by Troy Reaves
The young woman tossed his clothes and things to him without meeting his eyes and turned her back to him once more. “Who are you?” She questioned, as Boremac dried himself with his extra shirt and quickly dressed. “You sport a number of scars. It must have been a challenging duty you performed, judging from your chest wound I mean. I assume that is the one that made you reconsider your chosen occupation. Where are you from?”
Boremac found he could not resist increasing his rescuer’s discomfort as he answered. “I am Frosstel, and I am come from a small keep far in the northlands. I feel this trip to Verson has wounded me more than my duties at the keep ever did. I must say that I have never been struck dumb so completely by a lady and rewarded so well for the wounding.” He did laugh when she turned to face him this time. Her furrowed brow and attempt at looking angry left him no choice. He ventured one more teasing before she had time to speak. “If you were impressed by’all’ the scars I laid bare as I lay here, you should see my backside. I think you would find that landscape equally impressive.”
She got the better of him with her reply, the foxy grin once more gracing her face. “I will have to imagine, as I have no interest in finding out for certain. You should be on your way to the city. Full night falls quickly and you will want to find an inn. Perhaps we will met again there.”
“Wait.” Boremac reached into his bag as she turned to leave, making her way home he assumed. “I should replace the soap you lost in the stream rescuing me. I would have you at least think I am a gentle man. This should recompense you, at least for the cleanser.” He held out the softer smelling lavender bar, dangling it from its silken strand at full reach to appear less threatening. “How should I call you if I see you again? Princess of the Stream seems rather presumptuous despite your rescue.”
The young woman moved to take the soap offered, remarking on the scent as she did so. “You are a wily one, I think. The lure is sweet, even more than the one lost, so I accept the bait.” She took the soap, tracing the silken line attached to it with her other hand before she spoke again. “I think I will accept the reward for your rescue… but I will keep my name to see what bargain I can strike with you at another time, Master Frosstel. I am quite certain our paths will cross in Verson.” The fox took her features yet again, and she moved as quickly as one when she turned and slipped into the forest.
“Yes,” Boremac stated to the falling night and the rising moon, “I am quite certain we will meet again.”
Boreamc made into Verson in the dark of night with no trouble, and surprisingly no challenge. There were no walls around the city itself and there were no patrols guarding the road he took into the city. This would have been strange enough but Boremac also noted the edges of the city were deserted. He heard faint noises coming from further inside the city and followed the sound until he reached what he assumed was the center of Verson.
The market had stands of various styles, some obviously set up as temporary structures and others sturdier, even bearing signs with the wares that were sold there during the day. There was a weapon smith’s stall complete with an anvil and fire pit for heating the metals they worked. There were various vendor symbols ranging from a spinning wheel denoting a tailor and a shield that was probably an armor smith, both of which appeared to be locals with no fear of their working tools being stolen. Boremac chuckled, thinking the local thieves would be very unwise to aggravate the merchants caring for the mercenaries here. Better to pick their pockets directly than bite the hands that feed the bounty hunters.
Boremac easily found the source of the noise in the deserted city. The taverns and inns that formed the heart of Verson all poured forth some amount of light and the degree of rambunctious sound varied from one to another. In some he could hear drunken singing, others gave forth the sounds of verbose shouting as people competed to yell, the statements punctuated by the sounds of breaking crockery more often than not. Boremac felt those houses of drink were best avoided for now and angled toward one of the quieter inns. He assumed correctly that the farmers would be staying at one of them, probably drinking with the locals and catching up with the news. Boremac headed in to the quietest inn he could find and was pleased to see the aprons and broad hats littered across and hanging off chair backs. He had found the best he could hope, first try no less, or so he thought.
His entry was greeted by near silence, broken only by some mumbling grumbles and hard stares in his direction. A growling heavy voice came from somewhere near the bar. “Get out with you! Go on and join the others! I will’ave no trouble in my place and you look like nothing but that!”
Boremac answered the voice, noting the bit of forehead covered with a broad mane of hair as black as pitch behind the bar. He directed his entreaty toward the head, assuming the man was one of the mountain people. “I mean no harm. I am new to the city and sought only a quiet place to rest, perhaps a gentler ale to wash the road from my throat. May I approach the bar and discuss possible lodgings?”
There was a brief silence from behind the bar, then the mumbling of instructions to two men near it that were armored in studded leather despite the dress of everyone one else in the place. Boremac presumed they were guards as they moved to either side of him and firmly grabbed his arms, guiding him to the bar and the owner. There was a light scrabbling of wood on wood and the barkeep appeared to take a couple of steps onto the bar itself. Boremac was not exactly happy to see the two heavy sledge hammers in his hands were held at the ready. “State your business here and be quick! I will need one damn good reason you should remain here.”
