The knocking on the door jolted me awake, my neck and shoulders aching from half a night asleep in a chair. I hurried to answer the knock—its cadence unfamiliar, I thought, as I came to full wakefulness—when again the fist pounded loudly against the door.
“Billy?” I called. He had not yet returned from his jaunt into Bree-town, and it was for this reason that I had remained awake for as long as I could, restless until I knew he was home safe at last.
There came no word in answer from the door. When I opened it, I saw a joyless man of middle-age and a hobbit with a pursed smile stood beside him, both garbed as Watchers of Bree-town. “Is this the residence of William Foxtail?” the man asked.
“It is,” I answered—or it was at least as close to a residence as any of us had in the aftermath of the Blackwold attack, the homes that still stood filled to bursting with neighbours suddenly reduced to poverty. We stayed at the home of our aunt with a half-dozen other kinsmen by blood and by marriage. My heart sank at the sight of strange watchmen instead of my young brother; I knew at that moment what their appearance signified, but I had not yet wished to believe it. “I’m his brother. Where is he? Have you news of him?”
The hobbit regarded me sympathetically, choosing his words carefully as he spoke. “I am terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Your brother was slain last night. We have no knowledge as to who would do such a thing, but you have our deepest condolences.”
It was all that I had feared, but to hear such a fate had truly befallen little Billy suffocated me with grief. It was the town’s fencing master who had identified Billy’s body, and likewise the outlandish sword gripped in Billy’s cold hands. Billy was killed by a cut to the arm, they had said, a deep gash that had struck to the bone and stained his best shirt with his lifeblood. His coins and sword had remained unmolested upon his corpse—which would naturally count out robbery, the Watchers said—and, to make the matter the easier, upon his breast there had lain a hastily-scrawled note: Bold Billy. Student of A. Cartwright.
Billy had been murdered in a duel. It was the very thing Mother had warned Billy about, and I as well, though of course he was young and foolhardy and thus paid little heed to the advice of his family—but that did not matter now, for my brother lay dead by some stranger’s hand in the middle of the night, the killer still at large. Our mother wept when the Watchers told her the news, but I did not—nay, I felt a cold chill come creeping over me, numbing me to the pain of his senseless murder.
Billy was buried within the week, his headstone (expensive for Archet and even moreso for a man of his years) reading:
William Foxtail
Beloved Son
Hero of Archet
The funeral did little to dull the sting of his passing. The epithet was perhaps grand for what he had done, in truth more deservedly given to a traveller who had greatly aided Jon Brackenbrook in the battle, but it was some small joy to know Billy would be remembered kindly by the folk of Archet. The numbness subsided once his body was in the ground, and day by day, grief besieged my mind. I became troubled by dark moods and dreams of blood upon cobbled streets, by the revenge that lay beyond my grasp. I would have grieved him as I would have grieved Father, laying out a place for him at the table and singing his favorite songs in his memory so that we could remember the joys he once brought into our lives and not this newfound sorrow—but in the crowded home of our aunt, there was no room for grief. We had hardly enough room to set the table for those who yet lived, much less to waste good plates on the dead, and ballads of ancient kings and outlandish knights and ardent shepherds would too often disturb the little babes crowded with us in our aunt’s house.
I took to mourning him quietly, which only made me consider the inescapable ghosts of Billy’s presence—how our little cousin clutched his wooden knight in the same fashion Billy once had done as a babe; how youths played with a ball as he and I once had; how boys blustered in their attempts to woo girls as he had done but a week ago with pretty Claire; and how wooden swords clattered together in preparation for danger, Master Cartwright’s students grown more earnest in the aftermath of the Blackwold attack.
My brother lay cold in the grave, cut down before his time by some back-alley blackguard of Bree-town—but there are, of course, many strangers who walk through the streets of Bree, and none could have said for certain who among the countless folk of that town—amongst whom lay many ruffians whose hearts are swiftly drawn to violence—may have killed my brother, save he who did it himself. But it was by chance, in the restless hours before dawn, that I decided to visit his grave once more—and in doing so, cast my eyes upon my brother’s killer.
