Chapter 2
CRACK! WHACK! THUD!
"Oof!" Grabzow grunted as Bekka's staff met his padded ribs.
"Sorry." Bekka said, proud that one of her swings had found its way into the old man's nearly impenetrable defenses. They had been training with these four-way combination moves for weeks now and she had finally discovered a feint attack that could make contact.
Pulling himself back upright, Grabzow said, "Unh, that was better. I dropped my concentration for a moment, is all. Now, go fix the stew while I gather more firewood. Play time is over."
She knew that the old man was looking for a way to nurse his sore ribs in private, away from his pupil's gaze. Of all the things she hated about him, one was that he would not only never pull punches, but he would never, ever give a complement when she did something well. The best she could ever hope for was that he would say nothing mean, and that was high praise. She never confronted him on it though, for she was certain that once she did, he would declare their training time over and kick her out of his house. That was the last thing she wanted, since one day she would be ready to leave and on that day the old man would be nursing more than a cracked rib. She had planned for ages how best to kill him for the things he made her do. She knew that she was not ready and would get killed if she really challenged him. Nothing would be more convenient for him than to have his dirty little secret disappear. One day she would leave, but there could be no doubt in her on the day when she would try. That day was coming soon, since she was now 19 years old and of marrying age.
Ha! The day she met a man who could best her at staff fighting would be the first day she considered marriage. A few had hounded after her in the past, but they tended to give up when she hurt their pride by besting them in public with a few smacks from her Bo stick. It seemed to be her only true companion, maybe she should call it her Beau. Marriage. Hmmpf!
Bekka sensed the movement behind her, but kept stirring the stew as if she had felt nothing. Still stirring with her right hand, she slid her left hand down her body under her cloak to the butt of her curved knife. She could feel that whoever was there had slipped into the room and was watching her to make sure that she did not know he was there. Slowly she drew the knife, making sure that her left elbow did not bump the corner of her cloak and give her movement away.
With a whirl, she spun to her left and threw the knife at the figure at about chest level. Realizing too late to stop the knife from leaving her hand that she had thrown at Grabzow himself, she yelled, "Loo…" but the knife had struck before she could get out all of "Look out!" to come out of her mouth.
Grabzow's shield had moved into the path of the knife in a blur. It buried deep into the leather rind of the buckler and resonated with a THUHK. Grabzow stood before her in full maille armor, holding his sword and buckler, his helm pulled down tight to his head. Gruffly, he barked, "So that is how it is to be, eh? Very well, get your staff and meet me outside. It is time for your last lesson. If you kill me, then you may take this armor and helm and weapon. They are all enchanted and will serve me well until the day they serve you well. If you fail, I will have my way with you one last time and then kill you. This is the last time we shall fight."
Disappointed, Bekka quickly grabbed the Beau stick and said a little prayer to Ur, the war goddess, to help her in this fight. Grabzow had already stepped out into the little yard. Thinking only of her best advantage, Bekka went out the back window of the little hut instead of giving him a free shot at the front door. As she rounded the corner of the hut, she saw that Grabzow was poised at the leather front door of the hut, ready to strike her.
Silently she drew her staff back behind her head and came around with it blindly at the base of his neck. The tip struck his maille gorget and rang as he whirled away from the tip, bringing up his sword in defense. It was obvious that she had surprised him and he wanted to end this as quickly as possible. He charged her, using his mass to try to bowl her over. As he charged, she planted her staff end in the ground to give the illusion that she was going to stay put and take the charge. Grabzow's downward stroke cleaved the staff near the base, chopping it like an oaken sapling. Bekka swept behind him with the remaining large piece of the staff and caught him once more in the back of the neck, this time making contact with his spine, since his coif was still twisted sideways from her first attack. The pointed end found bone and scratched open a bloody hole in the back of his neck.
