Tales & Treasure Chapter 6

Vidmar - The Peddler

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Whistling woke Vidmar again, not the pleasant soft chirping of birds but a loud, insufferable echo from his new traveling companion. “Do you have to whistle every damn morning?” he said.

“Of course, nothing puts you in the mood for traveling like singing with the birds,” Vatis said. 

“How about a knife in the leg?”

“Absolutely not. It would be rather difficult to walk with a knife in one’s leg.”

“Then I suggest you stop, or you’ll be walking to Vicus with one of my knives buried in your thigh,” Vidmar said, rolling over underneath his ragged, red blanket. The bard did not stop. There was no point in trying to go back to sleep, not while Vatis performed his morning ritual of whistling, singing, and practicing different dialects from western Emre. His Haranian accent is pretty good, Vidmar thought as Vatis acted out a conversation between two dock workers.

Vidmar rolled his blanket neatly, fastening it to the top of his pack. He secured all his knives into their various sheathes and hidden compartments. His neck cracked as he put on his jacket. He checked his pocket; it felt empty. No. His jaw clenched as he patted himself down. Vidmar could feel his heart in his throat. Then, he remembered he had tucked it into his pack. His hand burrowed into the bottom of his bag like a squirrel searching for a nut in winter. The back of his hand brushed against something hard, cold, and all too familiar. The stone was still there. He exhaled slowly. 

“What are you doing?” Vatis asked. He was great at asking questions that Vidmar didn’t want to answer. 

“Packing,” Vidmar said. “I suggest you do the same.”

While Vatis packed, Vidmar practiced throwing his knives. He started with a few conventional throws at a dead pine tree twenty paces away. The first knife found its mark on the left side of a coin-sized knot. The second struck the right side of the knot; two smaller knives found the top and bottom. All four blades surrounded the protruding lump. A fifth landed directly in the center. Satisfied, Vidmar retrieved his weapons and looked for another target. A mushroom grew out of the stump of a fallen tree. Vidmar threw the first knife side-armed; it trimmed a tiny piece off the top of the fungus. His next throw was left-handed; it clipped the bottom of the mushroom. His final throw was underhanded, directly from the sheathe on his thigh; it chopped the mushroom off completely. 

“Why do you throw like that? Off-balanced and side-armed,” Vatis asked. 

“It’s important to be able to throw at any angle, from any direction. You never know what will happen in a fight,” Vidmar said, happy to talk about one of his passions. “So, I practice throws that might be useful someday. The same reason you practice whistling and accents—tools of the trade.”

A strange smile snuck across Vatis’s face. 

“What?” Vidmar asked.

“That’s the most you’ve said in days. I think we might be getting somewhere.”

Vidmar huffed as he went to retrieve his knives. He brushed the mud off the one that severed the mushroom. When a steady, thump, thump, thump came from the road. Vidmar focused on the sound. A cluster of birds scattered from the tree to his right. Fortunately, they hadn’t seen anyone on the road besides a father and son traveling to Basswood to sell wool. Vidmar had hoped to get to Vicus without being noticed. 

“Sounds like a peddler’s cart,” Vatis said, walking towards the road.

Vidmar was tempted to throw a knife at the bard. Luckily, a pinecone landed near his feet; he picked it up and threw it at Vatis instead. It broke as it struck him in the back of the head. “Do you want to get us killed?” 

Vatis rubbed his head. “What bandits are up this early in the morning? There is no harm in looking to see who it is.”

“Smart bandits, deserters, mercenaries, or worse. I have traveled with you for five days, and you couldn’t sneak by a rock. I’ll see who it is. You stay here.”

“Fine, Vidmar, but I traveled quite a bit without your help. I know the sound of a peddler’s cart when I hear it,” Vatis said, sitting down and opening the book he was always writing in. 

“I don’t know how you made it this far,” Vidmar said.

“Why, my unmatched charm, that’s how,” Vatis said without looking up.

“When we run into bandits, let’s see how far your charm gets us.”

Vatis stood, mimed a sword fight, and then used all his flourish to perform an overly ornate bow. “Aye, the bastards would all give me their purses and thank me for taking them.”

“I would like to see that. Now stay here and practice your charm on the birds.”

