by Dale Lucas
“You don’t have to tell me,” Torval said. “On that, we’re in agreement. Continue.”
So Rem continued with his story, knowing that at any moment, Torval might drag him into a tavern to eyeball cutpurses or lead him down some winding back alley to search for creeping footpads or burglars. Rem covered the dice game, made it clear that he was just as surprised as his opponents that he kept rolling nines, and finally got to the part where things were both abundantly clear and still fuzzy.
“So,” he concluded, “they called me a cheat. I took umbrage. I guess after that we traded blows and I ended up in your dungeons with no ken of how I’d gotten there. A lousy hangover, too.”
“You’re from Hasturland,” Torval said. “That’s close enough to Kosterland to know why your dice mates would be put off by a run of nines.”
“Sure,” Rem admitted, “They might have been Kostermen, and I know the Kosterfolk are superstitious sorts. They think nine is sacred, but what could I do? It really was just dumb luck.”
“Dumb, indeed,” Torval said.
Torval led them to the door of a new tavern. “Shall we step in for a look about?”
Rem raised an eyebrow, not sure what Torval was getting at. Torval lifted his chin, suggesting that Rem look upward. Rem did so, and saw that the shingle above them was for the Pickled Albatross. He looked to Torval, shocked and grateful all at once.
“Taking pity on me, Old Stump?”
“Pity’s the word, for you’re a pitiful lad,” Torval said. “Besides, I could use a quaff of something before we hit the waterfront.”
The tavern was more crowded tonight than Rem remembered it being the night before. Almost every table was filled, and much of the standing room as well. A quick survey of the room told Rem that the clientele were of a shockingly broad cast. Among Koster sailors and stevedores, Estavari bravos and drovers from Hastur and outer marches, he saw a sprinkling of elves gone to the road and more than a few knots of squat, bearded dwarves—most likely not residents but just in town to trade wares or purchase pig iron. Through a low doorway, Rem even thought he saw some orcs in the dooryard beyond, swilling ale beside the horse troughs and tether posts. He wasn’t sure if that was because the brutes found the tavern too cramped, or because the owner of the Pickled Albatross urged them to stay there.
He remarked on it to Torval.
“Not so unusual,” the dwarf said. “Orctown’s just outside the North Gate, not far from here. They’ll drink where they can, providing the proprietors let them.”
“Hardly sporting,” Rem muttered. “If they’re not causing trouble.”
“Oh, they will,” Torval said, perhaps a little too bitterly. “They always do, the mouth-breathing bastards. Save your pity, boy. They don’t deserve it.”
“What do they come here for, then?” Rem asked. “If they’re so unwelcome—”
“Coin,” Torval sneered. “Always coin. Up in the mountains, they cultivate poppy, witchweed, and berserker leaf. Eyefever mushrooms, too. They come down to the cities to sell them, or trade them for weapons to go a-butchering with. Hang the lot of them. If I had my way, they’d not be within a hundred miles of any civilized city.”
He spat on the sawdust-strewn floor.
Rem was intrigued. He knew well that orcs were considered by most to be ancient enemies of both man- and dwarf-kind, and this is why one seldom encountered them in human settlements outside of cities like Yenara—the largest, the richest, and the most likely to ignore ancient enmities if it meant free trade and fresh coin. But he had seen evidence on the road south—human caravans willingly engaging with roving orc warbands who offered no threat in order to barter for furs or other forest produce—to suggest that, even outside the cities, the necessities and practicalities of everyday commerce often overcame even the most deeply held assumptions about who was or was not worthy of being treated with.
Torval, however, seemed thoroughly committed to his hatred of orc-kind. The bitter tone of his words alone was enough to convince Rem of that.
A barmaid passed near them. Torval reached out with one long, muscular arm and flagged her down before she could move past. “Oi, lass. You know a girl named Indilen? Auburn hair? Big brown eyes?”
Rem felt himself turn red. The barmaid scrutinized him for a moment as though he were the lowest form of life she’d serve this evening, then shrugged a little. “She never came back. Cupp’s in a twist about it.”