I could hardly sleep then, so haunted was I by Billy’s death, such that I had at times sought out his headstone so that I might speak with him, or his ghost, wherever he might dwell now. But it was then, in the dead of night, that I saw him: a strange man in fine array, mantled in a dark cloak and leading a grey horse by the reins. I hid from him behind one of the many other headstones for those fallen in the Blackwold’s terrible attack, ready to warn the town if indeed this was another Blackwold come for revenge. He had not the look of any man of Archet I had met, nor indeed the men of Combe whom we knew well from countless dances and market days; this was a stranger. A garish wide-brimmed hat shadowed his face so that I struggled to make out his features, but in the pale moonlight, I could spy a flash of metal from beneath his cloak—the glint of a fine sword hilt.
“Alas!” the stranger said. “I would say that I wish things had gone better for you, but I like living much too well to offer such inane platitudes. Instead, I shall tell you this: you did not earn your name for nothing, Bold Billy.”
The stranger produced a flask from beneath his cloak and emptied a last drink unto the grave, pouring until the flask was empty and the newly-turned earth was damp with liquor. That done, he mounted his steed and rode southwards, towards the mouth of the Archet Dale.
Fear and anger boiled in my heart, for I knew this to mean one thing: that man was the killer returned. But this I could use as a secret boon, as one might carry a dagger in his waistcoat or wear a cap of iron beneath his hat—I knew then that this strange man had guilt upon his conscious, and, were I to find him, I could turn this guilt to my advantage and end his life. My grief hardened in my chest as my sorrow turned to hatred, and less I felt the sting of Billy’s passing now that I knew the appearance of he who had slain my brother.
I had ever trained with my brother’s master, Aldred Cartwright, and though my brother had won himself fame in his glorious defense of the Mad Badger, and he of no small skill, I was too a fine student of the sword. In the times before the Blackwold assault on Archet, we had thought our study little more than opportunity for games and brotherly roughhousing. Now, rage quietly burning within my heart, I endeavoured to train ever the harder, to master this wicked craft so I might have my revenge. But that was not enough, for I knew better than to take up arms against an unknown foe and submit myself to the capricious whims of fate.
It was for this reason that I wrote to a cousin in Bree-town, calling upon the sympathy that welled in Bree-landers’ hearts for Archet’s suffering, and found myself work in the service of a clothier. I did not think myself especially qualified, but it was only a means to my just end. I bid my mother farewell, assuring her that, of course, I would not meet the same fate as my brother in Bree-town. As stout-hearted as she may have been, she was understandably yet afraid of losing yet another member of her family in the streets of Bree.
It stung deep in my heart to offer her my false pretense for finding work in Bree-town, that the better pay would allow me to remit a sizable portion of my wages to her and to the restoration of the village. She had not wished to part with Billy’s sword, for though it had led to his evil fate, it was yet the last thing that ever he held in his hands, and the means by which he had gained fame, however brief. And for this it was precious and loathsome at once, displayed upon the mantle of the home of our aunt, though my mother was unable to look upon it. I left her a note promising she would not lose both her sons, and secreted away the sword among my possessions just before I left to avoid starting a row.
I arrived to Bree-town later that day. And, resolute as I was to take my revenge, I put on Billy’s sword beneath my cloak after my mother bid me farewell, making sure (once I could) to file the minor damage upon the blade’s edge that Billy had left behind. It wounded me to do so to Billy’s sword—but I reasoned that he would have better loved revenge than our lingering sentiment.
In the mornings before work, I would spend time in the training hall of Bree-town, quickly ingratiating myself to the masters of the art there, practising for the fateful duel that was to come. It was in this hall that I once again saw the stranger from that night, he sparring against a formidable foe, Mick Maidenhair (whose exploits Master Cartwright and Captain Brackenbrook had once detailed to me), the exchanges playful but showing signs of great skill. I myself sparred little in eye of the public, but I watched him, observing his plays and exercises, searching for that knowledge which I might use to my advantage. I divulged the truth of my mission to another of the fencing masters there, and he, taking pity, schooled me in what he knew of this man’s fighting style. In all ways, I noticed, he seemed a consummate fighter, as though there were little else of import in his life.