Vidmar walked silently through the trees, inching closer to the road. He dropped to his stomach and then crawled under the low branches of a pine tree. He wormed his way forward until he could see the road. A small wooden cart pulled by a gray mule tottered south towards Basswood. The contents of the cart rattled together in wooden crates. Two burly, well-armored men walked on each side of the carriage, while a scrawny man with a thick black mustache and elaborate purple hat drove the cart with the reins in one hand and a pipe in the other. He blew large smoke rings straight up into the air that floated over his head like clouds. 

“Halt,” the peddler yelled, yanking the reins hard enough that the slow-moving mule’s front legs lifted off the ground in surprise. “Amir, bring the barrel of pipeweed up here. I’m running dangerously low.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the guards said.

Vidmar turned, preparing to head back to camp, when he heard a gut-wrenchingly cheery voice. “Good morning, gentlemen,” Vatis said. 

That fucking idiot. 

Vidmar slithered closer, careful to remain unseen. The other guard approached Vatis, his hand resting on his ax; the driver turned his attention from preparing his pipe to Vatis. “Good morning,” he said with a hint of anger. 

“Where are you fine fellows headed?” Vatis asked, unconcerned.

“That’s none of your concern,” the guards said simultaneously like well-trained dogs. 

“Boys, I’m sure this man doesn’t mean any harm,” the driver said, making an intricate hand gesture to his guards. “My name is Zidane, and we are heading south to sell our,” He paused. “Wares.”

Vidmar pulled himself into a crouching position behind a thick mulberry bush, quietly snacking on the sweet berries as he watched. Even as the bard tried to get himself killed, Vidmar couldn’t pass up mulberries. 

The two guards stepped closer to Vatis. 

“You wouldn’t happen to have any blankets for sale,” Vatis said, ignoring the approaching guards. “Mine is so travel-worn. It might as well be a pile of wet leaves.”

“Well, that is unfortunate,” Zidane said. “But I don’t sell blankets.”

“Oh well, what do you sell?”

“Specific wares for a specific client, who would be immensely displeased if we sold any before he received the shipment,” Zidane said, looking at his guards. The two men took another step towards Vatis.

“Ah, too bad. Well, I wish you all safe travels. May your feet find the road.”

Vidmar pulled a knife from his boot. If the situation escalated, he was confident he could take out one of the guards with a well-placed throw and still have time to catch the other by surprise. 

“Where are you headed, if you don’t mind me asking?” Zidane asked.

“We are headed to Vicus.”

“We?”

Damnit, Vatis. He sprang to his feet, brushed the dirt off his clothes, and ran toward the road. “There you are, Vatis. Everyone was worried that you had been kidnapped,” he said, hoping that Vatis would catch on. The bard furrowed his eyebrows. Vidmar gave Vatis his best please-cooperate look; either the stern glance or the swift elbow to the ribs was enough for the experienced actor to know to play along. “We have been looking for you all morning.” 

“Well, here I am. I thought these fine gentlemen were peddlers. I hoped to buy a few supplies,” Vatis said, pointing at the cart. 

“Well, I do have some supplies,” Zidane said, emphasizing the last word. “But they are not for sale.”

Vidmar put his arm on Vatis’s shoulder, pulling the bard close. “Thank you, gentlemen, but I need to bring Vatis back to the camp before they start looking for me too.” Vatis opened his mouth to speak before Vidmar interrupted. “Safe travels to you.”

“Safe travels to you and your camp,” Zidane said, smiling at his guards. “Perhaps we will run into each other again.” 

“May your feet find the road,” Vidmar said dryly.

Zidane cracked the reins. “Come on, boys. We need to be on our way.” Vidmar and Vatis waited in the road for the cart to disappear over the hill. 

“I told you to wait,” Vidmar hissed as loud as he dared but not loud enough for Zidane or his lackeys to hear.

“I apologize. I could have sworn he was a peddler. The jingling glass, the spicy aroma, I’m dreadfully sorry. I’m usually not wrong about these things,” Vatis said. Vidmar couldn’t tell if the apology was sincere.  

“We have to get back to camp.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because when they come looking for us, I want it to seem like there are more than two of us.” 

Vidmar bombarded Vatis with a slew of insults that would have made the sailors in Haran tip their hats as they walked back to their camp. 

He frantically rummaged through the camp, rolling over his sleeping area like a pig in mud. This cycle repeated until the beds of twelve heavy-sleeping, non-existent companions emerged from the forest floor. He rushed back and forth all over the camp, running to the eastern edge; then, changing his gate, he ran to the north, south, and west sides. A thoroughly trampled area emerged as he finished his last pass. 