Torval’s tongue worked inside his mouth. “Send Cupp out,” Torval said, then tossed a pair of brass coins on the girl’s wooden serving tray. “Two Double Drakes. The coin’s yours.”
The girl smiled, said she’d see to both requests right away, and bustled on.
Torval looked to Rem. “Watchwardens drink free, but it’s always good to throw some brass at the barmaids.”
Rem glared at Torval. “Was that necessary? Making me out to be some heartsick suitor?”
“Because it embarrassed you?” Torval asked, mouth twisting into an impish grin. “Absolutely.”
Soon enough, Cupp appeared. Rem assumed he must be the owner of the place, since he had the imperious nature and permanent air of distraction that marked every tavernkeep Rem had ever known. He was a large man, once muscular, now gone to fat, his arms still strong, but his belly thick.
“I know this one,” Cupp said upon seeing Rem. “Do you have any idea what a mess you made in here last night?”
Rem tried to remain cool. He surveyed the room. “Looks like you cleaned up nicely, sir. Many thanks for a memorable evening.”
“What’s he doing here?” Cupp asked Torval. Clearly the two knew each other. “I hope he’s to be whipped! Or at least spend some time in the stocks?”
“Actually, his punishment’s far worse,” Torval said. “Rem here’s now a member of the wardwatch.”
“You’re joking!”
Torval shook his head. “Dead serious, Cupp. Don’t worry—his fines will come out of his first pay purse. What can you tell us about a girl named Indilen?”
“She’s fired,” Cupp said.
“You fired her?”
“I will when she shows up. Two nights in a row she hasn’t. If she’s not dead in a ditch or hied to the hills, it’s my grave intent to toss her into the street without so much as a copper of her last week’s pay. You don’t just stiff me like that. I gave her a job when nobody else would and let her get good when she clearly wasn’t to start. Some thanks I get …”
Torval looked troubled. “The nerve,” he said distractedly.
“What’s your interest in her?” Cupp asked.
“The boy here’s smitten.”
“Is that what kept you here all last night?” Cupp asked Rem sneeringly. “You were waiting on that hoity-toity little bitch?”
“I think you can stop there,” Rem said. Why he should take offense over a girl he only met once being called a bitch by her boss was beyond him. Still, something in him rebelled at the thought of Indilen being so named, and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut, in spite of his better judgment.
Cupp loomed over him. “See here, boy,” he snarled. “I don’t give a tin tinker’s fart that you’re in a cuirass and sportin’ the signet. You don’t come in here and dictate a thing to me.”
Two things happened then that kept Rem from offering a pithy—and potentially provocative—response to Cupp. First, the barmaid returned with their Double Drake ales. Second, there was a sudden row from the far side of the room—the doorway that led out into the livery yard where the orcs drank. An orc stood in the door, nearly filling it, barking at an older barmaid who was doing her best to talk the beast back out into the night. It was no good, though—the orc kept snarling at her, clearly insisting that he had a right to sit in the Pickled Albatross and swill his mead, the dearth of open space notwithstanding.
Torval, quaffing a great mouthful of his ale, looked to Rem.
“Well?” he asked.
“What?” Rem said. Torval still hadn’t
passed him the other mug of Double Drake. Rem felt his mouth watering in anticipation.
“Disturbing the peace,” Torval answered. “Go see to it, watchman.”
“You’re joking,” Rem said, snatching another look at the belligerent orc in the doorway, who was now shoving the barmaid aside and stomping into the tavern as though he owned the place.
“Here,” Torval said, finally offering Rem the other cup of ale. “A little courage, then off you go.”
“This should be good,” Cupp snorted.
“I can’t,” Rem began.
“Then you can slough back to the watchkeep and turn in that cuirass and signet,” Torval said, no longer amused by Rem’s refusal. “Get your ass over there, fledgling!”
Rem snatched the cup from Torval’s hand, gave himself a refreshing mouthful, then handed the cup back and crossed the room. He tightened his grip on the wooden stave in his hand.