It was inevitable, however, that I would myself be noticed. And thus I had borrowed the most garish hat I could find in Archet—normally donned by whatever player portrayed the Rake in Yule plays—and took it to aid my cause. From my initial secrecy, I turned to false friendship, donning the hat and seeking the stranger out directly in the Inn of the Prancing Pony. It was busier than the Comb and Wattle, full of smoke and noise and outlandish travellers, but I found the stranger sequestered in a back corner of the main chamber of the tavern with some strange girl upon his knee. Not content with the sole vice, he also drank of ale and puffed on occasion upon a well-made pipe as he gambled over cards. He was sat with two other gamblers, and, noticing my interest and the hideous hat upon my head (a Breeish fashion, I was told) bade me join.
“Certainly, my friend,” I answered, making sure the cloak I wore hid my sword’s hilt, swallowing hard as I steeled my nerve to hide the rage that threatened to spew forth. I played conservatively, aware of my comparative dearth of coin and conscious of my noble purpose to be fulfilled. It was a stroke of good fortune that one of the gamblers, a Southron reduced to poverty, began to argue with my quarry. The name of my brother’s killer, I found out, was Arthur Hazelwood, and he an arrogant and haughty sort, in turns generous and judgmental. As they began to argue over an accusation of cheating, it turned nasty when Hazelwood accused the Southron of being jealous of his status. I spurred on the fighting with goading words, until at last Hazelwood cried out: “I demand satisfaction!”
It was not long before we were outside in the darkened street. A chill ran through me as I wondered if perhaps these cobbles were the same ones upon which Billy had died, but I staved the thought from my mind. In the dark, the men’s swords flashed bright in the gleam of the torch I held (as I was deemed impartial enough to judge the match). The fighting was only to first blood, but I was well aware of the danger regardless.
Yet unsure of each other as they closed, I saw fear in the eyes of Hazelwood’s opponent, yet he himself seemed impassive, deadly calm and of cool blood. He tested his opponent with prodding attacks, ready to defend himself and yet with moving with an air of practiced grace, of like manner to an artful dancer who commands an audience forget the stumbling steps of the mundane world. And then—having read his opponent well, he slipped beneath his opponent’s sword and whirled his blade up to draw a spray of blood from a terrible cut in the Southron’s throat.
Withdrawing with flecks of blood upon his face, Hazelwood wiped the tip of his sword clean and said, “My honour is satisfied.”
†
I spent my days working for the Bree-town clothier, but every minute I could spare, I practiced my footwork, my breathing, perfected the form of my cuts and thrusts—and when night fell, I returned to the Prancing Pony. If Hazelwood was there, he welcomed me to join him, and I endured the judgments of a man raised to believe he, as a landowner’s heir, was better than those who must work for a living. I reminded myself that this was for Billy’s sake, that I was not seeking to make friends but to take my revenge, and that any action taken for this end was ultimately good. It was for the betterment of the lives of all the friends back home who might too suffer at the hands of this ruffian. Spending what I earned in games of chance to develop our false friendship, I was astonished to learn his propensity for bloodshed. Over the course of a month, there had been five fights, and each of them I observed. I learned that he was a fine and capable fencer whose skill was high above mine. Still, I committed his favored techniques to memory, studying his methods and devising counter-measures alongside the master that aided me, while divulging nothing of my own skills. It would be no easy fight, I knew; I only hoped that the secret I had—that I was Billy’s brother—would stop him for the half-second I needed to kill him, to slit his throat or pierce his heart or end him by whatever means I might, and in doing so, finally soothe that pain that so long had lingered in my heart. Two of the five fencers Hazelwood had fought had died, him treating this as nothing more than a matter of course; I knew all too well the risk of death before me.
I did not fight him by choice. I confess I had grown complacent in this in-between state, confident in his inability to discover my subterfuge. Nightly, I put on the unlovely mask of one without morals, without desires save the pursuit of the small joys of dice, drink, and the base pleasures. These men, I learned, measured their lives in conquests, thinking never of the future, but only of the present moment and their past victories—over gamblers, over fencers, over women. It disgusted me, but as ever I reminded myself of the justness of my cause and my brother’s need for revenge. I would return home when he was dead. But he, ever cruel and haughty, gave me no choice.
He found me one day at the clothier’s shop, catching me unawares as my back was turned. “Aha!” he said. “I did not think I would see you here, boy. You work here, I presume? Say, when is your day done? I would not mind a game of cards after I am fitted.”