“Thanks for your help,” Vidmar said, out of breath. He brushed as much of the leaves and dirt off himself as possible. 

“Was that necessary?” Vatis asked.

“Yes, and it probably wasn’t enough to stop them from following us. We must stay off the road for as long as we can. We are at least a day and a half from Vicus. If those peddlers, as you so gently call them, come looking for us. I want to be hard to find.”

“No,” Vatis said.

Vidmar turned his head to face the bard, biting the inside of his cheeks to restrain himself. “No, what?”

“I am traveling by road. I will not slog through the thick trees simply to put your mind at ease. Ha, trees and ease, there’s an unlikely rhyme. I might have to incorporate that into a poem,” Vatis said, gathering his belongings.

Stunned by Vatis’s stubbornness, Vidmar said nothing. He sprinkled crumbs of stale bread over a few of his beds. The silence between them lingered uncomfortably. Finally, Vidmar spoke up. “Then best of luck to you. I’m not getting killed because I followed a bard with the commonsense of a rabbit. Wait, I take that back. A rabbit would avoid danger at all costs. You have the common sense of a … of a … mushroom. I don’t know. You’re an idiot, is what I’m trying to say. Good luck on the road, Vatis.”

Vatis scratched his head as he looked back and forth between the road and Vidmar. He whispered something under his breath that Vidmar couldn’t hear, grabbed two fistfuls of his hair, and stomped his foot. “Fine. Have it your way, but I think this is completely unnecessary.”

“Noted.”

They walked silently. Vatis began to hum when Vidmar quickly unsheathed a finger-length knife out of his left jacket sleeve. His aggravation seemed to enhance his reflexes; the blade was waiting for Vatis's thigh before the bard took another step. Vidmar pulled back before the knife found its mark, but not before it made its point. Vatis immediately stopped humming, and they walked for the rest of the day in exacerbated reticence, like a husband and wife fighting for reasons unknown to the husband.

---

Twilight approached. They searched for a campsite in the same fashion as the previous four nights. “How about here?” Vatis asked, breaking the silence. He pointed towards a nearly identical spot to last night’s camp, well-covered with trees and dry at the base of a hill.

Vidmar walked over. “This will have to do.” In truth, the spot was perfect, but part of him didn’t want to relent to the bard. His instincts overcame his annoyance. Vidmar knew they needed to make camp fast so he could prepare. 

“Fantastic, one more night on the road, and tomorrow we can enjoy the unparalleled hospitality of Vicus,” Vatis said, placing his pack on the ground. 

“Have you been to Vicus?” Vidmar asked. 

“Yes, many times. The rolling fields of corn, wheat, and barely are a welcomed sight after these mountains and trees.” 

“Yeah, there's no better sight than a cornfield,” Vidmar said. 

“Would you be willing to indulge me with a few more details of your time in Jegon?” Vatis said, pulling his book from his bag and eyeing Vidmar like a puppy begging for a scrap of meat. 

“Once we are safe, maybe,” Vidmar said, cursing himself for revealing that detail last night. “I’m going to check the perimeter and gather firewood. But, for the love of whichever god you worship, stay here.”

“Yes, sir,” Vatis said. He straightened and saluted Vidmar.

That arrogant little shit, Vidmar thought as he circled the camp. 

He walked purposefully, setting snares and other traps, some for small game, others for larger prey. Vidmar worked in darkness, trusting that his well-practiced fingers could manage the job. He braided long grass together and set his final snare, triggering it once with a long stick. It snapped around the wood perfectly; had it been a rabbit, it would have made a fine dinner. Had it been a bandit, they would only have tripped, but the trap worked regardless of its target. He picked up the firewood and slunk to camp. 

Vidmar heard voices as he approached. Either Vatis was practicing accents again, or Zidane had found them. Part of him hoped it was Zidane because he didn’t know how much longer he could tolerate the bard’s dialect practice.

A small fire burnt in the center of camp, casting quivering shadows on the trees. “Zidane, it’s good to see you again,” Vatis said, offering his hand as if they were friends reuniting in a tavern. 

“Where’s the rest of your party?” Zidane said. Four men stepped out of the trees, the two who guarded the cart earlier and two who could almost be considered giants. Each guard stood at least a head taller than Vidmar, although that wasn’t saying much as he stood on the wrong side of small his entire life.

