Cursing gently under her breath at the persistence of the stains in the pitted wooden table top, the girl stretched her weary arms. Mopping her brow, she glanced again at the lad in the corner. He’d been nursing the same ale for the last hour, and even now as he ran his finger around the rim of the mug his mind was clearly elsewhere.
Whilst it wasn’t unusual to see strangers come and go, he was pretty young to be involved in the sort of trade that went down here, and she hoped he wouldn’t end up… well on the rough end of things.
Caelan had noticed the bar girl glance his way several times. He chose not to return her eye. After only a few days on his own he was already feeling the absence of his friends, and it would be far too easy to get drawn into conversation. He had serious work to do first. Maybe there’d be time later.
Despite his initial reservations it had in hindsight seemed an obvious first step to visit White Fort. Renowned as a gathering place for able fighters for hire, there was every chance that he might find those willing to lend their skills to a worthy cause, for the promise of glory and jade. Even if all he found was a single able veteran, that would be invaluable when it came to training up less experienced men. There was a lot to be said for the kind of experience that only came through living through a fight. Or a war.
Asking around town, he’d quickly been directed to the Shackled Wench, as a meeting point for the... more earthy elements. He’d been told that it was the favoured relaxation haunt for one of the toughest factions around - the Hundred Stone Dogs. The Dogs were feared for their brutality, but also respected for it - they'd face down a pack of Tyrant Lizards if the price was right. Caelan reasoned that more disciplined warriors – ex officers and guardsmen, would be more reliable perhaps, but would also command far more coin. Better to find those less used to the finer things, and he could show them what they might be missing. The vendor who'd pointed the way to the inn had looked a little sceptical at Caelan's hurried reasoning, but had little time to worry about foolish lads seeking their glory, and had forgotten his concern as soon as he'd turned to his next customer.
So it was that he’d found himself watching from the corner of dingy saloon, for much of the evening. The band of a dozen or thereabouts were rowdy for sure, but there was clearly a structure within the group, and as he’d watched he’d seen a few rough games that had nearly come to blows, settled with a barked word from the gruff leader. He’d also seen a harsh insult lead to a confrontation that played out in the streets outside, but whilst the loser needed to be carried away, he'd survive.
Okay then. Enough watching. Time to act.
The pint slammed down on the table with a thud.
"To wine, to song, and to the victories that make them sweet."
Grafner, ignoring this unexpected interruption, finished what he was doing. In this case, that was picking at a nail with the tip of a large knife, not fancy but clearly sharp and well cared for. A big man, with a dark, swarthy complexion and rough hands, he was hard to age, but looked aged from hard experience. Weathered, but not worn down. A rough beard, red at the heart, but grey for the most part, concealed much of his face, though his eyes were keen and dark. Dressed in dirty brown leathers, he hardly looked the part of a leader of skilled warriors, but Caelan was in no doubt that he was the one in charge.
Seemingly satisfied at last, Grafner slowly raised his head to see who’d interrupted him in thought, settling the knife in front of him.
The lad was young – less than 18 surely, and scrawny with it. Grunting, he picked up the mug and raised it to his mouth, waving his arm dismissingly as he did so. The boy didn’t move.
Draining the mug, he slowly but firmly set it back on the table.
“You’ve delivered yer drink, but now its gone. And so should ye be if you know what’s good for yer.”
The boy returned his gaze levelly. With a slight smile he settled himself into the chair opposite. Leaning forward and settling his elbows on the table, he spoke clearly but quietly.
“Master Grafner. I mean no insult, but I would speak with you on matters that I believe would benefit us both. Your men have a reputation as one of the fiercest bands in the area, and I would ask that you give me a moment of your time to consider my offer.”
Grafner studied the boy. He was a good judge of character, and everything he knew told him this one was trouble. Maybe it was the way he held Grafner’s eye, or the seemingly casual way he ignored the dozen battle hardened louts around him, even as his gaze had flicked over each of them as he sat. Whatever it was, Graf had learned to trust his guts, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“We ain’t for hire. Not for you anyshow. So yer’ll ‘ave to find someon’ else ta do yer little job fer you. Rescue your doggie maybe? Or save yer family from some nasty troll. Now scat, boy!”
He barked out a laugh, nasty and harsh. The men sat near him took up the laugh, enjoying the shared opportunity to mock this stupid farm lad who thought he could sit at the table with their leader as an equal.
Caelan’s lips thinned as his eyes narrowed. “I’m here with a serious proposition Grafner, for men of skill and courage. I would thank you not to take me for some dim fop. If you have no desire for jade, or lack the skill to earn it, then I’ll take my trade elsewhere and leave you to swap tall stories and play your idle games.”
Grafner’s rolling laugh stopped short, as his men muttered around him. This could get interesting after all. His eyes narrowed, Grafner was suddenly aware that he’d been questioned. Had his authority tested, in front of his own men and in their own inn no less. That couldn’t go unanswered.
“Well then. Jade says you? Lets see what you got to say about it.” The big man's quiet invitation should have raised alarm bells, as should the tiny flick of the big man's eyes away and to the side, but Caelan was just glad to avoid a scene, and launched into his planned pitch with enthusiasm.