As Boremac blessed Alchendia, he looked more closely at the broad short man that now stood over him. He wore an apron, not unlike others drinking in the tavern, so he was either the barkeep or an owner that was not afraid to get his hands dirty. A wide variety of permanent stains littered the apron he wore, at least one of which appeared to be dried blood from some time ago. Despite his swell of a belly the man was obviously not one to alarm in his house. His arms, though shorter than Sumar’s, were well muscled. Boremac noted hooks at either side of the man’s belt and metal loops at the back of each of the hammers he held, indicating he was well familiar with their weight. He chose his words carefully. “If you allow me, I would like to give you several reasons.” He swept his hand out in front of the man, dropping several gold coins across the bar. “Allow me to make up for interrupting the peace of this inn and buy a round for the house I have disturbed. All I ask is a comfortable bed to recover in and an ale to cleanse my throat.”
“What say you?!?” The keeper hollered out to the craftsmen in the tavern. “I will have him and his gold on the street with your say!” The mountain man lowered his hammers to his side, and Boremac felt he was giving his approval in his own manner.
The voices of the people drinking rang up as one, “Aye!” but one man stood near the center of the common room facing the barkeep and spoke. “You have the best ale and the best company here and it is only better when someone else is paying but…”
The mountain man waved a hand at the man after hooking his hammers on his hips. “The others have spoken, Fenel, and I will not ‘ave anyone telling me how to run my ‘ouse, especially you!” There was a general tremor of laughter that wound throughout the common room at this and most of the tension bled out of the room with it. He’as given me more than enough for you all to ‘ave a nip of the good stuff, so line up and drink well! As for you, stranger, I can make you arrangements for a soft place to lie down when you wish, but there are no gentle ales in my place!” The mountain man dismounted the bar, remaining on a stool that kept his head and chest over the level of the bar. As if to confirm his statement concerning the drink he served, he placed a large mug of dark bitters before Boremac as the rogue sat at the bar. “It says much of your character that you don’ flinch, or get too bold, before me hammers. You are welcome here. The rest will say so and no one will give you trouble in my’ouse.” The owner turned and walked down the bar on a
ledge behind it, taking care of his other patrons as Boremac took his first drink, daring the ale to strike him, and half the mug was drained. It hit as hard as one of the mountain man’s hammers probably would have, and he blinked. Once more the crowded tavern took note of him and a low murmur spread just before the laughter did. “I told you, stranger!” The owner joined in the general laughter, his low, powerful voice carrying easily over the commotion without effort. Boremac shook off the effects of the ale theatrically as he played the crowd’s attentions, wanting to take advantage of their amusement. It was hard to suspect a man who appeared so foolish and naïve.
Boremac made rounds at the tables, buying more drinks and listening intently to the common people that supplied the city’s needs. He learned a great deal that night about the structure of Verson and its loose rules. There was no governor, mostly because the city itself was little more than a large village, but also because the leader of the thieves’ guild would not allow it. His reach was long enough to keep most issues that came up in the city under control and he even maintained a small garrison composed of brutes and volunteers. The volunteers were drawn largely from young farmers and old mercenaries who felt they needed more, or less, action in their lives. It was steady pay with little work involved as the mercenaries did well at policing their number. Trouble makers were just as likely to be dragged out of the city by the larger mercenary groups as the local constables. A jail was maintained but rarely used, serving as a cooling off cell more than a punishment. Word would be sent to Travelflor to carry away captures for bounty when the need arose for special processing or in the event of high crimes. It was a very profitable system, hammered out over time by the cunning leader of the guild. Boremac would have to engage the man at some point, all mercenaries did, to get the proper papers to work in the area.
All bounty hunters reported to Verson. All contracts in the land passed through this city because of this, and the guild went to some lengths to keep it that way. It was rumored that regular payments were made to the governors and guild houses of Travelflor and Nactium to assure there was no competition. There was more truth to this than anyone knew outside of the Thieves’ guild itself. The guild maintained its own spy network, as was the custom of all the guilds, but it also had an understanding with the sister guilds. The payments to the larger cities near Verson made certain there was very little that happened in either city that the master of the guild did not know.
Boremac was able to distill much of this information from his conversations the night before and fill in the blank spots with very little effort. He awakened the next day midmorning to the sounds of hollering outside the inn. There seemed to be some sort of altercation taking place in the center of town, though it was difficult to be sure. Boremac recognized the loud roar of the innkeeper he had encountered the night before, but the other powerful voice, obviously one of another mountain man from the manner of speech, was unfamiliar. He was not sure why they were yelling, mostly due to the various punctuation of what sounded like a large crowd bellowing in answer to each man’s retort. There was a mixture of cheers and jeering as the men traded words in the street. ‘Well, this should be interesting.’ Boremac thought as he dressed quickly and ran outside to investigate the situation.
A large ring had formed around the innkeeper and what appeared to be another innkeeper, each of the men brandishing weapons and growling taunts at one another. The man who ran the establishment where Boremac had stayed seemed calm compared to the other man, shouting into his opponent’s face with their noses almost touching. “A word would be all it would take and you would be serving water and flat biscuits to these men! You have no place in Verson and still I tolerate your ravings against me! Bring your weapon to bear or suffer, you damned rat-born!”
