The Cost of Haven

The clangs of hammers on dented armor rang out into the war camp. The dry smoke rose from the cook fires and drifted through the jungle. Deagan was shirtless and sweating, covered with sun-browned hide and striped with pink scars. The sun would last another hour and a half. After the day’s ride, Maggie the gray mare was chewing on some jungle grass within the reach of her lead rope that was tied to a tree across the camp from where Deagan now stood. Four dozen of the king’s soldiers were grouped together and making ready for battle on the following day. They were miles from Darkwell, in what was once considered peaceful and civilized territory, but was now called the Border Lands. A young man with a nervous frown sat on a tree stump sharpening his sword. He was wearing his armor even in the close heat. The shirtless knight addressed him, “Sir Deagan’s my name, little brother. Sir Deagan Wingrat. Would you care for a game of sticky?” Unwilling to refuse a knight’s wishes, the young man stood and sheathed his sword. “Aye, it sounds like fun.” He tried to sound braver than he felt. Deagan threw his apple core on the ground and picked up a pair of equal length sticks that had been cut and piled as the campsite was constructed. It was common practice to cut saplings out of the way when a group this large made camp, both to clear land and to invite warriors who may have grown rusty to indulge in a game of sticky. Deagan pulled his helmet down over his head and buckled the strap under his snow-white chin. Then he picked up his shield and strong looking stick. He didn’t bother putting his chain shirt on, he didn’t expect the lad to hit him. The lad followed suit; he hefted the ill-fitting helmet from the stump and unbelted his sword to let it rest on the ground while he sparred. He followed Deagan out to the center of camp. They squared off and with one resounding bang! Deagan rapped on his own shield with the stick. It was a call to fight. Deagan stood there with his blue eyes locked onto those of the younger man. He was relaxed and didn’t move. The lad took a step forward, cowering even as he advanced. He looked over the edge of his shield with intense concentration. The lad stepped even closer, now within inches of swinging distance. Deagan moved his back foot forward, not even enough to change his posture, then crack! The young man went reeling from a blow to the temple. He hadn’t seen the strike coming; he didn’t react. “Come in swinging this time lad. Don’t get in swinging distance if you don’t intend to swing yourself. What’s your name?” “Eli,” he said raising his guard again. “Did you see me move my foot, Eli?” “What?” Crack! Eli was hit again in the temple, by the same trick. He was quick to raise his guard again and this time he came in swinging. Deagan turned from side to side on the balls of his feet, moving his whole body behind the shield that bore his coat of arms, a single sword. Eli produced a predictable pattern of strikes that fell reliably on Deagan’s shield. Then Deagan stepped back twice to draw the young warrior into a rapid charge. Eli took the bait, and when the young combatant was between footsteps, Deagan advanced half a step and raised his shield to connect with that of the charging youth. The boy flew off his feet and looked up to find the knight standing over him. Deagan leaned in and slowly dropped his stick on the boys face. They were both laughing. “How did you do that?” Eli laughed as he took the knight’s hand and rose to his feet. “That my young friend, is the question you should be asking.” He explained the feint and told him how the charge had been broken. As the pair fought on, Eli showed fast improvement, but nevertheless, his stick never touched the knight’s skin. The coaching session went until they could no longer see. Others had joined in and played sticky as well, more still watched from the sidelines. Soon the sport was done and the entire company was gathered around the campfires and they brought out the liquor and ale. It was water for Eli, though. Nothing else passed his lips. Deagan’s sweaty bulk glistened in the sunset. How many times had he shared tales around fires on the eve of battle? It was comfortable to him, even though he knew he might not live another day. “You’re water-sworn, eh?” Deagan asked as Eli sipped water from a clay jug and kept his distance from the revelry by the campfires. The boy looked up and replied, “Yes, sir I am.” He sounded apologetic, his tone saying that he was aware of how foolish he must seem to such a brave and beer-guzzling knight like Sir Deagan. “Why?” Deagan asked. “My father was water-sworn. It’s how I was raised. I took the oath when I was three.” “Straight from breast milk to water-sworn! That’s quite the raw deal. There are many drinks in the realms that could tempt you away from your oath. How do you stay strong?” Deagan asked. “I’m not tempted. I like water,” Eli answered simply. “Those men don’t make the harder drinks look too appealing,” he said pointing to the rowdy band of miscreants. “No they don’t,” Deagan agreed. “I wish I had your self control, Eli. You are the smartest man here, present company excluded of course,” he pointed to himself. Deagan watched Eli’s laughter rise and then fall as the boy’s expression faded from congeniality to dread. He sipped from his water and stared down into it. It took strong resolve to last so long on water alone, but he was too young to be out here.