Three nondescript figures entered one of the many taverns in a wealthy village. They had been questioned by the local militia on passing through the village gates, but as it was daylight, and as they seemed harmless, they were allowed to pass. They proceeded along the cobbled main street, passed well-maintained houses and shops, and entered the Broad Tables tavern.

The man and two women were barely noticed as they took a table, a broad one of course, near the door. They ordered food which was very good, and ale, which although a little sweet was of good quality. Obviously travellers, from their attire and the packs they carried, they nevertheless paid in good coin and kept to themselves, both attributes welcomed in such a place.

All three of them scanned the tavern, although all looking for different things. Martan was looking for a familiar face. They were close to the first name on his new list, worked out by the four of them in almost geographical order and ascending difficulty. It was judged that Nedan, being a retired old man. would warrant little in the form of guards, and was also closest. Tundy has heard from an itinerant minstrel that the general had retired to his daughter’s tavern, a fine establishment, large and well patronised by fine folk. He couldn’t remember the whole name, but it had something to do with tables.

Skyrae checked the doors, windows, and other possible exits, the chimney looked wide, and there was only a small fire this late in the spring. Then she looked at the people, what weapons they carried if any, if they looked her way and how often, and even how they carried themselves. You could tell a lot about somebody by their deportment. She decided only a few of them would be a threat, most were just common folk stopping to eat.

Kayelyn wondered how they got the tables so shiny. She had polished and polished her own, but it was still nowhere near this good. Perhaps she would ask somebody. And the fireplace was very well decked out. Dried flowers mixed with fresh ones arranged around a brass plaque in a very pleasing way. When it thinned out a little around the fire, she decided to go and look.

“So what now?” Martan said quietly. “Do we just wait for the general to appear, or should we ask somebody.” He was trying desperately to sit still and quiet whilst his stomach burned with fear and anger. The three women had talked him into waiting for the spring until he began his quest. It had been a long winter and spring looked as though it would never arrive. But he had continued with his training and was now good enough to beat Skyrae four times out of ten. His magic power was easily greater than Kayelyn’s, but his control was still a little lacking, being more on and off than variable. Combining the two disciplines had been more difficult as none of them had any experience of it. But the three of them worked at it together, and using them both, when he got it right, Skyrae couldn’t touch him.

“I don’t think we should draw attention to ourselves by asking for the person we are going to kill.” Skyrae hissed around a roast chicken leg.

“So how do we find him? We don’t know if this is even the right place. And if he’s retired, he won’t be in here, will he? He’ll be out growing enormous vegetables or carving animals for his grandchildren.”

“We should just sit here for a while, see if he turns up, but we don’t want to be the last people in the place. This is midday trade, they’ll all go about their business soon.”

Martan wasn’t satisfied. He had a good mind to go over to the barman and ask him, forcefully if necessary, where the general was. That would be foolish he told himself, they had a whole list to do, not just one, and getting caught after a single name wasn’t in his plan. So he sat, his back against the wall, making tiny sparks between his finger and thumb.

Over the last several days of their journey, he had finally gotten used to his armour and weapons. It had been difficult to keep the metal to a minimum, but had compromised and come up with his present attire. Leather of moderate thickness covered most of his body, with a very thick and rigid cuirass of boiled leather over his chest and back. The only metal was a few strips on the back of his gauntlets, a couple of handfuls of arrowheads, and a dagger in his boot. The bo sticks were in a harness under his backpack, with the handles protruding just above his shoulders for easy drawing. It wasn’t a perfect arrangement, but the closest they were able to get. It did mean the sticks were visible, but he explained to the few people who asked that he had a back injury, and this was supposed to help.

Kayelyn returned a while later, having been admiring the décor over the fireplace. She looked pale and tight-lipped. Martan was immediately on his guard. She sat, hands in her lap, and looked at Skyrae, but not Martan.

“What?” They asked together.

Kayelyn swallowed. “I think we had better leave. I’ll tell you outside.”

Skyrae gathered her stuff and urged Martan to do the same whilst trying to smile and look unhurried. Martan sighed deeply, but grabbed his pack and stomped out. Kayelyn smiled at the barman as they left and thanked him. He smiled back and waved, then turned to serve another customer.

Skyrae had walked a little away from the tavern, but Martan accosted her as soon as she stepped out.

“Well, what is it?”

The mage refused to be hurried, walking calmly over to a roofed well that seemed mostly for decoration. She sat on the wall and waited for a few villagers to move. “He’s dead.” She said simply.

Martan looked on incredulous. The anger and fear in his belly flared anew. He had come all this way, was so close to at last venting some of his emotion, and now this.

“How?” Skyrae asked. Approaching Martan and resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Old age. Died in his sleep. That plaque and those flowers were for him. But there’s more.”

“What!” Martan shouted, causing a few people to stare. Skyrae gripped his shoulder tighter.

“They were all here, the Underlord, his children, a few others on the list. A woman told me, in the tavern, saw me reading the plaque. She wondered if I had known him.”

“When?” Martan demanded through clenched teeth.

Kayelyn hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Early spring.”

Martan pulled away and walked around the well. He leaned over it and spoke, his voice echoing slightly. “Just about the time we would have been here, if we’d left when I said so.”

“Martan, be reasonable. First of all, how could we know, second it wouldn’t have been as if all those important people would come alone. This village would have been stuffed to the eaves with guards.” Skyrae approached Martan, reached out to touch him.

“You just don’t understand do you!” He yelled again and stormed off. Skyrae let him go, there were too many people looking.