Grabzow turned to face her, grabbing his neck in disbelief, fear in his eyes. Those same eyes turned to fire as he started toward her one last time, murderous intent pouring out of him with the blood and sweat. Grabzow clenched his teeth and raised his sword and buckler a little too slowly. Bekka's staff caught him under the armpit, landing against the already sore rib and knocking him flat onto his back on the ground. The ragged, pointy end of the staff was still stuck there where his sword blow had cleaved it. The splintery point was thrust up through his chest, driven home by his falling body. Bekka did not need to check; There was no doubt that he was dead.
"I'm sorry, father. You always taught me to fight as if each fight was to the death." Bekka slowly sank to her knees, a mixture of guilt, grief, relief and freedom washing over her with the realization that her life had changed forever. She allowed herself a few minutes' pity before she stripped Grabzow's body and laid it in the yard. She spent the next few hours dragging large rocks up from the river and placing them over him in a cairn.
She had seen the old women prepare bodies before and they always said something as they slid the last stone into place.
"Good riddance".
She gathered the armor and took it to the river to wash the blood from it. Also she wanted to get rid of his stink. Too often she had to smell that stench and feel that sweat drip onto her and now she never would again. "Griswold can fix these, I'll bet."
She went into the hut and gathered up her meager belongings into her haversack. She took the sword belt from her father's room and rummaged around for whatever else she could find. She found a vial of red liquid, probably some sort of liquor, knowing that drunk. She also grabbed his daggers, a pouch with about one hundred in gold and his boots. She had been blessed with strong warrior feet just like his, so she would be able to wear these.
Bekka went to the cellar and got the last of the food that had been stored up, roots, jerky and a ball of cheese still in the cloth. It would be a long walk to Tristram, so she wanted to have plenty of energy to get there.
As she started on the road to Tristram, Bekka could smell the first layers of thatch catching from the fire she had set. As she walked, she turned back occasionally to watch that hated house lick up in silent flames. This was a rebirth for her and since she had not been to Tristram in 10 years, she decided to give herself a new name. No one from there even knew she existed anyway. Yabada the Wanderer was born upon the road to Tristram.
CRACK! WHACK! THUD!
"Oof!" Grabzow grunted as Bekka's staff met his padded ribs.
"Sorry." Bekka said, proud that one of her swings had found its way into the old man's nearly impenetrable defenses. They had been training with these four-way combination moves for weeks now and she had finally discovered a feint attack that could make contact.
Pulling himself back upright, Grabzow said, "Unh, that was better. I dropped my concentration for a moment, is all. Now, go fix the stew while I gather more firewood. Play time is over."
She knew that the old man was looking for a way to nurse his sore ribs in private, away from his pupil's gaze. Of all the things she hated about him, one was that he would not only never pull punches, but he would never, ever give a complement when she did something well. The best she could ever hope for was that he would say nothing mean, and that was high praise. She never confronted him on it though, for she was certain that once she did, he would declare their training time over and kick her out of his house. That was the last thing she wanted, since one day she would be ready to leave and on that day the old man would be nursing more than a cracked rib. She had planned for ages how best to kill him for the things he made her do. She knew that she was not ready and would get killed if she really challenged him. Nothing would be more convenient for him than to have his dirty little secret disappear. One day she would leave, but there could be no doubt in her on the day when she would try. That day was coming soon, since she was now 19 years old and of marrying age.
Ha! The day she met a man who could best her at staff fighting would be the first day she considered marriage. A few had hounded after her in the past, but they tended to give up when she hurt their pride by besting them in public with a few smacks from her Bo stick. It seemed to be her only true companion, maybe she should call it her Beau. Marriage. Hmmpf!
Bekka sensed the movement behind her, but kept stirring the stew as if she had felt nothing. Still stirring with her right hand, she slid her left hand down her body under her cloak to the butt of her curved knife. She could feel that whoever was there had slipped into the room and was watching her to make sure that she did not know he was there. Slowly she drew the knife, making sure that her left elbow did not bump the corner of her cloak and give her movement away.
