The Black Sword, Chapter 5: Rivals

Ghaleon staggered back as a burly fist slammed into his stomach, hitting his breastplate and tilting it into his abdomen. Torvald did not even seem to notice that his fist had struck steel as he took up a fighting stance. Amidst his attempts to regain his footing, Ghaleon drew a small hand crossbow strapped to his pack. He recovered with a flourish, loosing a bolt at his adversary. Torvald dodged to the right just in time as the bolt grazed his left bicep, digging a shallow channel in his skin as it passed.

Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"

The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.

A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.

***

Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.

No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.

After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.

"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.

"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.

"I am he," the man responded.

"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.

"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.

"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.

"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."

"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."

Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."

"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.

The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.

Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.

***

"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.

"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.

"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."

"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."

The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.

"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."

The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.

Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.