A Chance Encounter: Day 38

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The sound of boots crunching through dirt and grit prodded at the edge of Zekan’s awareness. As the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness slipped away from him, pain like an axe blow to the skull swept in to take its place. His ears picked up more footfalls passing by him now, and the clop of horse hooves – no, oxen judging by the pattern of the hoofbeats. Zekan groaned in his head, he didn’t want to be analyzing the strides of damned draft animals, he wanted to be out cold. Awareness – no, existence itself was no friend of Zekan’s.

Zekan tried to will himself back to sleep, not caring where he was or what was happening around him. His attempt was interrupted by the sound of footsteps drawing nearer to his position. Involuntarily, his brain latched on to the stimulus and began to process the information: the time between each footfall was rather long – they must be tall. The footfalls weren’t heavy, however - the person approaching him was no lumbering oaf.

The footfalls stopped mere paces from Zekan’s position. Where was he laying, by the way? It felt like grass. He heard a gasp emanate from the person approaching, followed by the voice of a young man.

“There’s a man dead here!” the voice called out.

Zekan chuckled internally despite his sour disposition and splitting headache. He indeed must look dead, sprawled out in the grass on the side of what seemed to be a dirt road.

Another set of footsteps approached, and Zekan heard a second voice to match them. The voice was almost too quiet for Zekan to hear, but his hearing had honed itself to near superhuman levels over the years. The voice almost made Zekan shiver; it was quiet – too quiet – it spoke a command in the form of a grating whisper.

“Pulse.” The second voice uttered a single word in its eerie whisper.

The first person hurried over, dropping to his knees in the grass beside Zekan.

With great effort, Zekan parted his cracked lips and managed to rasp, “no need.”

He opened his eyes next, and the speed of his thoughts accelerated beyond his control. He saw tall, yellow grasses reaching up from all around him towards a pale blue sky; it must be the warm season, about midday. The air tasted dry; it hadn’t rained in these parts for at least a few months. Zekan cursed his brain, the energy it took to think only served to sharpen the pain inside his skull. He swiveled his eyes over to where the first man knelt beside him, only he wasn’t there. The man who had proclaimed Zekan dead was standing a few paces away now, hand on the hilt of a sheathed sword, eyeing Zekan warily.

Had the lad moved when I spoke? Things did not usually slip past Zekan unnoticed. Nevertheless, Zekan’s mind continued dissecting the scene around him. The person to first approach him was the skittish one closest to Zekan now. He was indeed young, not a wisp of hair on his chin, but he was a large lad – broad shouldered and long of limb. The lad stood still, glancing between Zekan and another man – the source of the second, quieter voice.

Zekan expended an even greater effort and pulled himself up to a sitting position to get a good look at the second man. Something about the man’s ominous voice had alarmed Zekan, and Zekan was not easily alarmed. A glance was all it took to confirm his suspicion. The second man, older but not less domineering in size, was clearly a dangerous man. He stood at the edge of the dirt road with a staggered stance, hands clasped in front of him. While he looked relaxed, Zekan’s discerning eye could see that the man was primed to spring at a moment’s notice. The man’s weight was on the balls of his feet, and his hands – appearing to be in a neutral position – were really positioned for a quick draw of the sword strapped to his side. The man was a seasoned warrior, Zekan could tell, even before he noticed the ghastly scar wrapping around his neck. That explains the voice, Zekan thought to himself.

Zekan didn’t know if these were mercenaries or bandits, but he decided to take a chance. He grinned up at the two men, and raised his hands palms up in a gesture of defenselessness.

“Got any wine?” he asked, still smiling.

Neither man moved, and Zekan gave the young man credit. He was unusually disciplined for his age. After a long, unblinking gaze, the older man unstrapped a drink skin from his belt, and tossed it at Zekan’s feet. Zekan’s eyes lit up, and he scrambled to pick it up with trembling hands.

“Water.” The older man rasped simply.

Zekan’s glee faded, but he still unstoppered the cork and drank deeply from the skin. He continued drinking, rivulets of water running through his patchy tufts of beard, until the skin was empty. He didn’t know how long it had been since drinking water – or eating for that matter.

“Thanks, stranger,” Zekan sighed after drinking. He shoved the cork back in the empty skin and proffered it back to the man. The warrior didn’t move, he simply jutted his chin forward a fraction of an inch. The younger man instantly approached to retrieve the skin. As the lad approached once more, Zekan noticed the resemblance between the two men. Looking past the stubble and the horrifying scar of the older one, Zekan understood that this was a man and his son.

“Got your boy trained well, eh?” Zekan’s smile took on a mischievous twist. 

Neither reacted, to Zekan’s disappointment. No fun at all. The lad took the skin and returned it to his father. Then returned to Zekan’s side to look down on him.

“You won’t get a rise out of him,” the lad said. “Or me for that matter,” he continued. Then the lad surprised Zekan again. He reached out a hand, and smiled down at Zekan. “Come on then, you look like you’re overdue for a meal,” he said.

Zekan sat stunned in the dirt for a moment. Finally, he took the lad’s hand and was pulled to his feet.

“What’s your name, lad?” Zekan croaked, eyeing him.

The young man’s smile broadened. “It’s Rhesen,” he said. “But call me Rhes.”