With a whirl, she spun to her left and threw the knife at the figure at about chest level. Realizing too late to stop the knife from leaving her hand that she had thrown at Grabzow himself, she yelled, "Loo…" but the knife had struck before she could get out all of "Look out!" to come out of her mouth.
Grabzow's shield had moved into the path of the knife in a blur. It buried deep into the leather rind of the buckler and resonated with a THUHK. Grabzow stood before her in full maille armor, holding his sword and buckler, his helm pulled down tight to his head. Gruffly, he barked, "So that is how it is to be, eh? Very well, get your staff and meet me outside. It is time for your last lesson. If you kill me, then you may take this armor and helm and weapon. They are all enchanted and will serve me well until the day they serve you well. If you fail, I will have my way with you one last time and then kill you. This is the last time we shall fight."
Disappointed, Bekka quickly grabbed the Beau stick and said a little prayer to Ur, the war goddess, to help her in this fight. Grabzow had already stepped out into the little yard. Thinking only of her best advantage, Bekka went out the back window of the little hut instead of giving him a free shot at the front door. As she rounded the corner of the hut, she saw that Grabzow was poised at the leather front door of the hut, ready to strike her.
Silently she drew her staff back behind her head and came around with it blindly at the base of his neck. The tip struck his maille gorget and rang as he whirled away from the tip, bringing up his sword in defense. It was obvious that she had surprised him and he wanted to end this as quickly as possible. He charged her, using his mass to try to bowl her over. As he charged, she planted her staff end in the ground to give the illusion that she was going to stay put and take the charge. Grabzow's downward stroke cleaved the staff near the base, chopping it like an oaken sapling. Bekka swept behind him with the remaining large piece of the staff and caught him once more in the back of the neck, this time making contact with his spine, since his coif was still twisted sideways from her first attack. The pointed end found bone and scratched open a bloody hole in the back of his neck.
Grabzow turned to face her, grabbing his neck in disbelief, fear in his eyes. Those same eyes turned to fire as he started toward her one last time, murderous intent pouring out of him with the blood and sweat. Grabzow clenched his teeth and raised his sword and buckler a little too slowly. Bekka's staff caught him under the armpit, landing against the already sore rib and knocking him flat onto his back on the ground. The ragged, pointy end of the staff was still stuck there where his sword blow had cleaved it. The splintery point was thrust up through his chest, driven home by his falling body. Bekka did not need to check; There was no doubt that he was dead.
"I'm sorry, father. You always taught me to fight as if each fight was to the death." Bekka slowly sank to her knees, a mixture of guilt, grief, relief and freedom washing over her with the realization that her life had changed forever. She allowed herself a few minutes' pity before she stripped Grabzow's body and laid it in the yard. She spent the next few hours dragging large rocks up from the river and placing them over him in a cairn.
She had seen the old women prepare bodies before and they always said something as they slid the last stone into place.
"Good riddance".
She gathered the armor and took it to the river to wash the blood from it. Also she wanted to get rid of his stink. Too often she had to smell that stench and feel that sweat drip onto her and now she never would again. "Griswold can fix these, I'll bet."
She went into the hut and gathered up her meager belongings into her haversack. She took the sword belt from her father's room and rummaged around for whatever else she could find. She found a vial of red liquid, probably some sort of liquor, knowing that drunk. She also grabbed his daggers, a pouch with about one hundred in gold and his boots. She had been blessed with strong warrior feet just like his, so she would be able to wear these.
Bekka went to the cellar and got the last of the food that had been stored up, roots, jerky and a ball of cheese still in the cloth. It would be a long walk to Tristram, so she wanted to have plenty of energy to get there.
As she started on the road to Tristram, Bekka could smell the first layers of thatch catching from the fire she had set. As she walked, she turned back occasionally to watch that hated house lick up in silent flames. This was a rebirth for her and since she had not been to Tristram in 10 years, she decided to give herself a new name. No one from there even knew she existed anyway. Yabada the Wanderer was born upon the road to Tristram.