The other man’s face glowed in the morning light with his fury. “You one to talk of rats! I seen the size of the ones that scamper in your stores, you old fool! I daresay it is the smell of your patronage that draws em! Speak of cutting me off, will you! I pay a more than fair price for me goods and for that, the commoners drink your salted, watered ale and call it good!”
“You go after me ale! That was me dead mother’s recipe and you won’t spit it out, you rat bastard! Swallow your words or I be smacking you about the head, armed or not!” The hammers came into his hands as if they had been there all along.
“Speakin’ of your parentage, you are a fine example why ugly should not be allowed to breed! There was not a chance you might come out right for the ugly in your family tree! Bless your parents for not inflicting themselves on decent folk, curse ‘em for bearing you!” The other mountain man drew a pick off his back, uttering a challenging grunt as he did that was punctuated by him spitting on his opponent’s boots. The pick was unlike any weapon Boremac had ever seen, sporting a long curved spike sprouting from the top, with a narrow shovel head that came out the other side perpendicular to the thick wooden shaft handle. The man wasted no time, stepping back into a balanced attack stance and swinging hard. His blow accomplished its intended purpose, the pointed end of it carving a long narrow line in front of the other mountain man, barely scraping the surface of the dirt. It was enough. He took two steps back and barked his last words to the innkeeper Boremac had met the night before. “Cross it if you dare, Landual!”
As Landual stepped over the line with his hammers held at his sides, a steady chanting started to build among the onlookers. The commoners and local farmers, Boremac assumed, were steadily chanting’Landual!’ in a steadily increasing speed and volume, while it appeared the mercenaries had taken up the cause of the other mountain man.’Madial! Madial! Madial!’ was now competing for the air, and Boremac felt the battle for dominance between the two men and the shouts of the divided crowd would be equally intense.
Madial made the first move, swinging tauntingly near Landual’s waist. Landual’s reply did not disappoint. He leapt toward his opponent, carried through the air further than Boremac would have thought possible, silencing the chanting crowd for just a moment. The brief time it took for him to land and strike at Madial gave his target just room to brace the heavy pick handle across his chest, taking the brunt of the blow. Still one had to be impressed with the force of the delivery as Madial staggered back a step. Landual took the chance to raise his hammers over his head bringing cheers from the crowd. He shook the hammers over his head as he turned in a practiced circle before planting his feet in a defensive position. It did not look like this fight would last long. Boremac felt the pick was definitely outmatched by the hammers, despite its extra reach.
Boremac found that assuming the pick was unwieldy was incorrect, all too soon. Madial charged the waiting hammers without sweeping back with the pick, bringing it below Landual’s guard and taking his legs from under him. His momentum carried him beyond Madial where he lay on his back, surrounded by a cloud of dust kicked up by his fall. It was Madial’s turn to play to the crowd. He made a tight circle, pick axe held high as the roar of his supporters drowned out the chanting for Landual. Madial turned and stepped away from his challenger, shouting down toward Landual. “Concede, old fool, or eat dirt until you canna’ stand!”
What happened next took everyone by surprise, mostly Madial. Somehow Landual managed to piston his arms and legs in one fluid motion to bring his body up at an angle and launch his large head into Madial’s stomach. A slight shudder ran through the ground near the men fighting as Madial’s backside struck the hard packed earth of the ring. He never knew what hit him and seemed momentarily dazed as Landual rolled to one side and regained his feet. “Old? Mahap, but far from dead and you not seen all my tricks yet, pup!” The crowd rippled with raucous laughter at this that only increased with the next statement. “Need a bit of help up, or can ye manage?” Landual picked his hammers up from where he had left them, hooking them at his sides, and stepped near Madial with an outstretched hand.
“Far be it from me,” said Madial as he reached for the offered hand, “to sour an of
fer of’elp from the elderly by bein’ disingenuous.” Madial took the advantage of locking both his hands around Landual’s offered forearm and forcing his back to the ground, pulling the other man forward. His stout legs came up bent and ready, dragging Landual into the trap, ejecting Landual over his head. The toss threw Landual into the spectators, much to their dismay. Mountain men were not known for being slight or soft and this was reaffirmed for the three men knocked to the ground by the projectile.
The luckless victims of Ladual’s landing softened the blow, allowing him to retake his footing immediately. He stomped near Madial, who was once again rallying his supporters, shouting his own name with the crowd. Landual tapped him lightly on the back of his head with a thick finger, drawing Madial’s attention and quieting the crowd in anticipation. “We end this now! That was low, even for you, rat bastard! Face me afore I strike ye in the back’o yer head!”
“That might even the fight some, ifn’ you managed to stun me!” Madial spun on his heel with the grace of a dancer, growling loudly into Landual’s face. “Accept yer fate, old man! Ya lost the challenge when ya lef’ the circle. It is no’ my fault ya got not sense enough to watch for tricks. Ya should get back to yer tavern and tend to yer farmers!”