Grimbald belched and placed his hand on his gut. “Mm. Tastes like sausages.”
“Has she found anything?” Juzo said, his red eye widening.
“Don’t know. Mm. Not gonna try to eat me are you?” Grimbald asked, feeling his emotions vacillating between desperation and joy. “Would I lie?”
“Everyone can lie,” Juzo said flatly. A big sigh left his chest, then he started biting his lip. “And make mistakes.”
“Part of life. But no more about mistakes. The Explorer’s over there.” He pointed to a modest building near the barracks, butting up against a set of inner walls leading to the wizard’s spires. If any invader made it over the outer walls, the inner walls would further channel the attackers into a narrow band for slaughter. It was a tactic taken from Midgaard’s book, part of the fortifications they had made when Death Spawn scoured the lands. King Ezra was mad but knew a thing about castle defenses.
They turned left, veering off the path and onto a section where the ornamental garden receded, yielding to a section of only cobbles and buildings. The tavern had a lantern hanging over the door, the outside wood shake and weathered beige. There were a few small stained glass windows, clouded over and showing the dark shapes of figures moving within. It mirrored the condition of the barracks across the path, plain and without ostentation like most of the Tower’s trappings. It was the kind of place Grimbald was most at ease. He thought Juzo would like it here too.
Grimbald pushed through the Explorer’s wooden door, welcomed by the mouth-watering aroma of roasting meats and warmth. There were about twenty Armsman huddled along the counter in good-natured conversation. A few stood behind it, signaling for the barmaid’s attention. Elsa was busy but still managed to greet Grimbald with a wave. Grimbald gave her his best smile, admiring the curve of her ample bosom as she turned to face a customer. A few Armsman turned to see who came in, tossed them a half-hearted wave, some muttering something that sounded like “commander.”
Square wooden beams supported the upper floor and rows of flickering lanterns hung from the crossbeams. Above the counter, tankards swayed on nails as they were washed and used before they were dry. The walls were littered with Death Spawn weapons from the Shadow War, a grim reminder of what the world was once like. There were serrated swords, scythes, and jagged hooks. In a corner sat a practice dummy dressed in a full suit of pitted Death Spawn armor, obsidian, and spiked. There was a blackened puncture through the chestplate where its former owner was likely taken by a fireball.
Five small tables surrounded the counter occupied by Armsman who seemed to be reaching beyond the point of drunk, though no one appeared to mind. Grim sure didn’t. He was glad to see his men enjoying themselves. He felt grateful then for the station he’d made it to in life. Life never takes you where you expect, that was certain.
Grimbald led them to an empty spot beside the counter where a shelf ran along on the wall, just wide enough to support a few glasses. A pair of Armsman debating which was better, the sword or the axe, shifted down to make room for them.
“Evening, men,” he said to them.
They gave him respectful nods and raised their glasses. One of the pair knitted his brows at Juzo.
“Charming,” Juzo said and pressed his back against the shelf, resting his elbows easily on it.
“Isn’t it? Nice to have a tavern close by. The Tower bridge can be frigid with that sea wind cutting across it.”
Elsa sauntered over, two tankards grasped in her hands and brimming with foam. “On the house.” She flashed him a smile and gave him a little wink.
Juzo took it and muttered his thanks, put it on the shelf and slid it over towards Grimbald. “All yours, friend.”
“Elsa! Bring me a chicken when you’ve got a chance, please.”
She had her back to them and gave a few acknowledging nods, her skirts swishing as she walked. She shouted an order into the kitchen as she slipped behind the bar, then started filling someone’s empty mug.
The soft strumming of a guitar started at the other side of the room. A broad-bellied man was sitting on a stool on a raised platform, a guitar clutched in his plump arms. A lean fiddler with a beard that trailed down to his chest soon joined him. They paused.
The guitar player eyed the fiddler and said, “One, two, three.” They started on cue, spiking the air with a joyful tune. The fiddler walked around the guitar player, bouncing his legs all the while. Their energies harmonized, and Grimbald felt a lightness filling the air. Some men started clapping in tune and other’s stomping their boots, a few cheers called out.