Martan walked quickly through the village with no regard for who he bumped into or where he was going. Skyrae and Kayelyn followed a short distance behind, keeping him in sight at all times.

Unreleased anger roiled within Martan, he began to sweat, his whole body flushed with heat. In his head his thoughts churned. ‘How can he be dead? I haven’t killed him yet. What if they’re all dead? Who then can I kill? How can I empty the Jar, the broken jar?’ Then over again. Several times he barged into people, some apologised, others shouted curses after him. Hearing none of it, he just kept on walking.

This would have carried on all the way out of the village, but just then a small dog ran out of an alley, collided with Martan, yelped loudly, and took refuge behind a water trough. Martan was about to shout at the animal when two large men dressed in smiths’ aprons appeared.

“You, where did it go?” The first one demanded, advancing on Martan. He held a long-handled hammer in his beefy hand.

“There it is!” The second one shouted and lunged towards the trough with a long piece of metal. The first smith turned away from Martan and dashed towards the animal, which pelted between his legs and back down the alley.

“Leave it alone you ugly great ox,” Martan said to the men as they turned to run after it.

Both men stopped dead in their tracks, the dog, for the moment at least, forgotten.

“Well well.” The one with the hammer said, “Two young pups need teaching a lesson. But what the Essence, we’ve plenty of time.”

“Shall I wrap this rod around his scrawny neck, see how he talks to his elders and betters then?” Said the one with the metal, advancing to stand by his compatriot.

Martan felt the anger seething within, but the fear had returned, tempering his rage. He took a breath and tried to force it down, after all, this is what all the training was for. He wasn’t supposed to fear, not any man, never mind these muscle-bound arrogant fools. This is it, he thought, this is when the fear stops, one way or the other.

“Come any closer and I’ll kill you.” It was a simple statement, but any who knew him would have recognised the look in his eye. The two smiths merely exchanged glances and laughed. Suddenly, the one with the hammer lunged forward and jabbed his empty fist towards Martan’s face.

The punch was far too slow and clumsy. Martan easily avoided it, stepping back and to the side, drawing his sticks, and beginning to build up his magic.

“Watch out!” The second man said sarcastically, “he’s got some sticks!” Both men bellowed with laughter. Martan took his chance, lunging forward and hitting the smith right between the eyes. But Martan had never actually hit a person before, the blow only made the man angry.

“Right you little snot, I’m going to kill you now.” He lumbered forwards, raising the hammer to strike. Martan stood his ground, sticks ready. The man swung the hammer around towards Martan’s head, it seemed to stop about a finger’s length away, as though it had hit something. Then the young warrior was in motion. This time he made the blows count, this time they landed with all the anger he had previously been unable to release. The smith dropped to the ground within a few blows, a puzzled look on his face. Martan followed him down raining blows on his head and neck. The second smith rushed in to protect his friend, using the metal rod as a spear. Martan was so enraged he didn’t notice until a stinging pain in his shoulder brought him around. He smacked the rod with one stick, bending it out of shape, then jabbed the man in the stomach with the other. When he didn’t go down, Martan brought both sticks around, one either side of his head. With a solid thud, the two sticks contacted and the man lost consciousness. Again Martan followed him down, repeatedly beating him randomly about his body.

“Enough!” a voice close by said.

Skyrae and Kayelyn stepped out from the crowd that had gathered, grabbed his arms, and quickly led him away. Someone was shouting for a healer, others for the militia. Martan neither knew nor cared whether the men were dead or badly injured. The three of them ran, Martan’s feet lent a certain lightness by a euphoric feeling that had blossomed inside. It was a cool balm to his anger, a feeling he couldn’t ever remember having before. He laughed, a loud careless sound, startling both women, who nearly stopped dead with shock.

With the village behind them and within the sanctuary of the surrounding forest, they stopped to rest. When they had their breath back, both women turned as one and started into him.

“You idiot, what the hell did you think you were doing?” Skyrae managed

first.

“Exactly, we could have the whole town down on us and thrown in the gaol and nooses around our necks by morning!” Kayelyn yelled.

“You left your guard down, you were wide open, that first blow wouldn’t have hurt a child, and where was the flow, and where were you looking when he gave you that?” Skyrae pointed to the gash in the leather on his shoulder and the trickle of blood. “If you’re going to fight like that, don’t ever tell people I trained you.”

“Exactly…what?” Kayelyn began, turning to Skyrae wide-eyed. “You mean you wanted him to fight?”

“Not wanted exactly, but it was a good opportunity for him. Two opponents, not too dangerous, I would have stepped in if he had got into trouble.”

“I don’t believe you, he could have killed those men.” Kayelyn scalded.

“That’s what we’ve come for isn’t it, to kill people?”

“Not like that, not those men.”

“Don’t worry, they’re not dead. I heard them both moaning as we ran by.”

“Great. All we need to do now is wait for the militia to come storming after us.” Kayelyn waved her hands about and paced back and forth.

“Calm yourself Kayelyn, that’s why we stopped here, look, we can see the village road from here. If we see lots of people with flaming torches and pitchforks we can run. Until then we have an arm and some armour to fix.”

Martan stood grinning as the two women argued. Looking from one to the other, his insides calming as the anger and fear and euphoria wore off. That was when the pain started. He sat on a log as Skyrae examined the wound and Kayelyn kept watch.

“It’s not deep, thankfully. You’ve got to learn to watch your back. And look at this leather, it’s weakened now, even if we mend it. First fight. I remember mine. Much the same result really.”

The three of them fell silent. Skyrae remorseful over her lost past, Kayelyn fretting about the militia, and Martan slowly dropping towards depression as the high from the fight faded to melancholia.