Vlad'War's Anvil

by Rex Hazelton

  Descending towards a row of buildings that looked like a mass of crooked teeth rising above dirty, gravel-covered gums, Travyn and Ilya'Gar soon reached the bottom of the gorge. A burst of light, coming from a window whose shutters were suddenly thrown open, preceded a woman's laughter as she emptied a bed pan into the alleyway that ran behind the three story building where she and the other consorts plied their trade. The lack of a gutter, used to carry refuse away, accounted for the pungent smell that wafted out of the disheveled village. Hard waste was shoveled up by an old drunk who wheel-barreled it away to a leach pit that had been dug outside of town. The pitiful sot got paid in drinks, leftovers from the kitchens, and a few coins those who were glad that someone else did a job they never would do themselves gave him.

  ****

  A mixture of pipe smoke and smoke that seeped out of the front of the tavern's rough stone fireplace, whose chimney was not large enough to accommodate all of the fire's sooty offing, swirled beneath a low hanging ceiling. After briefly being pushed back by the outside air, some of the smoked escaped when the heavy front door swung open to let a young man enter the tavern's common room. Accentuating the man's entrance, rings of amber light showed in eyes that peered out from the shadow cast by the wide-brimmed hat he wore.

  I know that boy, Sledge thought as he looked up from the cards he held in his hand. Sitting at a table with five other men, he was playing a game of Dead by Morning. It was an all or nothing game where each gambler put an equal number of coins on the table and played until one person had won them all, even if it took until morning to do so. The stakes in tonight’s game were high, requiring Sledge to use all his coin to buy in. It was the last of the money he had won in Crow’s Vale. In his thinking, Sledge was going to take one more shot at winning back enough money to finance his move away from the city and kingdom he wished to avoid before he resorted to hiring out his sword.

  As fate would have it, at the very moment he was winning big, for half of all the coin was piled up in front of him, someone from a past he was trying to distance himself from showed up, someone he was certain knew the girl he had forced his way upon. Sledge cursed himself for the risk he took in coming to The Cut that was too close to the place he was trying to escape. But then he looked at the coins stacked in front of him. Luck was on his side again. Besides, the man at the door was not much more than a boy his burgeoning confidence made him incorrectly guess. Still, Sledge wanted to keep his options opened; so he looked at the door leading to the kitchen to make certain it was clear for use. To his surprise, it wasn’t. A hunchman was entering through it, one who nodded to the man with the strange eyes before he turned to look at Darwyn Sledge.

  I know the beast too, he surmised. He and the boy are partners. I’m certain of that. And they know the fire-blasted girl who has been nothing but trouble for me since the day I laid eyes on her. Surely they're not foolish enough to want a piece of me? The pathetic girl's not worth it.

  “Do you mind if I sit in?” Travyn thumbed the handle of the elven leaf blade he had strapped to his hip as he smoothly moved to the gaming table. All the while, his inscrutable gaze was focused on Sledge who he had seen a time or two on his visits to Crow's Vale. Yet to think he wasn’t aware of the other men at the table or the others that were in the room, twenty individuals in all, would be a mistake.

  Travyn was good at sizing up a situation, something he was adept at for as long as he could remember. He was quick to identify the two men who were with Sledge; those who spoke to the round-faced man with their eyes; mean looking men who were ready to follow the burly man’s lead. Travyn had seen these two with Sledge before, in Crow’s Vale, where they were usually bullying someone or standing in the mouth of an alleyway watching over the streets they thought they owned.

  Three others were familiar, though they had no history with Sledge as far as Travyn knew. Hunched over bowls of stew, they were finishing the meals they had ordered. Why they were in The Cut was unclear. Maybe they were here to purchase a night with a woman for hire once they had eaten, or they had come wanting to try their luck in a game of chance. Five others, who were dressed in fine clothes, were busy dicing. No doubt ladies of the evening would provide the dessert for their night’s activities. Two of the working women, with breasts so large they were barely contained in dresses tightly fitted to display the women's wares, were fawning over the men like young girls.

