The warm smell of baked bread mingled with the pungent aroma of smoke; the incomprehensible din of a hundred-thousand voices; the line of wagons from every trade road across the continent; the spring colors of pink, purple, yellows, and blues in the form of rippling drapes, gowns, and flowers; all of these things flowed out of the largest city in Orewyn. The hard cobble felt good beneath his armored feet. The wagon rolled audibly, the back-left wheel was wobbling, but she would hold. The rickety thing survived a week and a half trek, it would survive a few yards of bridge. Guards greeted every merchant wagon that desired to enter the city, men clad in silver, and tossing back the blankets which covered the jars, gowns, chests, crates, barrels, and sacks. Every merchant had brought supplies to compliment the occasion, and standing in two files parallel to each other were women eagerly waiting to throw their coin purse at whatever dress, necklace, ring, hairpin, etc. that they could rip from those wagons.
Boen’s eyes tensed a little as his hand subconsciously went to rest upon the bar at his hip. The women were more frightening than the highwaymen had been. The look in their eyes he had only ever seen in wild animals prepared to pounce and make a kill.
The old merchant who sat comfortably in the wagon chuckled at the sellsword’s reaction. “Don’t worry, boy; they don’t bite. They’re feisty this time of year, but I figured a lad such as yourself would like that.”
“Ah nae seen wi’men wit’ eyes like t’at,” Boen replied, his dark brows furrowing over his golden eyes beneath his helm.
Sym removed the tip of the long pipe he had been smoking to expel a gray laugh as plumes of smoke left from the thick, curtain of hair that hung from beneath his nose.
“Those are good eyes boy—especially when they’re meant for you!”
The city guard approached and Boen lowered his hand from his weapon.
“All right; let’s see what you got,” the guard muttered as he stepped passed Boen toward the wagon and flipped back the dusty blanket that covered dough-sealed jars, crates, and barrels. “What’s in the jars?”
“The finest chocolate you’d ever taste,” Sym answered.
“What’s in the crate?”
“An elaborate rainbow plucked from the fields of Galemara!”
“And the barrel?”
“The sweetest strawberry wine—from Elkwood.”
All of it had really been contraband. Sym’s items came from all over the country, but what the guards didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. With as much as the old man had talked the entire trip, Boen wasn’t surprised that a silver tongue hid behind that beard. Sym resembled a feeble, pathetic old man. He played his role so well that no one would have ever suspected him to be a professional liar.
“All right; go on through,” said the guard unenthusiastically. He hadn’t cared much for Sym’s colorful advertising—not when he had over a hundred more carts waiting in line. He hated this damn holiday.
Snapping the reigns, the brown donkey bobbed on, the wagon rumbled and bounced over every rock and pebble, and their journey into the city resumed. As soon as the wagon passed through the gates, a horrible noise assaulted Boen’s ears. The women immediately lunged at the cart, causing the donkey to
hee-haw in startle. Their voices were an incessant flutter of giggles and squeals. Boen’s back met the wagon as he grasped his sidearm, his upper lip raised in disgust behind his face mask. It only lasted thirty seconds before the women realized that the items were well-concealed. They lost interest and turned toward the gates once more.
Boen sighed in relief, his heart calming. It took all of his willpower not to crack one of the bitches across the head.
“Sal’s dunes,” Boen breathed. The saying had been a Salahari one—one his mother always said. One might have imagined the dunes of Salahar when first hearing it when really it was a perverse saying involving a Salahari woman’s bosom. It was used as an exclamation of surprise, disbelief, or
good grief.“You restrained yourself this time. I thought you were going to club one and have us both in jail,” said Sym.
“Ah t’ought ‘bout it but ah dinnae.”Boen opened and closed his hand, flexing his fingers that tingled with the lingering urge. He was going to have that urge for a while now. His knuckles were going to be hungry for someone’s face.
Sym guided the wagon to an empty spot in the market. Boen helped the old man unload the wagon—actually he had unloaded it all on his own—and stood guard while he organized his spot on the rug. The sellsword crossed his arms before his chest, watching the crowds move before him like river currents. His eyes lowered to two embracing hands—a boy and a girl younger than him with strange symbols on their wrists. Had they found each other in the city? Or had they found each other beforehand? Boen felt curiosity pawing at his cheek, and he was quick to dismiss it.
Bulls balls.The old man sat cross-legged on his blanket, a blanket that was woven in Salahar, and he happily waved with both hands at a group of young women who started to slow and linger as they took notice of the fragments of chocolate, the vibrant bouquets of flowers, and brass pitchers of wine for tasting. They crept closer, but then stopped to gaze at the warrior in black who was giving them a hard look. They felt threatened and disturbed, and Sym watched as they whispered to each other, tugging each other’s arms to take their business elsewhere.