CHAPTER FIVE
The orc seemed to grow as Rem approached. It was quite disconcerting. Rem had never seen an orc up close before—he’d grown up too deep in the low country of the north to ever catch more than a fleeting, distant glimpse of one, and he had certainly never treated with them directly. It had a broad, flat face, wide nostrils, beady eyes deep-set beneath a heavy, sloping brow, and a prominent underbite. Its skin was somewhere between the color of a green olive and tarnished steel. It smelled like wet mud and horse dung. Finally drawing up close, Rem realized the orc was a full head taller than he, its shoulders as wide as two of him.
“Excuse me,” Rem said, stepping right into the orc’s path. It was shoving its way through a tightly packed knot of tables, leaving in its wake a trail of very unhappy patrons. Worse, those patrons were hard men—sailors and horsemen and rogues and cutpurses and gamblers, all more than a little offended that some knuckle-dragging orc from the mountains would dare to shove itself into the midst of their nightly revelry. Rem saw the flash of daggers here and there in the mulling crowd, and realized the moment that he stepped into the orc’s path that he smelled sour mead on its breath.
A look into the beast’s deep-set, beady little eyes convinced him that the orc was smashingly drunk.
Bollocks.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding,” Rem said, the orc’s little pale eyes now focusing on him. “What say we step outside and talk it over, eh?”
The orc snarled, showing its crooked—and very large—yellow teeth. One fist shot out with blinding speed and clamped around Rem’s throat. Before Rem could make even the smallest sound of surprise, he’d been lifted off the floor, legs pinwheeling. Both of his hands fell onto the orc’s wrists and he struggled to free himself. Already his sight was going bleary, filled with whorls of shadow and bursting stars. Worse, the patrons weren’t objecting to the orc’s abuse of a watchwarden. They were laughing.
But then a low dark form moved in on Rem’s right. He saw that form take up a chair, swing that chair in a wide arc, and shatter it on the orc’s left shoulder. The sound the chair made when smashing was so deep, so blunt, that Rem realized it was a stoutly made little chair, and that it took great force to swing it, and greater resistance still to break it.
The orc let Rem go. Down he went, landing on his ass and thumping his head on the rush-strewn plank floor. As his vision cleared, he saw that it was Torval who’d swung the chair.
The dwarf—barely half the size of the drunken orc—lunged right up toward the beast. He raised his maul for emphasis and shook it in the orc’s face.
“Oi!” he barked. “He was talking to you, you bloody knuckleback! Get your green arse outside!”
The orc swung at Torval, but the dwarf ducked, then swung his maul and planted a series of savage blows in the creature’s abdomen and flanks. The orc roared and bent double. Without hesitation, in a movement so swift it could have been the envy of any Estavari sword master, Torval drew the maul back and brought it arcing down on the orc’s bent shoulders. With a whoof, the beast went down.
The orc’s companions lingered in the doorway, watching their comrade struggle to rise but making no move to assist him. Rem skittered away from the beast, moving crabwise across the floor and dragging himself to his feet on a table some ten feet away. He looked back just in time to see the situation spiral out of hand.
The orc reached out with one long arm to find purchase somewhere, to help itself regain its feet. Unfortunately, it grabbed the lip of a table where two men sat swilling ale and gambling, a pile of throw-down cards and mismatched coin between them. The orc’s haphazard groping brought the table down. Both men leapt to their feet, furious that half their deck and all of their money now littered the floor. A few nearby patrons dove for the floor to scoop up the strewn coin. One of the gamblers threw himself at that lot, to keep their grubby hands off their swag. The other gambler shouted curses at the downed orc and lunged toward him, knife sliding out of a sheath at his belt.
When the man attacked the orc, the orcs at the door stomped into the room and beset him, eager to help their companion. More men saw orcs attacking their fellows and decided that could not stand. In moments, a pile of writhing, struggling bodies roiled stormily above the downed orc—who, so far as Rem could see, never managed to regain his feet. Torval, likewise, was buried in the melee. That localized brawl knocked over more tables, and more patrons joined it. New brawls then broke out all across the quaffing floor, the opportunistic orgies of violent men in search of a night’s entertainment.
Rem blinked in disbelief. Everyone, it seemed, fought everyone.
