This has been sitting in my drafts for a couple of years. – Author

Walking through snow is like ink on paper: convincingly permanent. The traveler’s toes were cold in their thin leather boots, but the crunch of his tracks writing their way between the trees remained satisfying. Crunch crunch crunch crunch, he echoed in his thoughts and watched the plume of steam float up from his open mouth. 

The traveler’s pack was heavy, but his brain was light — one recently filled at the town some miles behind, the other recently emptied by long months free from concern or duty. In all honesty, no mortal life is truly free of worry and peril, but this traveler  was blessed and cursed with a mind as flat as a kitchen table. Whatever he hit with his elbow fell off the table and was there entombed and forgotten in the unblinking darkness of the Kitchen Beyond. All that is left is the meal before him, spoon diving into potatoes and thin beef and then flying to his lips. A simple mind, a simple table, a simple man.

Those potatoes are a bit soft, I’ll cook those tonight. Jonas nodded to a passing pine, branches heavy with snow. With that loin? Or maybe save that for tomorrow? The pine gave no comment on his unspoken menu planning.

Jonas stopped and pulled the hood of his brown cloak back and shook it free of the dust of snow that had gathered. His hair was dark brown, curled into a thick pelt like a sheep’s. A smattering of sad hair on his cheeks and chin indicated his age was somewhere in the perilous vale between a child and a child that could be trusted with picking out the color to paint their bedroom. The heavy pack almost concealed but did not obstruct the hilt of a sword ready to grasp at his right shoulder. He tucked his thumb into the red cotton sword strap that ran across his chest and took stock of his progress.

The town of Clairmont was several miles behind to the north, but he had left the main road nearly an hour ago. He had made this journey several times before, but not regularly – he took great pains to never go to the same settlement more than once every few weeks, alternating and changing his supply runs between a half dozen similar small towns, encampments, trading posts. The snow was doing its best to obscure a prominent pile of rocks he used as a landmark, but with little success. Sorry snow, those rocks look just like a dog’s head on top of a mushroom, no way I’d miss it. Jonas nodded again. Only a couple of more miles until I hit the river, then south to get home.

He stretched his shoulders and let the pack settle its weight properly across them again. Home. The word felt warm, even though it only meant a small shack next to a frozen lake. Four walls, two beds, a stone oven and chimney. Home…crunch crunch crunch crunch. His boots and thoughts aligned and he continued on his way past the pile of rocks and towards the river.

Walking through snow is like ink on paper: easy to read, easy to follow. Jonas stopped abruptly as the first guttural moans hit his ears. Fuck. His hand was already on the sword hilt, waiting for instructions. Not again.

The moans came again, turning to almost a bray as the goatmen doubled their speed. The sword glided from its sheath and Jonas put his back to a nearby tree. Okay, at least three this time. They’re close, must’ve shadowed me all the way from town. He did a quick assessment, free hand clutching the strap of his pack as the kitchen table of his mind was hurriedly wiped clean. I can outrun them if I leave the pack, but then they’ll take all the provisions. Just like last time. I can’t let this become a habit or we’ll run out of money before the thaw. The sword’s clean steel was the answer, he nodded with regret.

Jonas let the pack fall gently to the ground at the base of the tree and turned to face his enemies. He took the hilt in both hands and adopted an aggressive stance, blade held low. The goatmen tumbled into the clearing a half-breath later, snow churning explosively in their wake. The largest Jonas recognized by his wide black horns and the brutal looking wooden spoon that he carried in one hand -suitable to stir a giant’s vegetable soup.  He had fled before, inches from the utensil. The other two goatmen were smaller, only small horn nubs on their brow – one carried a dagger, the other a broken trumpet – the music long since smashed out of it by violent employ. The trio slowed, seeing the sword in Jonas’ hands. The largest goatman spread his arms wide and gave a final screaming moan of triumph.

“Well, good day to you sir,” the largest goatman scratched the hairs of his mantee with amusement, “I’m terribly sorry, but we’ve decided to rob you this fine afternoon. Would you be so kind as to fuck right off?”

The smaller goatmen tittered, the trumpet bearer apparently flustered by the strong language used.

“You three got names?” Jonas asked, sword and hands waiting.

“Why would we share our names with—” the smallest goatman jabbed the air with his dagger in consternation.

“Yes, yes, it does seem a bit out of procedure,” the largest goatman talked over the smaller, “Why, good sir, would you be concerned with our identities at this unfortunate juncture?”