Sym’s bushy brows lowered over his dark eyes and his nose wrinkled as he looked up at Boen with an angry expression. Boen’s eyes gradually rolled over to insensitively settle on the man, and for a brief moment the two just stared at each other.
“Aye?” Boen queried.
“You’re scaring away my business.”
“If y’don’ like it, ‘ow ‘bout y’pay me, an ah’ll be outta y’air.”Sym huffed. “Greedy bastard. I was going to pay you after the festival. I might need you when I head back. If I sell all this, I’ll be rich, and I’ll be able to pay you more to take me back to Trade Wind.”
“An’ ah’m t’greedy basta’d,” said Boen with a wry smirk.
Sym unlocked a small chest with a key and removed the baseball-sized sack of coins. He closed the now empty chest and marched over to Boen to thrust it out at him. Boen uncrossed his arms and accepted the heavy purse from him. He then slightly bowed and simultaneously brought the bag close to his brow in what was customarily a
thanks in Keld. He straightened and turned toward the flowing streets.
“Ah’ll be ‘round,” Boen told him.
“Ah’ll return in a ‘morrow an’ check on ye…” He then added, his smirk stretching into a long and amused smile behind his mask.
“Check an’ see if y’made some gol’.”Sym fanned him away. “Yeah, get out of here you shit.”
Gripping the coin bag happily, Boen left the old man to his business. He hadn’t minded being the merchant’s escort. It had been the easiest job he’s had in a while. He recalled the highwaymen who he had to beat senseless on the way over. There hadn’t been that many of them, and he was certain the roads were going to be mostly clear for some time—at least until the thugs recovered. Food, a bath, and rest were calling his name.
Brackin’ Jack’s Tavern had been the chosen place. The name alone had drawn him in along with the 50 other bastards soaking up all the ale in the place. Boen stopped outside before going in. There was a horse slurping up water from a trough and Boen took a moment to unbuckle his face mask and slid his helmet free from his skull as a deluge of sweat rolled in dark rivulets down his nose and the sides of his face. The salt, water, and dirt were mixing together on his skin. His dark hair was matted against his head, the beard that covered his upper-lip and jaw twinkled with moisture in the sun. The sellsword hooked his helmet to his belt and took a knee next to the trough to splash cool water on his face. He washed the salt and dirt from his lightly-tanned skin and dunked his head into the water to rinse his hair. The tavern door was thrown open by a man who stumbled out into the street, swaying and crossing his legs in an unsteady step.
“You didn’t brack me Jack! No sir!” he exclaimed loudly. His tunic was torn in the front, descending down his hairy chest to a round pot belly that hung over his pants. The man’s blonde hair sat on his head like a cat and wide, slightly bulging blue eyes fixed on his horse that raised its head curiously from the trough. “BRACK!”
Boen pulled his head from the water and shook it, the water splaying from his brown bladed tips. He frowned up at the drunken fool who was trying to mount his horse. He managed to step into a stirrup and folded over the saddle. His own weight crushed down on his ale-bloated belly and forced a loud fart to burp from his ass cheeks, startling his horse. The mare whinnied and ripped the horn that held her reigns from the tavern pillar as she bolted into the street.
“BRACK!”
Boen stood, watching as the loud drunk and his horse wildly charged down the street, drawing the attention of several city guards who comically gave chase. He was liking the city already. It reminded him of home. The sellsword turned toward the tavern, glancing momentarily at the damage to the beam. There was music, laughter, shouts, and the noisy
slap! of a hand meeting a rear-end. The wenches of the Brackin’ Jack were thick with breasts that probably were the bait that drew the male-dominant crowd. They impressively carried six mugs of ale per fist, keeping the patrons well-watered. Boen slipped by a few bodies and found his way to a surprisingly empty seat at the bar.
The bartender, Jack, was a big man with a bald head and a coarse rounded beard that touched his chest. He was filling two tin mugs to the brim with ale, spilling the foamy head over a little before he slid them to two locals at the counter. He faced Boen, his brown eyes eyeing his armor, before he asked, “What can I get you?”
“Some piss,” Boen said.
“Pardon?”
“Ale,” Boen clarified.
“An’ some food.”“We got rabbit stew and bread and not much else. The pot is going fast.”
Boen removed a gold piece from the coin pouch beneath his collar and placed it on the counter. Jack picked up the piece and turned it before his eyes. He inspected it closely before giving it a firm bite, and his face lit up with a joy that could have illuminated the entire tavern.
“You can have as much ale as you can drink and eat until you burst, friend!”