Then Torval emerged from the fray above their orcish prisoner. He didn’t leave the melee—he simply backed away from it for a moment, got a sense of what was unfolding, then dove in again. Rem watched, amazed, as the dwarf swung his maul to the left and right in broad, flat arcs, stunning men and orcs twice his size with strike after strike, ducking punches, kicks, and whistling blades meant for him, hauling men bodily off the battling orcs then shoving them aside like children, snatching knives out of eager fists and tossing them haphazardly aside to stick in support beams or wooden wall paneling nearby. Torval was a small but vicious storm of steel and fury, and the businesslike way that he tore into the crowd and neutralized each protesting fighter, one by one, took Rem’s breath away.
Unlike with orcs, Rem had some experience with dwarves, for they traded in his homeland often. He knew they were fierce adversaries. He’d heard the stories they would tell around the hearth fires of local inns, as well as the tales told by older men who had seen them in action or fought alongside them. But Rem had never seen—nor heard of—one dwarf taking on such an enormous crowd of adversaries before—and winning—with only a steel club in hand.
Surrounded by a gaggle of defeated drunks, beaten brawlers, and delirious bleeding orcs, Torval was at last without impediment. He stood above the drunken, beaten orc that he’d sent Rem to subdue. The beast quivered and thrashed on its back, trying to regain its feet after being trapped beneath the dog pile of angry drinkers. Before it could get upright, Torval was on it. He straddled the beast and leaned right down into its foul face to snarl at it.
“I’m implementing a new policy in your honor, you slope-headed bastard!” Torval shouted. “No huffers in this winesink! Do you hear me, you knuckle-dragging piece of cack?”
The orc roared defiantly. Some of its dazed friends responded in kind.
Torval gave it a mighty head butt that broke its upturned nose. The orc wailed like a child. Its wide nostrils oozed blood. The other orcs fell silent.
As the orc wailed, Torval proceeded to shatter its teeth and jaw with his fists. By the time he was done, the orc was no longer roaring or wailing … it was sobbing, begging for mercy.
Rem’s stomach turned. He wasn’t sure what sickened him more: the sound of Torval’s bare fists striking the orc’s thick flesh, again and again, without relent, or the ferocity of Torval’s hatred. His broad face was a mask of fury and contempt, but there was an infernal light in his
eyes—a sort of feral satisfaction. For the first time that evening, Rem found himself fearing his new partner’s wrath.
Torval leapt off the orc and reeled away. The other orcs strewn about scurried out of his path. He wended through the litter of beaten drunks and overturned tables—no easy task amid all that chaos—and made straight for Rem.
Rem managed to stand upright. He opened his mouth to tell Torval how astounded he was. To think that Torval—little Torval, all by himself—could put so many men and orcs on their backs—
Torval punched him. Rem hit the floor.
“Next time,” Torval growled, “hit first, ask questions later. Now tie that one up and bring him along.”
Away he went. Rem, tasting blood in his mouth and sensing that his lip would be swollen again within the hour, looked to the whimpering, bloodied orc on the tavern floor. He didn’t relish approaching the beast, let alone trying to use one of the double sheepshank binders at his belt to immobilize its great, apish hands or urge it along, but he’d already made a mess of it all, hadn’t he? Best not to make things worse by balking now.
Surprisingly, the orc submitted to being bound and followed Rem out of the Pickled Albatross without resistance. When they emerged into the cool, foggy night to find Torval waiting outside, the beast quailed at the sight of the dwarf and actually cowered. He wasn’t afraid to go with Rem, it appeared—just Torval. The orc could sense the dwarf’s latent animosity, his unbridled hatred for the whole of the orcish race. Rem tried to calm the brute, but when Torval saw the orc’s resistance, he strode to them, grabbed the coils of rope round the orc’s wrists, and yanked.
“Not another word,” Torval growled, looking up into the orc’s broad, flat face like the beast was half his size and not the other way round. Torval then proceeded to search all the pouches at the beast’s belt, as well as a leather purse slung across its back. He found a few handfuls of coin, along with two or three morsels partaken-of but wrapped in hanks of roughspun for later—a stale crust of bread, some very smelly salt-cured meat, and a wedge of cheese that was already showing the first signs of green mold.