  In another part of the room, six men, huddled together as they shared mugs of ale and a string of off-colored stories, were flirting with the servant girl whose bosoms were twice the size of those the professionals had to offer. Blond-headed and heavy boned, she looked like she could carry the two women at the same time, one under each arm, if they needed to be roughly escorted from the room.

  Other than the two men Travyn identified as friends of Sledge, the rest of the tavern’s patrons would mind their own business if trouble broke out, especially the men who wore fine garments. In their thinking, they considered themselves to be good boys who only wanted to sew a few wild oats. To such as these, The Cut was a place where moral considerations that held sway over the rest of Nyeg Warl magically disappeared, where the voice of conscience grew faint. As far as they were concerned, the ramshackle of a village might as well have been sitting on the moon, if the moon would allow such a disreputable place to gain purchase there.

  There are only two, Sledge rubbed his stubble-covered chin in thought as he pretended to be studying the cards he held. I wonder how many more are coming. None most likely. I’ve seen these two before. They’re from the Eyrie, I think.

  Looking at the hunchman, Sledge guessed he was a youth by the length of hair growing from his head and neck. The older beast-men looked like lions, if they lived long enough to have their head hair fill in and reach its full length. But this one’s mane, if one was going to compare a hunchman to a lion, was not as thick or as long as a fully matured male. The tell that gave the human’s age away was his bulk, or lack thereof. He possessed a leanness that was common to those who stood on the threshold of full maturity.

  Smiling a crooked smile, Sledge liked his chances against these two. They’re inexperienced fighters, no doubt. And even if they’ve been in a few scrapes before, none were with the likes of me and my boys, he reasoned as he caught the eyes of the two men who were traveling with him before nodding towards the newcomers, each in turn.

  Instead of tensing up for a fight, Travyn seemed to relax when he saw Sledge. Looking more like someone who had found a valuable possession they feared they had missplaced than a vigilante set on exacting justice, Travyn walked over to the man who had hurt Anye, smiling a misleading smile. Seeing the empty chairs interspersed among the gamblers, for Sledge’s run of luck had already knocked three men out of the game, Travyn nodded at the seats to prompt a response from Sledge. Only three players were left. With only two coins stacked in front of him, one was holding on by the skin of his teeth. The other man had one third of the original pot he began with. Sledge had the rest.

  “Sit, if you like,” Sledge growled out his words past a forced smile, “if you have the coin to buy in.”

  “How much?" Travyn turned to see if Ilya'Gar had identified Sledge’s men. Watching his friend take a seat at a table close to the ruffians, he turned all of his attention to the man his thoughts had fixated on for more days than he cared to remember.

  “Sixty silvers ought to do it, or four star’s blood, if you have them.” Sledge looked amused that he had doubled the fee to buy into the game, an amount he expected would embarrass the young man to say he lacked. But to his annoyance, the man, whose eyes glowed out from the shadow his broad-brimmed hat cast over his face, took a purse off of his belt and poured thirty three silvers and three star's blood on the worn table top.

  “Will that do?” The stranger’s question seemed a challenge.

  “If you’re willing to lose it all.” Sledge angrily clenched his teeth as he spoke. “We’re playing Dead by Morning.”
r />   “All or nothing,” the stranger smiled as he replied, “that’s what I had in mind anyway.”

  What does he mean by that? Sledge was feeling uncomfortable. Still, the stranger was not much more than a boy, and the hunchman too. He was confident he could deal with both of them if they proved to be a nuisance. Besides, luck was smiling on him and he could use the coin the young man had poured onto the table.

  After a dozen hands were played, Travyn’s silvers had grown by half, the man with only two coins left had been finally cleaned out, Sledge maintained a sizeable lead, and the man who had been his closest challenger was reduced to a stack of four coins. Two hands later, he had none. Four hands more and Travyn had cut deeply into Sledge’s lead, fueling the round-faced man's anger.

  I didn’t like it when he walked in, Sledge’s eyes grew dark while he was lost in thought. Him and his weird eyes, looking at me from beneath that fancy hat of his. There’s something wrong there, something I’ll put an end to if he keeps winning like he is.