“Alright! Told you this place was great.” Grimbald grinned at Juzo and nudged his side. A few gathered around the duet, whooping, and slurping from tankards.
“Grim…” Juzo leaned towards him, looked down, then back up like he had something grave on his mind. “I don’t know where to start. I haven’t been back to Shipton. But I want to, need to tell you that I’m deeply, terribly sorry for what I did, to everything. To your home.” Juzo raised his voice so he could be heard over the music and met his eyes. “I know no words will make up for what I did to you… your family, your village, your people. Your father.” His lips trembled, and he shook his head. “I’m so sorry.”
“Stop.” Grimbald put his hand on his shoulder.
“I was in a bad place, a bad state.”
“Juzo.” He had already forgiven him some time ago, though the pains still came.
“My mind wasn’t right. I—”
“I know. I forgive you.” Grimbald had both of his hands on his shoulders now. “I know about your curse… done a bit of reading about it from Ny— er, the Arch Wizard, her research. I know you couldn’t control yourself.”
Juzo seemed to be fighting back a floodgate of tears, and his cheeks seemed hollow as a skull’s in the dim tavern light. “But the thing is, I could control myself. I could’ve done something different. Sorry. I should’ve been able to stop myself.”
“It’s okay,” Grimbald trailed off, his voice sounding far away. The music, the whooping, and the clanking tankards faded. The world blurred at the edges and colors twisted together.
Grimbald remembered finding his pa’s body then, his head nearly severed. And the blood. There was so much blood. A scarlet disc had formed around him. His hand had reached for his mother’s charcoal drawings he always kept at the bedside. They were crumpled in his hand, smeared with his blood. Why was there so much blood?
He remembered being forced to kill the people he’d known all his life, their flesh turned white and their eyes red as hot iron. He remembered watching them burn, transformed into blackened skeletons from Walter’s pitiless fire. They were all shrieking demons, the only semblance of their former selves the shape of their bodies.
He saw Corpsemaker hack through a faceless child’s arm, flopping to the floor of the Hissing Gooseberry. He saw the elder Albert’s head float through the air, rolled across the barroom floor, his scream going on and on forever in his ears. Albert’s wife sprinted at him, her apron still dusted with flour, her mouth yawning unnaturally open. Why was she baking so early that day? He had wondered. His axe carved through their forms, throwing broad streaks of liquid over the barroom’s walls.
“No.” He heard the word hiss from his lips. “No. It’s over. The past. Got to move on.” The music came back, and he saw Juzo staring at him, scanning his face.
“Grim?” Juzo licked his lips. “You alright?”
His eyes were hot with tears, and he dashed them away on the back of his hand. “It’s nothing.”
“Chicken, dear!” Elsa came up behind Grimbald and put down a plate with a roasted chicken, its skin browned and crackling, topped with fresh sprigs of rosemary. There were a few roasted potatoes around it, split down the center with bright yellow pats of butter melting in their middles.
“Thanks, Elsa,” he said over his shoulder, hiding his face so she didn’t see it. Unfortunately, his appetite had vanished. “Let’s be on our way. Might be about t
ime to see the Arch Wizard anyway,” he said, doing his best to steady his voice.
“Don’t want your meal? Doesn’t seem like you, despite… everything,” Juzo said with a frown, gesturing at it. He swallowed and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you, shouldn’t have come here. I didn’t… didn’t think of what seeing me would do to you.”
“It’s alright, Juzo, really.” He meant the words, but he couldn’t change his memories. Couldn’t change how it felt to relive that day. “We’re all just doing the best we can. I forgive you.” There was a tightness in his throat that made each word an effort to get out. But there they were.
Juzo met his eyes for a long, brooding moment. “Thank you. You don’t know how much it means to hear you say that.”
Grimbald took a deep breath and produced a few glittering topaz marks from his pocket and placed them beside the steaming chicken. He puffed his chest out and formed his hands into fists. The duet started playing a melancholy song that made their instruments weep. “There is one thing you can do for me.”
“Anything.” Juzo eagerly nodded.
“Way back… when we were new Armsman in the Tower, training under Master Burtz, we had a good sparring session.”