“They are out gathering firewood,” Vatis said. “Come sit. We can share a meal and swap stories.” 

Let’s see if charm works, Vidmar thought as he crept closer. 

“That won’t be necessary,” Zidane said. “Amir.” He nodded at Vatis. 

The guard punched Vatis in the gut, knocking him to his knees. Amir followed his punch with a flurry of kicks that left Vatis trembling as the guard searched his pockets. Finally, he ripped Vatis’s coin purse from his belt and emptied it into his hand.

“Fifty Kan and change,” Amir said, counting the coins. “And this.” He held up something, but Vidmar couldn’t tell what it was from his vantage point. Every instinct in Vidmar’s body told him to leave. Vatis meant nothing to him, but he couldn’t leave him alone to be beaten and robbed or worse. Damnit. 

“Found his pack,” Another guard said, dumping the contents into the dirt. Vatis moaned.

Amir kicked him again. “Shut up.”

Zidane picked up the other coin pouch and counted in the same fashion as Amir. “Help him to his feet, boys,” Zidane said, transferring Vatis’s coins to his purse. “It’s our lucky day,” he said, jingling the coins. “Tell me. What are you doing traveling with so much money? Didn’t your mother tell you to travel light?”

Vatis sighed. Amir slapped him. “Answer.” 

Vatis could barely hold his head up. “I’m a traveling bard. I don’t have a home to store it,” he said, choking the words out.

“Well, then I almost feel bad for taking everything you own,” Zidane chuckled.

Damnit, damnit, damnit. Vatis did not deserve this; no one did. Vidmar needed to act quickly. He couldn’t fight all five men conventionally, but Vidmar never characterized his fighting style as conventional. Some called it dirty. He preferred to think of it as stealthy, always inventive, but never conventional.

He took an inventory of the weapons he had at his disposal: eight knives, six good for throwing, a small hatchet, three bandit-sized traps he set around camp, and a pile of sticks that would not be much use. 

Zidane stepped closer to Vatis. “Where are your friends?” 

“Gathering firewood,” Vatis stuttered, spitting out more blood. Vidmar clenched his fists.

“More like setting traps,” one of the new guards said, holding a spiked log. 

Two traps, then. The guards closed in on Vatis like a pack of wolves. Vidmar needed to act. He whipped one of his throwing knives at the closest guard. They wore thick leather armor, bracers, and boots, but fortunately for Vidmar, no helmets. His knife buried into the back of the guard's neck, slightly above his collar. The big man dropped instantly. Four left. The other attackers stood in shock just long enough for Vidmar to relocate.

“Up there,” one said in the direction Vidmar had been crouching. Two men rushed up the slope. The third stayed close to Zidane, guarding him like a dog protecting its master. Vidmar quickly climbed a small tree and perched himself on a branch. He threw a stick toward the two guards, and it caught their attention. 

“I heard him; over there.” 

In Vidmar’s experience, it usually paid to be the fastest in the group, and he usually was, which made him feel slightly remorseful for the quicker guard that fell on the first of his traps. A well-covered, knee-deep hole with numerous spiked sticks on the floor and walls. The wall spikes pointed downwards to ensure whatever fell in couldn’t pull itself out without ripping its legs off. The faster guard fell in with a cringe-inducing squish of wood penetrating flesh. He screamed. The slower guard tried to pull him out. “Come on,” he said.

The man in the trap screamed. He fell to the ground with a dull thud as his face bounced off the hard dirt. He had almost certainly passed out from the pain. Three left.

The slower guard stepped over his companion. “Where are you? Show yourself,” he said, walking with more caution. He waved his sword over the ground as he walked back and forth, searching for traps.

The guard looked up, exposing his neck. Vidmar jumped off the low-hanging branch, turning in midair while slashing a deep gash across the guard's throat. The big man fell to the ground with his hands desperately trying to stop the blood pouring from his wound. Defeated, he rolled onto his stomach, mouth ajar, eyes staring into vast nothingness. Two. Vidmar wiped blood from his forehead with the back of his hand. 

Zidane and his guard, the biggest of them all, stood, weapons ready, scanning the area for signs of Vidmar. They undoubtedly heard the unluckily fast guard’s cries, but they may not have heard the other. Vidmar circled back towards the trap. The guard caught inside twitched. Vidmar plunged his bloody knife into the back of his neck sympathetically. He wouldn’t be able to draw Zidane and his guard away from Vatis. He had to strike from afar – his preferred way to attack.

