand. The momentary release of pressure had given Abergar some much-needed air but now he felt the lute press against this throat harder than ever and his only chance of fighting back was gone. His heart was pounding in his ears, his vision was starting to darken and his nostrils were full of the rancid stench of the brigand’s breath. It couldn't happen this way – his life ending! Not now!
A strange noise came from above him and the brigand suddenly jumped. Abergar was reminded momentarily of the sound of a sword being thrust into a bag of grain before he realised that the pressure on his throat had slackened and the brigand was sitting back on his knees, At first he thought the man had stopped to see where the sound had come from. Then he saw the bright red feathers on the end of the shaft sticking out of the brigand's chest and thought how pretty they looked.
The brigand made an unpleasant gurgling sound; like air bubbling out of a leaking wine skin. Then he made an even more unpleasant dry rasping noise. He looked down in horror at the end of the arrow shaft and then, across it, his eyes met Abergar’s and the minstrel suddenly realised he was looking at a dying man. It was the strangest thing but he momentarily felt pity for the brigand. He was looking into the eyes of a creature that was meeting its death but was unwilling and unready to go. For what seemed the longest moment he just lay there, watching as the brigand brought his arms up straight in front of him, seeming as if he was going to stand. And then he stumbled backwards, rolled over onto his side and was silent.
The noise of the wind in the trees and the happy song of the birds in the forest sounded thunderously loud to Abergar as he struggled to untangle his feet from the legs of the dead brigand. Then he heard the footsteps behind him and scrambled to his feet in panic; instinctively bringing up his small throwing knife as he turned to face the newcomer.
"Are you alright?" asked the deep and rather precise-sounding voice of the man who approached and Abergar was stuck by the contrast in clothing with his previous attacker. This man was wearing a pale hide surcoat, decorated with chainmail, over a bright shirt and dark trousers and boots that indicated a well-travelled person of some repute. Like the brigand, his face was half covered, although the newcomer's lower jaw was visible while his eyes and nose were hidden by the visor of a rounded metal helmet. In his right hand was a short, sturdy bow, though it was not raised...but then nor was it fully lowered.
"I am ...fine," conceded Abergar, reluctant to engage in conversation at a moment when he wasn't sure what had just happened or who the newcomer was. Then he remembered his manners. "Thank you," he added tonelessly.
The newcomer stopped, seeing that the minstrel was wary. "You're welcome," he replied slowly, nodding, and lowered the bow. "You may be at ease," he stated calmly. "I mean you no harm. I heard strange music and came upon hearing the noise of your struggle. Arriving here, I saw you needed aid."
"And you arrived in good time," admitted Abergar in slightly dazed tone, bending to retrieve his lute but still not feeling fully aware of his surroundings, "though I would rather that I had not needed your assistance at all." He pulled the lute from the ground and winced to see that its bridge was missing and several strings were hanging askew.
"Your instrument is in need of some repair, I see," observed the man, drily. Was he being funny? Abergar felt a momentary pang of annoyance at this obvious statement but he could never be rude to someone who had just saved his life. "So it would seem," was the best response he could manage in a civil tone before his temper got the better of him. "Of all the wretched luck!" he cried in frustration, cursing until the very air turned blue.
"You are alive," reminded the newcomer in a calming tone.
"But now without a livelihood!" retorted Abergar, shaking his broken lute angrily. And then felt bad for his lack of gratitude and cursed aloud. "I am sorry. I should be grateful for your assistance. Without it I would be dead. I owe you my life."
The man was silent. The moment seemed suddenly awkward for Abergar as the truth of his own words hit him. "I was a fool!" he declared, bitterly. "Sitting by a tree and playing as if I was sitting in some tavern; it was foolishness!"
The newcomer laughed. "If taking the time to enjoy oneself makes you a fool then the world should have more fools," he said, "though, had you spoken to me beforehand, I would have counselled you to take care in the Chetwood,"
Abergar nodded ruefully, looking in dismay at his damaged lute. "Well, it could be worse." he sighed and then looked properly at his saviour. "You have my eternal gratitude, my friend, though I have no way to pay you for your salvation."
"Nor would I ask payment of you," replied the other. "I am merely happy to be of service," and turning, he bent over the body of the brigand and began to examine it, turning out pockets and looking at his neck and arms.
"Who was he?" asked Abergar, moving closer to watch.
"I have no idea," responded his saviour, thoughtfully, checking the hands of he dead man, "but I think....ah!" His hands closed on a dirty metal ring around one of the brigand's fingers. He looked intently at it for a moment and then exclaimed "Aha!" and began to remove it. Standing, he brought it up before Abergar's nose.
"This," he explained, "is a signet of the Blackwolds. The people of Combe say the Blackwolds have an encampment near here from whence they strike. Now that I have seen this, I have my first proof that those rumours are true. Rurik's story was right after all."
"Blackwolds?" asked Abergar, confused. The stranger nodded.
"A band of brigands that has been terrorising the local villages about these woods. I have been searching for some sign of them for days but without luck. If it hadn't been for you flushing out this greedy beggar then I would still be looking. Friend, you've helped me after all," he said, smiling and clapping Abergar on the shoulder.
"I'm happy to have helped," replied the minstrel, nonplussed. The stranger stepped back to bow his head as he removed his helm, revealing a head of unruly, flaxen hair.
"Come!" he said, smiling. "Now I know where to look, I will find this place tomorrow. You have helped me find the Blackwold, so I shall travel with you to Combe and help you to find repair for your lute and cure for your bruises."
"My thanks," said the minstrel, happy to have found a friend in such need, "but I am still forgetting my manners." He bowed low. "Abergar, known also as Gildensong."
The flaxen haired warrior snapped to a quick salute. "Well met then, Abergar Gildensong. You may call me Hassel."