He always spoke in this way, ever haughty and much-used to getting his way. Naturally, to maintain our false friendship, I obliged, but he had caught me unawares. Over a bottle of fine brandy later that day, we played a game of All Fours, talking of little matters until the Blackwold attack upon Archet came to be the subject of our conversation.
“You know something,” Hazelwood said, “had I been there, I imagine I would have done a better job fending off the Blackwold threat. Of course, there is the element of surprise to consider, but it is honestly so shocking to learn that the town—protected by as illustrious of a retired sellsword as Captain Brackenbrook—fell so easily to the threat. Saddening, of course, but shocking all the same.”
“Brackenbrook only wanted peace,” I answered, trying to keep my emotions in check, “and there was no way for him to know that he would be betrayed by his most trusted man.”
“That’s how you know he’d gone soft. One lesson for you, dear boy: trust no one in life; neither old friends, nor lovely women, nor even the very lifeblood that runs in your veins. That way lies a fool’s death.”
“Captain Brackenbrook was no fool!” I cried.
“Oh? Then why was it that he neglected the warnings of his own son? Brackenbrook was well-known for his caution, his mistrust of those outside his sphere. He trusted no one, as his son is so fond of saying. But clearly, had he extended this same suspicion to those within his inner circle… perhaps Archet would never have been burned.”
“You will never be half the man he was! You are a loathsome creature who fights only those whom he knows he can defeat. The Captain fought bravely to his last breath, and saved countless lives through his valour. You, good sir, are a coward.”
“Perhaps,” Hazelwood replied, amused that he was getting a rise out of me. “Say, do you believe I count yourself among those I can defeat? Is that why I seek to quarrel with you now, for I need not fear one as ill-practiced as you, unwilling to even spar? Or do you dare to be brave and manful, to support your words with action?”
I hesitated for but a moment—now was an inopportune time for my revenge, it was true, but too long had I waited to correct this wrong, too long within the blackguard’s midst.
“I dare,” I answered. “You have insulted the honour of Archet—and thus my honour, good sir—and I see no recourse save to kill you.”
†
We met in a ruin of ancient kings, its stones half dismantled for the houses of the most ancient families of Bree-landers, as Hazelwood’s surely was. The fear in my veins kept me anxious until the hour of our meeting, though I did not let it show as we came to the meeting place. I had no second, and admitted as much—for it mattered little; were I to fail, it would be but a further affront to have another dispassionate fencer fell him in my stead. It had to be me. He had no one either.
A half-moon shone high above us, the lights of the city dim through the gloom of foggy night. Hazelwood stood before me, doffing a bright cloak as he saluted me with his sword. I saluted in turn, and thus the bout began. As always, Hazelwood was impassive, testing me with provocations I easily answered. I could not falter now, with my life—and more importantly, my brother’s honour—at stake. We came together in a fierce clash of steel upon steel, an attempt to grapple thwarted as I made distance and leaped out of his range.
“Recognise you this sword?” I cried as I came in again, my hilt flashing in the cold moonlight. “My name is Robert Foxtail—Bold Billy’s brother!”
And with that, I had him, catching him in his moment of hesitation and winding my sword against his blade as I came in close for the final thrust—but my damnable hand faltered right as I had him, my swordspoint but an inch from his face in the second that I failed my brother and could not do it. Tears welled in my eyes and blurred my vision as I threatened him with my point.
“So you are,” Hazelwood answered softly, eyeing the hilt fittings of the sword I wielded. I cursed myself as we stood there, wishing I had slain him on the spot so he might not see me overtaken by emotion. “Well, you have me, and you are free to take your revenge. But if you are to do this, may I request but one thing of you? Parting words from a dead man, if you will.”
“Speak.”
“Your brother was brave. I know not what cause we had to come to blows, but I know what it is to endure the death of one who loves you. Too I know the harsh life of a swordsman, for he who lives a swordsman’s life oft finds himself at a swordsman’s end. It is no small thing, to take a life, even in the rush of a duel. You must remain cold-blooded, so that your feelings do not betray you. But now you weep; you were not made for this life.
“Go home,” he said, “and let this matter go. You have won; draw blood if you must.”
