Tales & Treasure

Vidmar - The Peddler

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?"