The Proposition

by D.D. Poey

and yanked the blade free of the floor and speared his arm toward Cy’s back. Cy spun, his knife out and flashing through the smoky air. The man cried and dropped his knife, blood welling and dripping down his front.

  “In the back?”Cy asked patronizingly. “Now that’s not very noble of you.”

  “I’ve nothing!” the thief cried, wincing at the pain in his arm. “What have I to do with nobility?”

  “We’re all kings here, mate,” Cy replied, watching Wayra out of the corner of his eye. “Now get your knife up and finish this.”

  The thief bent over, red life streaming over his hand and off the tips of his fingers as he scooped up his weapon. As he rose, the room became a little more dark and a hush settled over the patrons. The man snorted like an animal and wiped something from the corner of his eye. Bright streaks of blood painted where his hand had been, and the thief took on the appearance of a great and terrifying demon.

  The only two in the room who seemed unaffected, were Wayra and Cy.

  The man started to exhale in wild growls that began as nearly silent but built into harsh blasts. Cy smiled at the spectacle, which only seemed to provoke the man even more. The thief screamed, and lunged again at Cy. This time with his knife ready, Cy dodged and dragged his blade across the stomach of his assailant. He then pivoted and plunged the steel behind the man’s shoulder. The thief wailed and fell to the ground, reaching desperately to pull the knife from his flesh. As he reached, the man began to spin slowly, causing the crowd to laugh again at the fool’s antics. Cy clapped, then put the show to an end with a solid blow to the man’s face. He fell to the ground like a sack of wet meat. Cy placed a boot on his back and drew the knife out of him. He wiped the blood off his weapon, then spun the blade so he was holding it overhand.

  “Enough,” Kilroy called out.

  Cy knelt, grabbed the thief by the hair, and exposed his pasty neck. The bade flashed and came to rest on his throat.

  “Enough!” Kilroy repeated. “There will be no killing tonight.”

  “I wasn’t going to kill the bastard,” Cy promised, “though it would be doin’ him a favor. Bugger’s dead already if you ask me.” He dropped the man’s head with a thump, and stood tall. Cy then strolled over to Wayra and pushed his knife back in its sheath. “Impressed?” he asked.

  Wayra looked him up and down, then said, “Killin’ weak, starved, and desperate men is nothing to be impressed by.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Cy answered. “So, how about a real bit of fun?” He gave Wayra a dark smile and asked, “Up for a little action?”

  Wayra shifted in his seat, all too familiar with what was to come next.

  “Men of the Paw!”Cy called out, eyeing Wayra with a cold smile. “We are in the presence of a very special guest.” He spun a circle in the room, arms raised and a grin that was getting dangerously large. “You’ve heard the stories!” Cy cried out. “Now see the legend for yourselves! The one and only, Wayra!”

  Men all about the room stamped their feet, pounded their fists upon the tables, and hallooed wildly.

  Wayra sat stoically in his seat.

  “Come!” Cy said to him, holding out his hand. “Let us see those famous skills with our own eyes.”

  “There shall be no more killing today!” Kilroy declared, slamming his fist upon the table.

  “Who said anything about killing?” Cy laughed. “Relax Kilroy. It’s only a friendly duel, to test those famous skills.”

  “I don’t duel,” Wayra answered calmly.

  “Oh but surely you would not turn from a challenge, would you Wayra?” Cy said in a patronizing manner. His eyes drifted to his gang, who began to laugh. The word coward could be heard over the din.

  “Come!” one of the Smoks yelled, rising hastily from his seat and spilling his ale. “Let us see if you know how to use that blade, or if it is just a pretty decoration.”

  Wayra looked over the drunken ma and said, “I’ve already told you. I don't duel.”

  “Coward,” the Smok declared.

  Wayra’s eyes narrowed at the accusation. He knew that he had faced more challenges, more battles, won more fights and killed more enemies than this drunken fool would ever manage on his own. He then looked about the room, but he didn’t see a group of men, but a pack of bloodthirsty wolves. The fight was inevitable, he decided.

  “Face me!” the Smok roared. “Or forever be known as coward!”

  Wayra set his cup upon the table and slowly stood, the folds of his red cloak billowing about him. He undid the clasp and dropped the cloak in his chair, then made his way to the circle.