Boen raised his hand to his brow, bowing his head slightly, before lowering it—again, in thanks. He felt a pair of eyes on his face without needing to turn his head and look at their owner. He briefly glanced over to the band of minstrels
@Sisyphus who seemed to be enjoying themselves before his attention was drawn to the metallic
clink of an overflowing mug being set before him. Boen wasted no time in picking up the mug and bringing it to his lips. He closed his eyes as the strong, barley liquid rushed into his mouth. One of the big wenches, Helena, stepped from the kitchen with a steaming wooden bowl of dark stew and a boule of bread in her other hand. She stopped behind the bar before the sellsword, watching as he eased his head back, his neck muscles audibly pumping the liquid into his stomach. He didn’t lower the mug until not a single drop was left and set it upon the counter with a content gasp.
Helena smiled at him and bat her lashes as she set down the bowl of stew and bread boule for him.
“Long journey?” she asked.
Boen didn’t pay her any mind. The stew had looked more attractive to him. He drew the bowl closer and grasped the roll of bread, dipping it into the broth before taking a bite from it. There was a pleased smile on his face. It had felt like ages since he had a good meal. He closed his eyes as he savored the salty and gamy soup that rolled around in his mouth. The wench rested an elbow on the counter top and placed her curly head in her hand. The front of her blouse dipped low and for a second it looked like her bosom would spill free as she watched Boen scarf down his food. She waited for his answer, hoping the handsome knight—he had to be a knight of some sort; he was too good looking to be a merc!—would notice her naughty presentation. The man next to Boen had noticed and looked at her chest unabashed and with a wide smile.
Boen tipped his head back, scraping the meat and bones into his mouth before setting the bowl down. He swallowed the broth, meat, carrots, and potatoes and removed the rabbit bones from his mouth to toss them into the bowl. He pushed the bowl toward Helena and merely said,
“’Nother y’mind.”“You got an appetite. I like the ones that can eat,” she complimented before taking his bowl into the kitchen.
A second mug was set on the counter by Jack, and Boen cradled it in his hands. He was loving the tavern. Endless grog and stew; he was in paradise and he was going to eat and drink until he couldn’t no more. Those were his plans until the man who had been eyeing him decided to open his rank mouth (his probably didn’t smell any better):
“You’re not from around here.”
Boen didn’t oblige him with a conversation. He lifted his mug and gulped it down.
“I can tell because you got a funny voice. You not only got a funny voice but Helena was putting on a show for you and you ignored her. You must be an idjit or queer!”
Setting down his mug, Boen closed his eyes and smiled in content. He truly was in his happy place. Helena returned with another bowl and boule and she set it down before him. She leaned over his bowl—this time he had to have noticed!—and gave Boen a wink.
“If you need anything else, Handsome. Summon me. I am Helena.”
The angry man interjected, “He don’t want you Helena! He’s a queer one! He also isn’t from around here. He’s probably some Galinese swine!”
Jack turned his head, peering over his shoulder at the man who was trying to raise a commotion. Helena fearfully stepped back from the counter, sensing the hostile presence when the man stood from his stool to face the sellsword who had chosen to eat his stew rather than acknowledge him.
“You deaf too, Queer?”
No response.
The man slapped his hand down on Boen’s shoulder and shouted, “I’m talking to you, you deaf shit!”
Boen set down his bowl, his jaws still chewing the chunk of rabbit that was between his teeth. His amber eyes rolled to his right to gaze at the man as his tongue rolled a rabbit bone free of his mouth to poke from between his lips. He grasped the end of the small bone and flicked it at the man’s face. The man jerked back as the bone struck him between the eyes.
“YOU BAST-”
Boen’s hand followed as he rose from his stool, his armored palm smashing against the man’s face and fingers latching onto it. He forced the man back, walking forward as he bent the man’s neck. He released the man’s face after three steps and brought his left arm swinging around. His fist connected like a brick with the man’s jaw, sending him whirling into a table behind him where a group of rough-looking individuals had been sitting. The body that collapsed across their table knocked over their mugs, sending pools of ale dumping into their laps and causing them to jump out of their seats with curses. They glanced down at the unconscious man and then over at Boen with daggers gleaming in their eyes. Boen slowly walked backward toward the counter as the men started slowly walking toward him. He blindly patted about the wooden top for a mug of ale (not wanting to take his eyes off the thugs) and gave it a quick few gulps before he threw the tin at the nearest brute.
Thunk! It was like a chain reaction. The bar exploded with a wild ruckus as chairs were tossed; mugs and soup bowls thrown; bodies went flying; and the minstrels carried on with lively music.
Jack frowned and sighed in exasperation as he watched the destruction taking place. It had been about time he closed the tavern any way. The barrels were running dry and the pot empty. He turned to Helena and ordered, “Go call the guards!”
2x Thank