“Hm. Think I remember that. Our one and only. You dislocated my jaw if I recall. Still hasn’t worked right since.” Juzo worked his jaw around, and Grim almost thought he could hear it click.
“You were a good opponent, almost had me beaten. Thought you might’ve wanted a re-match. What do you say?” Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the unsheathing of those long buried memories, their edges cutting into his heart again. Grimbald wasn’t sure of the why but knew he wanted to hit something. He wouldn’t hit a man who didn’t know it was coming or wouldn’t fight back.
“I suppose. When?” Juzo shifted away from the shelf and eyed the door.
“Now.”
“Now?” Juzo looked up at him and tilted his head. “As in right now, here?” There was a note of panic in his voice that Grimbald chose to ignore.
“Nah, wouldn’t want to mess up the place.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder to point at the door. “Outside.” He knew there must have been a wavering tone in his voice, but he didn’t care.
A few men near them started murmuring about a potential fight. Their excitement caught the attention of others around them, sensing violence like dogs to meat. Some looked at them with unabashed curiosity, others taking furtive glances over their tankards.
“What about going to the Arch Wizard’s?” Juzo had his arms crossed now too.
“We cans be a few minutes lates. Since whens did you gets so responsibles?” Forming words became suddenly more difficult, his latest ale was hitting him hard. “And you owe me.” He jabbed his finger into Juzo’s chest, harder than he’d intended, making Juzo grunt. Grimbald peered back, and a saw a small crowd was forming behind him. “If anyone wants the plate, it’s yours.” He pointed with his thumb at what would have been his supper. A pair of arms reached out and eagerly snatched it away.
Apparently, Juzo had shrugged his cloak and sword off, draped it over his arms. When did he do that? Grimbald wondered. “I’m a bit weakened from my travels, but I can’t turn down a good fight.” Juzo grinned.
Grimbald let out a bellowing laugh. “Knew you couldn’t resist the chance!” He made for the door, and Juzo followed. A flurry of footsteps and cheers went with them. It seemed the entirety of the barroom was following them out, most with tankards in hand, others carrying plates and bowls of food.
“By the Dragon!” Elsa shouted.
“Now this is entertainment!” someone said.
“Better than any show in Midgaard!” another shouted.
“I’ll put five marks on Commander Landon,” a man with a long hooked nose said.
“You’re a fool. Take you one to five to the skinny pale fella. Always liked me an underdog,” another gambler said.
“Deal!” The gamblers shook hands.
Grimbald sauntered over to the middle of the cobbled street and handed Corpsemaker and his boot knives to a soldier. “Guard ‘em with your life,” he said to the pimple-faced Armsman. In a moment of clarity, he took note of his face in the case he decided to run off with them. “Won’t forget you,” he muttered.
“Won’t leave my hands, Commander,” the lad saluted.
Juzo left his sheathed sword and cloak in a rumpled ball against the building’s wall and walked over to him, squaring off his hips to face him.
A pair of patrolling women hurried over to the circling group of armored men, parting to let them through. They wore blood-red silks and their eyes softly glowed like hearths in winter. One of the two stepped towards Grimbald, her luxuriant hair falling over her shoulders, reflecting the torchlight. “What are you doing, Commander Landon?”
“Bug off, Yansa. This is man’s business.” He dismissed her with a wave, turned back to face Juzo.
“Man’s business?” Yansa scoffed and crossed her arms over her narrow chest. “You know you can’t fight here.”
“Don’t worry. It’s not fighting.” He let out an exasperated breath. “It’s…” he looked up, searching for the word.
“Accordant,” Juzo added.
“That! Yes, concordant.” He enthusiastically nodded and raised a meaty finger into the air. You’re making a fool of yourself, a distant voice said in his head before he crushed it back into the recesses of his mind.
“Word will travel to the Arch Wizard. When the ale wears off, please don’t tell me tomorrow that I didn’t warn you, Commander.”
“Relax, make a bet, Yansa. Try to enjoy yourself for once. Too serious all the time.”
She shook her head in disgust. She twiddled her long fingers, and a fireball sparked to life above her head as she turned and made her way through the crowd. He admired the sashay of her hips and the way her robes fell over her round behind.