“For a month I have known you, and never have you let a matter go!” I cried. “Not once have you let a slight upon your honour stand, or even a perceived slight upon your honour. With you it is nothing but wounded pride and men dead by your hand; what right have you to counsel me on the matter of killing?”
“The right of one very experienced in the subject,” Hazelwood answered coolly. “It is hardly a life for one such as you. Kill me, I dare you. Are you capable of the act? Will it not plague you with guilt atop the grief that you now bear? Killing is my life; it is not yours. Your condition is far too mean to necessitate such an eager defense of your honour, and it would not bring you the peace you so crave. I fight, I wound—I kill—for I must. It would bring nothing to you but sorrow.”
“What does it matter that I am seeking revenge rather than the restoration of my honour?”
“For honour is a necessary thing, sweeter than life to those who have enough of it to cherish it and defend it. Killing for this cause is nothing to me now. And revenge—this too is necessary, for a swordsman. But for a common man like you, it would but eat at you. You have not the constitution for it.”
“You will only fight and kill more boys like my brother. Why should I not stop you in your tracks?” The point was now up to his eye. But a small movement and I would kill him.
“For even if I deserve to die—and often I have been told I do—it would yet be a stain upon your conscience. Mine was a fair victory over your brother; shall you not honour that? Kill me, and you will only know the bitter difference between victory with sticks and wasters and the deep wounds left by swords.”
“I already know the cruelty of swords, and for that I thank you,” I answered bitterly. “You wish only to live further on.”
“Of course I do. It would be foolish to desire otherwise when there are more pleasures in this world to be had.”
“Then why do you fight, bring yourself closer to death’s door every day?”
“It is my nature. If you must ask, you will never understand.”
“I understand that it shall bring me no peace, but I shall strive to kill you regardless.”
“Then you know some of that which I speak, as unsuited for this life as you are. I will not bid you to stop, but know that—the truth no more your weapon—you will surely die.” With that he made space and batted my blade aside before I could drive the point in, and we came together in another exchange of blows. Weary, I tried to calm my hasty heart and create an opening, but it was to no avail—he slipped past my guard and suddenly sprang behind me, the sharp edge of his sword up to my throat.
“I have won. But I will not kill you for your mother’s sake.”
“And my brother’s death?” I could barely get the words out, so shaky was I with nerves and the pain of my defeat. The faint thought passed my mind that he had been unsportsmanlike—but then again, it was the killer instinct I so lacked that made very apparent the difference between duelling and sport.
“He died a hero,” Hazelwood said. “He had a woman who loved him, perhaps truly, he helped save his town, and his name will live on after his death. It’s more than I’ll ever win.”
“He was better than you could ever be. You are the most contemptible of all who dwell in Middle-earth and, for all your finery, a miserable cold-blooded creature of little joy, no better than an orc.”
“Dear Robby,” he chuckled, “that’s why I win duels and you don’t.”
†
The scar on my throat is barely perceptible now, only noticeable if one truly expects to see it. Mother did not notice it when at last I returned to Archet, and this was some small comfort. It had only brought with it the sting of defeat when first it was new, the memory of Hazelwood’s blade in the dark and my failure to kill him. Now, when I touch the faint scar upon my throat, I feel not shame. I had thought I would be ashamed to fail in my task. But in truth I feel pity now for such creatures compelled to fight, for Hazelwood and others like him—indeed, for my brother. I was spared from a similar fate only by what little conscience Hazelwood has within him. I think now of how my brother took much joy in his tale of killing, and in this respect he was not so different from Hazelwood. In my darkest of nights I think perhaps, had he not died, or had he ran off with the wrong folk, Billy would have been lured by the wicked pleasure of brigandry. I know not if this would be the case, but ever am I haunted by the ghost of what might have been.
I know for certain only that I do not belong in such a nest of vipers, and that a yet crueler fate awaits Hazelwood. I have returned Billy’s sword to its place on the mantle, for he will suffer even if not by my hand. Perhaps this I do not know for certain, but believe it all the same. It brings me no joy, but perhaps some solace, to know that his cold blood deadens his senses to the passions of joy and sorrow. If he feels, let it be guilt, as it had seemed he had felt for my brother. But I shall not hope too hard. He is as a wild animal who knows naught of Mannish virtues, who knows naught save the delivery of suffering upon the world.