“Okay then. Good. I’m looking for those who thirst for adventure, glory and riches. My friends and I are...”
So caught up in his oration was Caelan that he never sensed the man moving in behind him, not until he felt his wrists grabbed. He wrenched instinctively, but he was held firm and the shock of it silenced him.
“That’s betta. I was startin' to think he’d never close that pretty litlal mouth of ‘is.” Grafner grinned, once again feeling in control, and wanting to make that clear to those around him.
“What’s the meaning of this!? I’m here in good faith, and mean you no ill will! Let me... go... right now!” Caelan continued to struggle, but it was no good. He might as well have been chained to the floor.
“No ill will! You come in ‘ere. Into our place, when we’re relaxin’ and ‘aving a well earned drink. And you start givin’ us yer tongue like we wes married to yer. And then you wanna hire us? You – what’s younger than ‘alf the little shits I’ve fathered across these lands. And you tell *me* that you mean me no ill will! Looks to me like you’s due a lesson in manners, boy. And I’s gonna give it.”
Picking up his knife slowly, he turned it gently, the candle light catching the gleaming blade. Then, quick as a snake his hand flashed out, and Caelan felt his cheek burn as the knife left a long, deep gash.
barely holding down the shouts and insults that leapt to his lips, adrenaline coursed through Caelan. He’d never expected a confrontation in the middle of the bar. Glancing around no-one else seemed the least bit bothered – he was on his own. Bringing his breathing under control, he focussed. He’d faced down demons, princes and Gods. A few drunk old soldiers were hardly going to be a handful. He’d just... well, he’d need to...
Held fast like this, he realised the truth of it. He was helpless. And with that realisation, an anger grew in him, the indignity of being captive to this half witted bully lighting a rage in his heart, its fire blazing in his eyes. When he spoke it was with a grim, hard edge, quiet but dangerous.
“Let me go. Now. Or I swear I’ll make you beg for my favour on your knees.”
Grafner felt he had to give this lad some credit. He might be an idiot, but he had courage, that was for sure. That was all to the good – making him beg for mercy would be good for the lads. But he’d need to make it a hard lesson - break him hard.
“I don’t like the way you’s lookin’ at me. Boy. I think I’ve a mind to do somethin’ about that.” Grafner had lost his earlier anger, and seemed to be warming to the opportunity to torment this arrogant lad in front of his men. Leaning in slowly, be brought the tip of the blade to within an inch of Caelan's left eye.
Anger still burning, Caelan struggled to fight down sudden panic. The crazed fool meant to blind him!
Suddenly, as a terrible hopelessness threatened to descend, Caelan felt a shimmer of essence wash through him. Shaking him from his inaction, he felt his fingers curl around something familiar, hard and smooth. The shaft of one of his throwing knives, claimed many months ago from the still warm body of another who thought to use cowardly means to dominate others. It hadn’t been there an instant ago, but now it was, called to his grip. Hope fighting fear, Caelan flicked the knife blade side up, and then, mustering all the strength he could, he twisted his hand upwards.
With a shriek his silent assailant released his grip and jerked his arms away, grabbing his wrist, blood already running over his fingers.
“Why you little sod. Yer’ll pay for that. Get 'im!"
Free again and leaping to his feet, Caelan quickly stepped back and appraised the scene.
- The fellow who'd grabbed him. Still a viable opponent, but surely out of the fight for now. Gods but he was a huge man. How had he ever let him sneak up?
- Grafner. Closest, armed and clearly dangerous, but momentarily surprised.
- Two others behind Grafner. One of them reaching for a weapon, a short curved sword. The other seemingly looking to Grafner’s command.
- Others sitting at a large table behind. Their vision partially obscured when Grafner had stood, they wouldn’t be in a position to act with any purpose for a few seconds.
His eyes flicked across the scene, assessing the strength of those he faced, the way they wore their weapons, the manner in which those caught unaware leapt to their feet. Appraising his options. Gauging for weakness.
With a grunt Grafner suddenly lunged full on, the large knife aimed at Caelan’s chest.
The speed of the old man caught Caelan by surprise, and without thinking his wrist flicked out, his fingers gently releasing the slender blade, sending it flying into the thick grey beard. He stumbled, grabbing at the table edge with one hand, dropping his knife and clutching at his throat with the other. He gurgled, a horrible sound.
Momentarily shocked by this unexpected and possibly mortal wound on their captain, Caelan leapt to the side, ensuring there were none behind him. Unsure of what to do now he paused. His Father had spoken to him of key moments in a serious fight, whether that be a brawl over a perceived slight or a battle involving hundreds. Most of a time a man will focus himself entirely on what he needs to do to survive, training or desperation single mindedly pushing him to victory against his foe and driving off reason and doubt. But at key points, the will to fight seems to hang in the air, and carefully chosen words, stern or conciliatory as needed, might bring things to a peaceful conclusion. Caelan had never really understood it when his Father had described it to him, but he sensed the truth of it now, even as he felt that moment pass.