“Sure you want to do this? She’s right, you know.” Juzo nodded towards Yansa. “You’re quite drunk. Not going to help you. This could wait ‘til you’re sober.”
“Oh, I’m sure. Sure is sure.” Grimbald clamped his jaw down tight, blood thumping through his rigid arms. It’d been too long since he tested himself against a worthy opponent, someone who could sharpen his edge. That’s all this was, right?
“Get ‘em, Commander!” someone cheered.
“C’mon, white one!” someone else countered.
“Alright.” Juzo cracked his neck and assumed a fighting stance, chin down and knees bent. He raised his arms, his fists like small white balls, and beckoned for him to come. “We’re really doing this.” Juzo nodded, reassuring himself.
Grimbald charged. Juzo was gone, and something snagged his leg, then the ground was coming up to meet his face. He got his hands out in time, slapping against the stone. The crowd erupted and the sounds of bets being made spread through the crowd. Grim let out a growling breath. He swiveled around to see Juzo standing over him with a mocking smile.
“Had enough?” Juzo raised a thin eyebrow.
Grimbald planted one hand on the ground and kicked at his shin with the opposite leg. Juzo raised his leg and avoided his kick, his heel coming down and slamming into Grim’s breastplate. The blow drove him back to the cobbles, pain surging up his torso. It felt like someone had dropped a boulder on his chest, a rib certainly bruised, maybe broken. Maybe this wasn’t a good idea.
Juzo writhed, tugged on his leg, and Grimbald saw he’d managed to grab his ankle. His vision blurred with waves of pain. He gave his ankle a savage twist and Juzo had no choice but to follow the direction lest his ankle be torn, throwing him face down. “Forgot about that strength n’ speed o’ yours,” Grimbald snarled.
Juzo tried to free his ankle from Grimbald’s iron grip by kicking his hands with his free leg, arms scrambling. “Let go… you big… big bastard,” Juzo said between kicks.
Grimbald’s chest rumbled with a victorious laugh as he dragged Juzo towa
rds him, his fingers scraping the stone in defiance. Grimbald folded Juzo’s heel up to his ass cheek, then crawled over his back to mount him. Juzo groaned as Grimbald let all of his weight settle onto his backside.
Grimbald wrapped one arm over Juzo’s shoulder on one side and the other under his armpit on the other, clasping his hands. He rolled over onto his side, arms clasped around Juzo’s chest, his hands jerking to free Grimbald’s grip. Juzo looked like a turtle whose shell had been upended, legs flailing out to his sides, Grimbald on his back. Cheers erupted from the crowd.
Grimbald broke his grip, slipping one arm up to Juzo’s throat to choke him. Juzo rolled with a surge of explosive strength, tearing through his grip and facing down at him. Juzo’s mouth fell open, showing his ivory daggers for teeth. For a second, Grimbald saw his eye flash bright with animalistic hunger. He saw it wasn’t his eyes he was staring at, but his throat. He felt a stab of panic as Juzo’s powerful hands pinned his wrists at his side. A feral growl escaped Juzo’s lips.
Grimbald writhed and bucked his hips, but Juzo clung to him like an expert bull rider. Saliva fell from his parted lips and struck his cheek. He lowered his head, his mouth spreading wider, teeth shining. “Juzo! Juzo!” Grimbald screamed.
Juzo met his eyes with a look of confusion, the tension coming off his wrists. Grimbald’s Milvorian gauntlet bashed Juzo in the face, tore him off his feet and sent him tumbling back at least five feet. Whoops and screams filled in from the crowd.
They both rose up at the same time, Juzo covering his nose. He took his hand away, and it looked like someone had smashed a tomato against his face. Dark blood spread out around his cheeks and trickled from his chin. “Good hit,” he said with a nod. “I… concede defeat.” He smiled to show his bloody teeth.
The crowd roared with a mix of curses and triumphs. Marks were exchanged from reluctant hands, and just as quick as it had formed, the crowd started to disperse. Some men shook their heads while others rattled their topped off coin purses.
“Deserved what I got and more,” Juzo murmured. Grimbald had to admit that, in that moment, he felt the same.
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