He tested the weight of a knife in his right hand, adjusted his grip, and threw it at the gigantic guard’s forehead. 

It found its mark. A perfect throw, except the hilt hit first. How? The handle never hit first when Vidmar threw knives.

The blade fell to the ground, bouncing in front of Vatis. It was a powerful throw sure to discombobulate most opponents, maybe even knock out smaller men, but this enormous sentinel seemed unfazed, and he now knew where Vidmar was. 

He charged. His jagged mace pointed towards Vidmar like he was leading an assaulting army. Vidmar had taken down his share of bigger men but couldn’t remember one this large. Most men of substantial girth had one thing in common, especially ones in the mercenary business - except for Anaar. They were simple-minded – see the target, kill the target. Rarely did they expect a counterattack, so Vidmar charged back, screaming and waving his knife in the air like a lunatic. 

A second of the guard’s confusion was all Vidmar needed. The colossal man faltered. Vidmar slid under the mighty mace swinging towards him, through tree-trunk thick legs, and behind his opponent. He slashed the exposed tendons on the guard's right knee. The guard wailed as he toppled to the ground, desperately swinging his mace in Vidmar’s direction. Vidmar ducked under the savage attack, slicing upwards at the guard’s underarm. The sentry hissed as blood surged from the fresh cut. He dropped the heavy mace. Vidmar somersaulted, springing to his feet in front of the kneeling, bleeding guard, knife ready. 

The guard reached under his limp arm. “You motherfuh…” he choked before collapsing. 

Zidane stood mouth agape, trying to comprehend the sudden turn of events. He picked up the knife and pulled Vatis to his feet. “Not another step,” he said, holding the blade to Vatis’s throat. “Drop your knife, or he dies.”

Vidmar sighed. “Alright,” he said as he dropped to a knee and drove the knife into the back of the guard’s skull. He stood, blood-stained palms raised in surrender. 

“What? What was that for?” Zidane asked, the knife wobbling in his hands. Sweat dripped down the obnoxious-looking bandit’s face. 

“I wasn’t sure that he was dead,” Vidmar said, panting as the adrenaline of battle began to wear off.

“Hand me your purse, and I’ll let him live.”

“You’re still trying to rob us? A man in your position should probably reconsider, but fine, here you go,” Vidmar reached into his belt and whipped a throwing knife underhanded right into Zidane’s exposed shin. He dropped the knife and crumpled to the ground, agonizing screams echoing through the thick forest. Vatis collapsed, eyes wide. I can’t believe that worked, Vidmar thought. He had practiced that throw for years but hadn’t found a practical application.

“Are you alright?” Vidmar asked, putting a hand on Vatis’s shoulder. Zidane continued to wail. Vatis nodded but did not speak. Vidmar understood. Most men were not accustomed to this type of carnage. Vidmar wished he wasn’t, but it had been a long time since anything surprised him. He knelt in front of Zidane. 

“Hand me your purse,” he said, parroting Zidane’s shaky threat from seconds ago. “No, no, no. I wouldn’t touch that blade, move it the wrong way, and you're likely to cut an artery. Unfortunately, I don’t see any surgeons nearby who would be able to save you. Well, hold on, Vatis, you’re a man of many talents. You don’t happen to know any field medicine, do you?” Vatis only stared vacantly at the knife in Zidane’s leg.

“I thought not,” Vidmar said, stepping closer to Zidane. “So, hand me your purse, and we can get this affair over with.” 

Zidane howled as he reached for the purse on his belt. He tossed it at Vidmar. “Fine, take it. Don’t kill me, please don’t kill me,” he cried. 

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to kill you. Despite what you have seen tonight, I do not enjoy killing, but when you threaten our lives, well, every man must make exceptions,” Vidmar said, grabbing the knife from the ground. He walked backward toward the big guard, put a foot on the back of his neck, and yanked his other knife free, never taking his eyes off the bandit. “You see, Zidane. It is Zidane, correct? The only way I know to stop a wound like that from killing you is to cauterize it.” He wiped the knife off on his pant leg, sheathed it, and laid the tip of the guard’s mace in the smoldering coals of the campfire. He tossed a log on top, ensuring the flames would be hot enough. Then, smiling wickedly, he approached Zidane.  

