Beguiler: A Fantasy Men's Adventure Serial (Beguiler Book 1) by Maxx Whittaker

Author:Maxx Whittaker [Whittaker, Maxx]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Saving Throw Ink
Published: 2019-06-15T22:00:00+00:00

-Ten-

“You should grow out your hair. And add a beard,” Witt imparted as they trudged across the moonlit fen.

“How’s that?” Bannock had stopped listening to Witt somewhere back near the tide pools. What he’d mistaken for a shared lack of interest in conversation was proved by their respite to be a mild form of exhaustion on Witt’s part. The lad hardly shut up. Hell, the lad hardly took a breath.

“It’s how I imagined you.”

“Imagined me.”

“Whoever you were. Whoever I’d squire for. It’s just... red-brown hair’s not very intimidating when it’s short. But now, if you had a proper mane, and beard plaits like a Nordlander…”

“What do you know about Nords? And your hair is brown enough.”

“And I’m not intimidating. See?” prodded Witt.

Bannock exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Now, black hair, that’s plenty frightening when cropped. The shorter the better! Bet you could find one of those fancy barbers in Madainn who does hair tonics and preparations. Make your hair black as sin.” He said the word with a little too much relish.

“Not a chance so long as I draw breath.”

“Fine,” grumbled Witt. “Oh! A face tattoo. A howling skull right around your eye!”

“No.”

“You’re head and shoulders taller than everyone! They would see you coming and piss their britches.”

“They who?”

“Whoever! Everyone. The more the better.”

Bannock worried over the idea that Witt might ever be in a position of power. “No tattoos.” His arm twitched on a reflex. “I have more than I need.”

“Fine,” Witt said again, petulant.

“Sorry I’ve not lived up to your imagination.”

“Oh, it’s not my imagination. I just don’t think you’re living up to your full potential.”

“My full –” Bannock sputtered so hard he tripped in a divet and nearly ate grass. “Listen here boy, I had a duchy by your age. Commanded my own army and won battles before you were born.”

“And what do you have now?”

This knocked any further argument from Bannock’s lips. “Meaning?”

“Not trying to pick a scab but...no duchy, no army. A witch bracelet and a sword you can’t use. All you really have is me.”

Bannock grabbed Witt by the chin and peered down into the boy’s eyes. “I see what you’re about.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“All that nattering back in the swamp about fighting, adventuring… You don’t sound the least bit self-serving right now.”

Witt grinned, shrugging off Bannock’s grip. “I had to try. Can you blame me?”

Bannock laughed for the first time in a long time. “You’re all right. Now shut your gob; we’re nearly at the gates.”

“Shouldn’t we try and sneak in?”

“See that?” Bannock nodded to the gates, the walls, a practical city around a city. “The goblins hold Madainn, but that’s duwende engineering. Someone may be clever enough to slip through, but not us. Not anyone in at least a decade.”

Despite the late hour, a small queue of travelers formed at the toll gate, long-faced traders with laden donkeys. Each was told by the toll master, in the same clipped language, that they could seek a room but not a stall. To Bannock, the implication was they were welcome to engage in black marketeering – if they dared.

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