All eyes were on him now. And then they moved, their practiced teamwork evident as they sought to cut off this rat from escape. Three to the door, standing before it. Two more started for the kitchen entrance. Four at the table casting aside their chairs and drawing weapons. A silence had settled, filled with terrible resolve. He knew they meant to kill him. Glancing around, he saw others huddled behind tables. The bar girl. He hoped she wouldn’t come to harm on his account. He wished he knew her name.
Turning, Caelan leapt onto a nearby table. Slipping in a puddle of beer, he almost fell straight off, which would surely have been the end of his foolhardy adventure. Cursing his idiocy, he stumbled and caught himself. Focussing the power coursing through him, he felt the confidence wash through him as he found his balance. Looking up, he saw a sword lunge at him. Hopping straight up in the air and tucking his feet up, the blade swept an inch below. Dropping his legs he landed on the blade, and with a skip he dashed forward, jumping over the head of his surprised assailant. Landing on the back of a chair, he paused for the briefest of moments, and assessed his options.
No way out the front, or the side. He could fight through perhaps, but how much blood would they be washing off the floor. And what tales would he leave in his wake...?
Aware of the three attackers moving in slowly, seemingly unsure how to deal with this unexpected show of acrobatics, Caelan hopped down, and grabbing the edge of the table, slid underneath. With a yell of rage at this unfair and cowardly move, they rushed in and thrust their swords at him, even at he popped up on the other side.
So then, only one way out it seemed...
Sidestepping just nearly enough to avoid a gash to his shirt from a rather nasty looking cleaver, Caelan brought his knee up to the wielder's groin. As he doubled over in pain and fell to his knees Caelan hopped onto his back, and as one of the three so recently deprived of a fair fight moved around the table, he leapt straight at him, high and hard. The wide eyed look of shock painted across the rough mercenary's face almost made the lad laugh out loud, but his focus was set and he concentrated on his landing. Both feet set upon his surprised attacker's head he bent both legs and jumped again, over the other two who had closed in behind their friend.
Landing outside the killing circle made by the main body of men, Caelan made a mad dash for the stairs, the only exit from the room left unguarded. A huge man stepped in front of him from the side, the one who’d held him firm. A huge ugly lump of a man, the ugly cut on his wrist still dripped onto the straw covering the floor, but seemed only to have hardened his resolve to tear this whippet into bloody rags. Making to leap aside at the last minute, Caelan feigned instead, sliding low and between his legs. With a surprised grunt the troll of a man made to grab at him, and got a fist full of cloak. With a twist Caelan slipped free of it and, pushing off from his hands and springing lightly to his feet, took the stairs three at a time.
Hearing the pounding of feet behind him, Caelan hit the wall at the top of the stairs. The wind knocked from him he turned down the corridor, allowing himself a glance the way he’d come to see four rushing up at him. Putting two fingers in his mouth he let out a loud whistle before, with a push against the wall, he ran full pelt down the corridor, towards the main chamber at the end. Throwing himself at the sturdy door at speed, he shouted out in pain and shock as he felt his shoulder crack and burn, the door unyielding. Cursing Olvir’s name and with eyesight dancing with pinpricks of light, he gasped for breath as he looked back down the corridor. Sensing he was finally trapped, his assailants slowed their pace, holding their variously wicked looking weapons out in front as they advanced.
With an animal bellow of pain, rage and effort, Caelan hurled the trident that had appeared in his grip. Totally unprepared, it caught one of the middle two square in the chest, dropping him to his knees as he shrieked and grabbed at the shaft, causing the others to fall back some steps with a shout of surprise.
Turning, Caelan tried the next door and, thank the God of bold escapes, it was unlocked. Throwing himself through it, he took in the scene before him. The naked couple cavorted on the bed - he dressed only in a bandit's mask and brandishing a rolling pin like a sword, she tied to the sturdy bedframe with silk sashes. Both were looking up at him, a moment of silent comic confusion passing between all three. Momentarily halted by the scene despite the danger, the sound of hammering boots behind him brought him around, and rushing headlong at the window he picked up a chair, threw it at the glass, and followed it through, throwing himself headlong with a yell.
As he fell, arms flailing, he considered his ill fortune, and wondered what the others might make of it. They would doubtless blame him, but it really wasn’t his fault...
He landed, thankfully across Ariorn’s back rather than on the cobbles. Summoned by his call she smelt the danger in the air, and as the door of the inn burst open and the rest of the gang rushed out with a shout, she made off down the street. Grabbing a rein Caelan swung himself around and up into her saddle, even as an arrow struck off his armoured shoulder. Upright now, and digging his heels in, Ariorn surged forward, startled pedestrians flashing by on either side. A street vendor very nearly dodged into her path, but she leapt over him, his shout of surprise disappearing beneath.
Coming upon the town gates, the guards looked surprised, but were ill prepared for how to react to one rushing out rather than in, and in the seconds of hesitation Ariorn was through. Their shouts for him to stop were immediately behind and fading fast, as Caelan urged Ariorn to full gallop, out of the town and away.
Time for a new plan...