  Sledge envisioned waylaying the stranger on the narrow plain that swept out towards Eagle’s Vale, taking back the coins that were rightfully his, and claiming the hat as his own. He’d kill the hunchman as well, if he got in the way. Armed with a sword he had acquired before leaving Crow’s Vale, and with his men carrying heavy cudgels and long knives, it would be easy to do. Still, it hadn’t come to that yet. The stacks of coin before him and the annoying young man were even now. But he had wearried of playing with the stranger. He was tired of playing Dead by Morning. So he said, “Let’s end this thing.”

  Slamming his beefy fist against the table top, Sledge snarled out, “We’ll draw one card for it all.”

  An unreadable smile crossed the young man’s face as he took off his hat and sat it on the table top.

  “You shave yet?” Sledge taunted the bothersome youth he'd quickly grown to dislike.

  “I know how to use a knife,” the smile left the young man’s face as he spoke, “if that’s what you mean.”

  “Boy, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be playing games with a man like me. It’s not good for your health.”

  “I’m not playing games.” Travyn’s reply was cold as ice and sharp as broken glass. “I plan on taking everything you have.”

  “Everything?” Sledge’s hand slid sideways along the table top towards the sword that leaned against it. But before he had time to touch the leather-wrapped hilt that rose up beside him, Travyn pulled out the long knife he had tucked into his belt and slammed its point into the table near his coin.

  “Draw a card!" The rings of amber light in Travyn's eyes flared as he gave his commanded. “It’s what you want isn’t it?”

  Blinking like a man who had been slapped in the face, Sledge lifted the hand that had been moving towards the sword’s hilt and picked up the cards they had been playing with. After cutting the deck in half, he looked at the face card and smiled. Then he laughed as he showed Travyn a card that had the picture of a roaring griffin with eleven fish leaping over its head on it. “Beat that kid,” Sledge shouted as he slammed the remaining cards on the table top.

  All who were there stopped what they were doing to watch. All were holding their breath as they waited to see what would happen next. Even the ladies of the evening had stopped flirting with their prospective customers. Only the big-boned serving girl moved as she hurried off to tell the tavern owner what was happening.

  Travyn cut the remaining deck in half again, and without looking, turned the half he had in his hand face up and placed it carefully on the table. A Candle Maker, with twelve flaming candles arching over their head, was seen.

  Sledge’s small, dark eyes grew larger than Travyn thought possible a moment before they narrowed as he grabbed his sword with a sweep of his hand and roared, “I'll kill you before I let you take my coin!”

  Forcibly pushing the table forward with a hand that didn't touch it, Travyn used his N'Rah to hit Sledge with the table as he was trying to stand up. Catching the burly man before he had time to get his feet under him, the impact sent Sledge crashing to the floor with his sword in hand.

  Quicker than a cat pouncing on a mouse, Travyn leapt over the table. Withdrawing his elven leaf-blade as he flew through the air, Travyn came down on the Sledge’s round face with his boot heel, smashing the back of his head against the hardwood floor. Then dropping his weight on top of Sledge, Travyn pinned the dangerous man's sword arm beneath one knee as he straddled him. His other foot made certain that Sledge's free hand couldn't reach his cudgle. A moment later the leaf-blade was pressed against the ruffian’s stubble-covered neck.

  The look in Travyn’s eyes told Sledge he was dead. The speed at which the stranger had subdued him robbed his men of the time they needed to come to his rescue. “It’s because of the girl?” Sledge angrily snarled through bloody lips as he stared into the amber rings of light that he knew were the last things he would ever see.

  “Her and her brother.” Travyn's breathy reply was heard despite of his clenched teeth. Then his upper lip lifted as he exerted the pressure needed to slit Darwyn Sledge’s throat wide open.

  A gurgling moment later, it was over.

  The stench of excrement filled the air as Darwyn sledge's lifeless bowels released their contents, urine soaked the front of his pants, and his luck ran out.

  Stunned by the decisive speed used to end Darwyn Sledge’s life, only a few of the tavern’s occupants had time to stand before the deed was done. Most were still seated, all with eyes opened wide. Motionless as stautues, those in the tavern waited to see what Travyn would do next. The men dressed in fine apparel looked terrified. Sowing a few wild oats was one thing… but this.

