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Darkul and Ketal drank all night and spoke without pretense. Darkul poured out every grievance he had stored up, and Ketal listened with easy patience and answered in kind. The exchange was more pleasant for Ketal than he expected. Darkul had lived among barbarians long enough to know their brand of stubborn foolishness. Barbarians differed from tribe to tribe, yet the grain ran the same. Sharing stories about blockheads felt shamelessly good, and the talk carried them straight into dawn.
Early in the morning, Darkul strapped his pack shut and checked the sword at his hip. He looked at Ketal, and his eyes were full of goodwill. The feeling came from recognizing one another as comrades who had suffered under barbarians and survived. A firm friendship had taken shape while the bottles emptied.
They finished their preparations and walked out through the edge of the village. The barbarians behind them lifted their voices at once.
“Do not go!”
“My master, please do not leave us!”
They meant every word. After yesterday, they had started to think of Darkul as a teacher. A few tried to follow, but their bones were cracked from head to toe. Their bodies did not answer even when their hearts did.
Darkul did not slow. He turned, raised his middle finger high, and laughed...
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