Barnaby the Wanderer

Chapter 12: Tin bells and a Dead Horse

Barnaby waved his war saber before a host of foes. They howled, snarling fangs sharp as pitchfork tines, spitting venom green as viper scales. Noble Sir Barnaby prepared to cut them down as wheat stalks before the autumn scythe.

"No, don't stand like a farmwife beating a dog with the laundry stick," admonished Michael. He took a stand beside the boy, one leg before the other, back straight. "Your foe is before you. He extends sword as well. He intends to move his past yours and gut you. You must ready to move back. Or forwards to gut him. Else left or right. Hell, be ready to jump in the air. Swordcraft is a matter of the feet as much as the hand."

"Perhaps I could have a shield?" asked Barnaby.

"That's a whole separate art," said Michael. "Let's grasp the basics of blades first."

Professor Night Creep sat on a tree stump watching the practice. Yawning, but following each wave of sword and stick. Now he turned, tasting the wind with nose and whisker.

"I smell death," he observed.

"I am cutting down the foe," declared Barnaby, slashing the air again.

"No, I mean something organic, non-imaginary, and in point of fact actually dead," said the cat. He looked at Michael. "Of more recent demise than your instructor in sharp things." That said, the cat leaped down, stalking through grass, tail raised.

Barnaby put down the stick. Michael put away his sword. They followed the cat along a path shadowed by tall trees where the high branches sang in summer wind, and the sunlight dappled through green leaves to cast a glow of gold.

"Ware brigands," whispered Michael.

Ahead on the road lay a dead horse and a dead man. Two men stood staring down, shaking their heads. One led a goat on a rope; the other held a pitchfork he pointed towards the woods, as if to ward off enemies. Goat, fork and rough clothes proved them farmers. Barnaby turned to Michael to declare them so; spinning completely about in astonishment. Michael was gone.

But he was a ghost. Maybe he still stood beside Barnaby. A strange thing to imagine. Barnaby listened for steps behind him, perhaps ghostly whispers. Even reached out a tentative hand to left and right, testing if the air felt chill. Perhaps he passed hands through the man. That seemed rude; he stopped himself from further testing. "Sorry," he whispered.

In this way he came up to the dead horse, the dead man, the two living men and the goat. The goat eyed Barnaby with suspicion, clearly suspecting him of this crime. The man holding the goat made a posture of defiance, arms crossed. The other bent down with a knife, cutting at the horse tack and bridle, pulling it free. It tinkled pleasant. Dismayed, Barnaby recognized that happy jingle.

He turned to the figure lying dead. But it was not Val the Bard. No, it was a fellow in brown jerkin, with a hard rough face turned pale and soft by death. The stomach was a puddle of red, cloth and skin showing a ragged knife slice. Flies swarmed in delight.

"We didn't do this foul act," declared the man with crossed arms. "If that was what you were thinking. Just came upon it ourselves." He jerked on the goat's rope, as if to call it for witness. The goat rolled its slotted eyes, grinning to say it was not a witness worthy of trust.

Barnaby nodded, ready to take them at their word, even the goat.

"That's Val the Bard's horse," he said sadly. "Where is he?"

The farmer looked about. "Not seen anyone else. Crows would be cawing over other dead folk near. Either the rider ran off, or robbers took him to their evil lair."

"Would they want a bard?" asked Barnaby, puzzled.

The two men exchanged glances. "Aye, they might. Dead, he could be sold to the evil Plutarch wizards. Alive, he'd be worth coin to the bloody fools of Santa Martia."

Barnaby stood in sunshine upon a pleasant road in a warm summer day, and yet shivered. Feeling as though a ghost beside him whispered of the darker side to this pleasant summer world. As perhaps the ghost beside him did so whisper.

"It's that band of Saint-Lucif-take-them chicken thieves who scurry in these woods," said the man freeing the horse gear. "Think they're wolves for leaping out on folk from behind. But they're just local dogs who've gotten a taste for sheep."

He lifted the bridle and tack to his shoulder. Gestured into the shadows of the trees. "For sure they waited here till some poor soul passed with something that looked worth taking. Then shot the arrow into the horse's head."

"Ah, but the rider wasn't caught all unaware," pointed out the other. He gave a kick to the dead man. "This is one of the band. Seen him the tavern, drinking ale bought with honest folks' coin."

"What good was killing one, if the others beat you down?" asked his fellow, beginning to walk away. "No doubt just earned him crueler blows." The two turned and walked away, arguing the point of defiance against superior numbers. The goat following behind, giving Barnaby a last mad grin.

Barnaby stood alone with the dead horse, the dead man.

"I don't think I want to bury you," Barnaby told the corpse. "Not if you behaved so. Shame on you." The man did not stir; the flies buzzled amused. Barnaby prepared to say more, then stopped himself. Cruel to berate a dead man. He settled for grasping the corpse's feet, dragging him off the road. Closed the eyes, folded hands on chest.

He returned to the horse. Far too big to move. A shame. How fun it had been to hear the horse's tinkling bells as it came up to St. Herman's font. But no doubt in a week there'd be nothing but a few bones, gnawed by honest wolves, pecked by honest crows.

Barnaby stared into the trees, past the corpse of the robber. A path wound through the bracken. He took a breath, then placed a slow careful foot upon it.

"What are you doing?" came the growling gravel-voice of Dark Michael.

"Val the Bard has been taken by a band of robbers," explained Barnaby. "We have to go help her."

"Her?" asked the cat, perched on a branch above his head.

"I think he was a girl dressed in man-clothes," said Barnaby. "But that's no matter. He or she, they were nice. Introduced me to St. Herman. And the horse was nice. It trotted making all a sound like pennies falling on a plate."

"That is the world, miller's son," said the cat. "Travelers take their chances. Careless travelers take arrows. If you turn aside for every lost lamb, you'll never reach your treasure tower."

"You won't reach the end of the day," declared Dark Michael. He stood leaning against the trunk of the tree in which perched Professor Night-Creep. "From the tracks hereabouts, I'd say you face four men. Probably they have no great skill. Farm boys who ran off to steal crowns from kings, settled for stealing their neighbor's pigs. Still too much for you to face."

"Your bard must face her fate, miller's son," agreed the cat. "You can do nothing."

Barnaby turned, considering the flies circling the dead horse. They buzzed excited, talkative as thirsty workers entering a tavern at end of day. He looked down the road where his destination waited, if not his destiny. He should keep on, shaking a wiser head at the good and bad of the world. Forgetting those left on the wayside. What choice did he have?

Barnaby laughed. It was rather fun, to think that sort of way. As if he were wise and old, with scars on face and heart. Instead of the miller's fool son, veteran of staring into dreams and the hearth flame.

"I can't do much," he told the flies. "But I have a friend who can."

"Who?" demanded ghost and cat as one.

"You, master Michael," declared Barnaby. "Did you not say, three times you might come to my aid?"

"This is not to your aid," growled the ghost. "It's some careless stranger on the road. Who may well be dead, else safe miles away lamenting his horse. Most likely they are trussed up in some cave a mile deep within the woods."

Barnaby nodded, began to walk the shadowed path deeper into the woods. "Well, when you see me in need of help, good master, then it shall come time for you to act."