  Seeing Travyn turn his attention to the two men who had placed their backs against the wall with cudgels and knives in hand, those seated or standing nearby moved quickly and quietly away from the place the conflict was now headed. Only the hunchman joined the young man with the strange eyes as he moved, cat-like, to confront the two men.

  Leaning on one of his long arms that reached to the tavern floor where the knuckles on his left hand braced his ready weight, Ilya'Gar's right hand held his jagged-edged sword menacingly low in a position that hunchmen favored when initiating a fight. With his head lowered and his muzzle-like mouth displaying their long, canine-like teeth, Ilya'Gar looked more beast than man. But before a word could be said or a blow struck, the tavern’s front door opened once again and a man wearing a Candle Maker’s robes entered the tension-filled room.

  Seeing what was taking place, aware of what Travyn was capable of doing, the Candle Maker broke the silence that had clamped its hand over the astonished room. “What’s going on here?” He asked his question with the authority he knew he possessed as a member of the Holy Order of the Candle.

  Irritated by the wizard's intrusion into things that weren’t his concern, Travyn spat out, “Nothing you should be worried about, Rolf.”

  “But it’s something that would concern your mother.” Rolf threw the robe’s hood off his head as he spoke, a hood whose colorful design looked like flames of fire.

  “Though you might not think so... everything you do concerns her.” Seeing the dead man laying in an expanding pool of blood, he added, “By the Candle’s Light, someone has been murdered!”

  “Not murdered.” Travyn watched a griffin, who was acompanying the Candle Maker, stick their huge, mane-covered head through the doorway as he spoke. “He got what he deserved. And these two here,” Travyn pointed at Sledge’s men with the point of his bloody leaf-blade, “are next.”

  With the winged lion's fierce yellow eyes fixed on the pool of blood that fanned out beneath the dead man's head that tilted back at an odd angle by reason of a throat that was cut to the neck bone, the griffin pushed his way into the room. “What’s this all about?” A deep, rumbling voice rolled through the smoke-filled air like the sound of distant thunder passing through a storm cloud.

  “Seraph Blood, these a
re the men who beat Quinn within an inch of his life.” Travyn’s eyes softened a bit as he addressed the winged-lion he numbered among his friends, but only a bit. “And that pile of bull splatter over there hurt Anye.”

  Looking past Travyn and Ilya'Gar at the two men who looked more frightened than threatening, Seraph Blood’s upper lip lifted to expose the knife long fangs they hid as he growled his displeasure.

  Startled by the griffin’s reaction, Rolf gave Seraph Blood a disapproving look before he spoke again. After all, the winged-lion was supposed to help him take Travyn back to his mother, not help the unruly young man get his revenge.

  Though justice was an important concept to the Candle Makers, violence was rarely condoned. Pacifists by nature, the benevolent wizards sought to change the warl with kindness. To them, anger bred anger, hatred bred hatred, and the one who lived by the sword was doomed to die by it as well.

  “Stay your hand Travyn, and you too, Ilya'Gar.” Tall and lean, Rolf was a comely man. He had the look of one who would not be easily dissuaded from the things he believed were right. “One killing is enough for tonight. There are more important matters that need to be attended to.”

  “Those matters can wait.” Travyn’s words were spoken with a coldness that frightened the Candle Maker. “My work’s not done here. So, if you'll wait for me outside, I'll be glad to join you in a little while.”

  The two men who had backed up against the wall regripped their weapons and braced themselves for what they were sure was to come. Looking from the griffin, to the hunchman, to the one who had killed Sledge so easily, and to those who stood by, they hoped someone would help them. But they knew none would. Still, the Candle Maker's presence gave them a glimmer of hope, so they- in an act of desperation or cowardice- threw their weapons down and began pleading for their lives.

  “Beat us like we beat the lad, even worse if you like,” one of the two who wore a heavy beard though he was bald on the top of his head, said. “But don’t do us like you did Sledge. He hurt the girl… not Harlan and me.”