“Bite this,” he said, shoving a stick into Zidane’s mouth. “This may hurt worse than when it went in.” Tears rolled down Zidane’s cheek; his leg trembled. Vidmar placed a hand on the mistaken peddler’s knee, grabbing the knife’s handle and twisting it slightly. Zidane screeched. A noise that Vidmar would not have thought possible with a stick in one’s mouth. “That wasn’t even the worst part,” Vidmar said. Zidane moaned his fear through his gagged mouth. 

“Ready on the count of three. One.” He ripped the knife from his leg. Blood sprang out like water from a broken dam. Zidane spit the stick out and screamed. “Oh gods,” he cried, grabbing at the now-open wound. 

Vidmar took his time grabbing the handle of the scolding mace from the fire. The weapon shimmered in the darkness. Zidane quivered. Vidmar tried to ask the bard for help holding Zidane down; however, Vatis continued to stare, eyes fixated on the blood gushing from Zidane’s shin. Vidmar held the mace steady as he approached. “Now, I can tell you from experience that this will hurt most,” he said.

“Ready on the count of three. One.”

Zidane rushed to put the stick back in his mouth. Then, he jerked his head back as Vidmar counted ‘one,’ anticipating sudden pain again. 

“Oh, come now, that would be a cruel joke to play twice,” Vidmar said. “Two.” He pressed the mace onto the wound. Zidane’s flesh sizzled like bacon in a pan. The acrid smell of burning flesh and hair permeated over the pleasant wood-burning smell from the campfire. Zidane belted out a remarkably high-pitched squeal, a full octave higher than his previous record. 

“You know what? It was just as funny the second time,” Vidmar said, dropping the sizzling mace dangerously close to Zidane’s crotch. The merchant slid back, spitting the stick out of his mouth. Tiny pieces of bark clung to his teeth. 

“Enough, enough,” Zidane cried gingerly, touching the area around his tender skin. 

Vidmar tossed his waterskin at Zidane. “Here, drink. You lost a lot of blood. You’ll need some fluids to make the trip.”

Zidane took a tentative swallow, followed by a much longer drink. “Trip to where?”

“To the road. Don’t worry. It’s not far.”

“Why are we going back to the road?”

“Because I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I just sent you on your way. I’m sure you’d sneak back here and cut our throats. Right, Vatis?” The bard didn’t respond. Instead, he rubbed his belly like a woman expecting a child while staring distantly into the forest. 

“Ah, right, as I was saying,” Vidmar continued. “To put our minds at ease, I’m going to tie you to a tree next to the road and make you the next traveler’s problem.” 

“You’ll what? Tie me up all night? What about wolves?” 

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take. But, I mean, it’s either that or I can kill you right now. And I don’t want to kill anymore tonight,” Vidmar said, digging some rope from his pack. I’ve killed too many already. Each kill seemed to add weight, making it hard to move. He bit his tongue and pushed thoughts of his body count aside. “You know, I’m sacrificing my best rope for you. This rope and I have been through a lot together.” 

Zidane tried to stand. “Fine, fine,” he stopped as he fell back into the dirt. 

Vidmar tossed another log onto the fire. “Vatis, I’ll be back shortly.” The bard didn’t respond. Vidmar searched Zidane for weapons before he helped him to his feet. “I don’t want to get stabbed while we are having a nice stroll.”

They began walking east towards the road, Vidmar holding Zidane upright as he limped along. “Wait,” Zidane yelled. “Wait. Can you at least leave me my hat?” he pointed to the extravagant violet wide-brimmed hat. Vidmar let Zidane go. The wounded man dipped onto one knee. Vidmar pulled him onto his feet. Zidane hissed as he put weight on his damaged leg.

“Yeah, you can have it. I wouldn’t be caught dead in this thing. Plus, it will make you easier for travelers to spot as they pass by, or wolves,” he chuckled. He placed the hat on Zidane’s head and escorted him to the road. 

An hour later, Vidmar returned to camp. Vatis still sat gawking at the embers of a burnt-out fire. “Are you alright?” Vidmar asked as he neatly placed some kindling on the glowing charcoal. A flame sprang to life. Vidmar fed it an arm-thick log; the yellow-orange heat gobbled it up greedily. The bard didn’t respond. 

“I’m sorry,” Vidmar said.