Jonas smiled, “I like to know who I’m fighting. And maybe you would like to know…who you’re fighting?”

Yeah, this is totally working. Look at them, maybe I can bluff them down!

“Well, who are we fighting then?” the goatman chuckled.

Okay, make this sound good. “I’m Jonas of Gilead, Squire. I’ve been trained by the best, faced wonders – uh, well – all sorts of weird shit! And lived to tell the tale! This sword? This sword right here? I call it my ‘good steel’ because it’s so good…at stealing lives.”

Perfect!!! Jonas fought with every fiber in his being to not drop his stance and give himself a solid pat on the back.

The goatmen laughed. They laughed and laughed, hands on knees – spit and tears running down their faces. Jonas sighed. Okay, that didn’t exactly work. But–

The squire’s hands and blade moved and his body followed. He focused on the smaller two opponents first. Less dangerous, but more unpredictable – remove from the board. He smashed the hilt of the sword into the first goatman’s teeth and kicked him hard in the chest, the dagger went spinning off into the snow. Before the second could react he stabbed his blade mightily into the damaged tubing of the trumpet. He ripped the instrument free with a smooth motion, then checked his shoulder hard into the second goatman’s chest, sending him to the ground. Jonas had just enough time to shake the trumpet free off into the tree line before a large wooden spoon collided with his shins. Not fast enough, okay fall with the momentum!

The squire hit the snowy ground hard, then rolled like a sausage down the hill and out of the spoon’s reach. The goatman’s hooves were loud and fast, Jonas clambered up getting his sword up just in time to block the next spoonbeat.

“You are making me quite angry, young man,” the goatman spat out the words then raised the spoon high.

Jonas clawed the snow and dirt out of his face and felt his heartbeat thud. Time slowed to a crawl and the squire watched his hands and sword move on their own. A high block, the goatman’s culinary club coming down hard on the steel, a tiny slice forming in the handle where sword met spoon. Thud. The goatman pushed down hard, the cut widened – a tiny canyon. He watched his left hand let go and snake out to grab the wide flange of the spoon. His right hand and shoulder howled with the sudden task of holding off the goatman unbalanced. What…what am I doing–? The squire pushed up with his right hand and sword and pulled down with his left holding the spoon. 

The spoon snapped in half with a satisfying snap.

All at once time, his mind, and the horrible enraged cry of the goatman arrived together. Reveling in the small wonder his sword and hands had just performed, but knowing the danger remained he backed down the small hill a few paces and brought himself into a classic guard position.

“You! You!–” the goatman waved the remaining handle of the spoon in utter apoplexy. Then tossed aside the useless piece of wood lowered its long black horns toward the retreating squire and charged, howling anew.

Crap. Jonas felt his feed slide in the snow, the small incline behind him making his footing unsure. No other way! He couldn’t safely dodge or tumble away so he was left with only one simple, albeit ludicrous tactical option. The squire did his best to dig his heels into the earth below the snow and readied himself to block goatman with longsword. He turned his blade flat towards the onrushing horns.

Steel met horns, scraping along the crenelations, the flat of the blade slapped against the goatman’s forehead. Perf—ow! The horns were longer than Jonas had estimated and the points lodged uncomfortably an inch or two into his chest. He turned the sword hard to the left, hoping to make enough of a brace to wrench himself free. The goatman howled and pawed at his cloak to force the squire closer.

“Grrrrr!” the squire grrrd.

“Worrowlllwwwweee”, the goatman worrowllwwweeed.

The two other goatmen, the pine trees, and the snow were all treated to a long protracted moment as each foe tensed and found new syllables to mouth. Then all at once, there was a brittle snap, unassuming and trite like a twig underfoot. The two flew apart in a sudden rush of released energy and effort, spinning and  falling face down into the snow.

Jonas was the first to pop up, already hustling up the small hill to the more even ground atop. He turned and readied his guard again, leaving the new snow and dirt on his face where it was. 

The goatmen were laughing. All three, laughing and pointing at him.

He looked down at himself, two spots of red blood were blossoming on his chest. Ohh, that’s gonna hurt real bad real soon. But why are they–?! Then he saw it. Or rather he didn’t see it. The blade of his sword was gone. A hilt and three sad inches of steel were all that remained. The break was clean.

My sword is broken. The thoughts landed on his kitchen table mind like pebbles – clattering then laying still.