A Different Pace

Her name was Brinna, and her errand looked like half an hour’s work on paper. A worker at the quarry needed bandages. At a bend in the road, I raised my hand. Beneath the wind was another sound: stone against stone, too regular to be a rockfall.

The troggs emerged between the boulders. Brinna brought her rifle up. I stepped in front of her and realised I was still holding my shield the way I had twenty years ago. My shoulder objected. The first blow wrenched my arm back; the second caught only the rim. Behind me, a shot cracked.

It was over quickly. Nothing worth a song. I sat on a stone and pretended to adjust a buckle. Brinna took a bandage from the parcel. ‘The worker will get one fewer,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll tell him why.’ She bound my shoulder more firmly than I expected.

On the way back we stopped at the inn. This time I chose a chair with a back. Brinna asked about the dent in my pauldron. For the first time in years, I told the whole story. Not just the fight. The part where Harrek carried my bag for three days afterwards, too.

At home, I opened his letter. He wrote of a grandchild, bad beer and an empty place at his table. I sat down to answer at once. My hand hurt. The armour went back into the cupboard, but my boots stayed by the door. I wouldn’t need an errand for the next journey.