  “Yes!” the Smok boomed. “Yes! Come! Let us see if you are more than just a story!”

  In a long, slow, purposeful motion, Wayra drew his weapon from its scabbard. His left hand reached up behind his head, and Wayra drew out a second sword. With a blade in each hand, he rubbed the steal together for a moment just to hear that old song, then squared off with the Smok. Wayra knew his opponent was large, but as he drew close he found himself looking up into the challenger’s eyes. He was not only taller, but also much broader. The man gripped his great sword like a titan of old wielding one of the pillars of the earth.

  “I am going to enjoy this, little man,” the Smok promised.

  “We’ll see,” Wayra answered calmly, blades resting confidently at each side.

  The room filled with the cry of battle as the Smok raised his weapon and brought it streaking though the air. Wayra stepped to the side with a parry and flashed his blade at the man’s neck. A scratch appeared below his beard and spit a small line of blood to his collar. The Smok reached to the cut and then inspected his damp fingers.

  “Are we done?” Wayra asked over the cheers of the audience.

  The Smok’s face darkened and he ground his massive teeth. He wound his sword over his shoulder and sent it whooshing horizontally. Wayra jumped back, and then again as the blade came around the other way. The Smok then sliced through the air in a great hammer stroke that Wayra was able to deflect with ease. The great man huffed and wheezed, growing tired from the exertion needed to wield such a large weapon. He raised his blade again, and one of Wayra’s swords flashed across the Smok’s hand. The tip of the great sword fell to the ground and Wayra cut at the other arm, slicing him across the forearm. The broad blade clanged to the floor and the Smok’s eyes grew wide and full of hate.

  Reading the man’s expression, Wayra suggested, “Leave it be, friend.” The Smok growled like a feral animal, and Wayra added, “Let us be done.”

  In a single movement, the challenger bent and plucked his weapon from the ground, and then swung wildly at Wayra in a wide arch. The blade made a clear sound as it sliced through the air, level with Wayra’s neck. Though the slice was well short of its target, it did not stop the smock from wind up another attempt. This time, Wayra stepped inside of the blow and drove the butt of a sword into the side of the Smoks head. The Smok’s eyes rolled and Wayra slammed a boot into the man’s knee. His foot came out from under him and the broad sword clattered to the floor as the Smok caught himself from falling.

  The room erupted in hollers.

  “We are done,” Wayra declared, and slipped a blade back into its scabbard. He turned his back and stepped toward his table. Wayra didn’t head the knife come out of its sheath, but he heard the gasps of the crowd clearly enough. Wayra looked over his should and found the Smok bearing down on him with a dagger held high. Wayra’s sword flashed and a gash split across the man’s throat. Blood dumped over the edge of the wound and the room was silenced but for the wet sucking sound coming from the Smok’s neck as he struggled fruitlessly for air. The knife clattered and his eyes bulged while the room watched a champion die. With a loud and damp thud, the Smok fell into a puddle of his low life and wheezed his last.

  The room stared at Wayra in stunned silence. The speed and lethality of the attack left the room tak
ing a step back in awe. Wayra pulled a cloth from his pocket and dragged his blade through it, and then slipped the sword home in its scabbard.

  “Ron,” Kilroy called out into the crowd. “Get Dinman out of here. Wayra?”

  He didn’t bother turning at the mention of him name. Wayra quietly slipped back into his cloak and emptied his ale.

  “Get some rest,” Kilroy finished. “The men will be ready at sun up.”

  “Aye,” Wayra muttered, making his way to a short hall to the left of the bar, “but who will be watching the Smoks now that I’ve killed a brother?”

  Wayra pulled his room door open and stepped into the simple chamber. It was lightly furnished, with nothing more than a bed and a chair. The door, he was pleased to find, had a heavy bold and a thick wooden bar, which was a hint at the type of company the tavern normally kept.

  He stripped out of his traveling clothes and tried to get comfortable upon the mattress, but the hall was now filling with noise again as the patrons talked of the fights, and the memories scratching against the inside of his head wouldn’t let him relax.

  “Why am I doing this?” he asked the darkness. “Five years,” Wayra sighed. “Five years is a long time.”

  In his mind, Wayra could still see the field littered with blood and armor and crows. The men in his camp, beaten, cut, and scarred, smiled at one another like demons. Dried blood decorated their faces, though whose