thought that he almost didn’t notice the large tree trunk that had been hauled across the road until he was right on top of it.
Berry clambered down from his spot on Randall’s shoulder, and scampered up to the log, sniffing it enthusiastically, like some kind of bloodhound.
“I wonder who put this here,” Randall mused, as much to himself as to Berry.
“I did,” a voice called out from just behind Randall.
Randall spun to face the voice. The speaker was a young man, not much older than Randall himself. He wore simple clothes: breeches, a slightly worn tunic, and ankle-high boots. If it weren’t for the crossbow he had in his hands, he might’ve been a farmer’s son from Geldorn or any of the surrounding communities.
The sight of the crossbow might have alarmed Randall in the not-too-distant past, but after all he had been through, he found the sight of the young man more amusing than anything else.
“And why would you want to do a thing like that?” Randall asked the stranger, though he was already certain of the answer.
“It’s like this, you see,” the teen answered. “With the king dead, there’s no one to pay for the garrison at Geldorn. None of them lot are willing to patrol the roads without pay, so I keep this here part of the road free from bandits. Seeing how I’m providing a valuable service and all, it’s only fair that I see a little coin for my efforts. The log in the road makes sure that folks stop long enough for me to collect the toll. Travelers pay their five ringets, and I move the log so they can be on their way with their merchandise.”
“I have no merchandise, and I have no cart,” Randall answered with a grin. “What’s to keep me from just going around or stepping over the log? I really don’t need to pay you to move it for me.”
“Everyone pays the toll,” the young man stated flatly, reaching down and putting one hand on the crossbow dangling from his belt. He scowled menacingly, but Randall took note of the stiffness in the young man’s movements, as well as the way his breath had quickened. The boy was clearly nervous—he hadn’t been at this sort of thing for very long.
“I don’t think so,” Randall replied, looking the other squarely in the eye. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to continue on my way. You can shoot me in the back if you want to. I won’t lie—killing a man whose back is turned is easy. What’s hard is living with it afterwards. I hope that’s a burden your soul never has to bear.”
The young man continued to meet Randall’s gaze for only a moment before dropping his eyes and slouching his shoulders. Randall had guessed correctly—the boy was no killer. “Go on, then. Hurry up before I change my mind,” the aspiring highwayman grumped, trying to save a little face.
“C’mon Berry! Let’s go,” Randall called to his friend. Berry had stood motionless next to the log throughout the entire exchange, crouched in an aggressive, low stance. Randall wouldn’t have given two ringets for the value of the highwayman’s life had he decided to take violent action.
At his friend’s call, Berry chittered merrily and scampered toward the two young men. The stranger flinched backward at the donnan’s sudden movement; he obviously hadn’t noticed the little imp before. His eyes grew wide, darting back and forth between the pair of travelers as he backed away.
“Oh! That’s....that’s a... You’re..you’re...” he stammered. His eyes never left the donnan as Berry clambered up Randall’s leg and onto his shoulder.
“Randall Miller,” Randall stated, amused at the boy’s reaction. “Nice to meet you.”
The young man stood frozen, staring at the two adventurers until Randall cleared his throat. “Ahem. My mother always taught me that it’s polite to give your own name when introductions are being made.”
The young man flinched again, and began babbling quickly. “Right...uh, I’m Eamon—from
Berry clambered down from his spot on Randall’s shoulder, and scampered up to the log, sniffing it enthusiastically, like some kind of bloodhound.
“I wonder who put this here,” Randall mused, as much to himself as to Berry.
“I did,” a voice called out from just behind Randall.
Randall spun to face the voice. The speaker was a young man, not much older than Randall himself. He wore simple clothes: breeches, a slightly worn tunic, and ankle-high boots. If it weren’t for the crossbow he had in his hands, he might’ve been a farmer’s son from Geldorn or any of the surrounding communities.
The sight of the crossbow might have alarmed Randall in the not-too-distant past, but after all he had been through, he found the sight of the young man more amusing than anything else.
“And why would you want to do a thing like that?” Randall asked the stranger, though he was already certain of the answer.
“It’s like this, you see,” the teen answered. “With the king dead, there’s no one to pay for the garrison at Geldorn. None of them lot are willing to patrol the roads without pay, so I keep this here part of the road free from bandits. Seeing how I’m providing a valuable service and all, it’s only fair that I see a little coin for my efforts. The log in the road makes sure that folks stop long enough for me to collect the toll. Travelers pay their five ringets, and I move the log so they can be on their way with their merchandise.”
“I have no merchandise, and I have no cart,” Randall answered with a grin. “What’s to keep me from just going around or stepping over the log? I really don’t need to pay you to move it for me.”
“Everyone pays the toll,” the young man stated flatly, reaching down and putting one hand on the crossbow dangling from his belt. He scowled menacingly, but Randall took note of the stiffness in the young man’s movements, as well as the way his breath had quickened. The boy was clearly nervous—he hadn’t been at this sort of thing for very long.
“I don’t think so,” Randall replied, looking the other squarely in the eye. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to continue on my way. You can shoot me in the back if you want to. I won’t lie—killing a man whose back is turned is easy. What’s hard is living with it afterwards. I hope that’s a burden your soul never has to bear.”
The young man continued to meet Randall’s gaze for only a moment before dropping his eyes and slouching his shoulders. Randall had guessed correctly—the boy was no killer. “Go on, then. Hurry up before I change my mind,” the aspiring highwayman grumped, trying to save a little face.
“C’mon Berry! Let’s go,” Randall called to his friend. Berry had stood motionless next to the log throughout the entire exchange, crouched in an aggressive, low stance. Randall wouldn’t have given two ringets for the value of the highwayman’s life had he decided to take violent action.
At his friend’s call, Berry chittered merrily and scampered toward the two young men. The stranger flinched backward at the donnan’s sudden movement; he obviously hadn’t noticed the little imp before. His eyes grew wide, darting back and forth between the pair of travelers as he backed away.
“Oh! That’s....that’s a... You’re..you’re...” he stammered. His eyes never left the donnan as Berry clambered up Randall’s leg and onto his shoulder.
“Randall Miller,” Randall stated, amused at the boy’s reaction. “Nice to meet you.”
The young man stood frozen, staring at the two adventurers until Randall cleared his throat. “Ahem. My mother always taught me that it’s polite to give your own name when introductions are being made.”
The young man flinched again, and began babbling quickly. “Right...uh, I’m Eamon—from
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