And his axe dripped dark with the scaly ones’ blood The moon rose full and pearly, pearly white King Kale dropped another goblin in the mud And the moon gleamed high and pearly, pearly bright
Milo breathed deep, taking in the scents of the place. Ale, mostly, was thick in the air, heady and pleasant and helping to mask the odors of sweat-stained clothes and men who’d been too long without baths. Some kind of meat was roasting over a spit in the fireplace a few yards away. A cow, probably. His belly growled, and when the wench poured ale from a large jug, he ordered a slab of the meat — and some bread and cheese for good measure.
“And you, sir?” The woman turned to Milo’s companion. “Aren’t you hungry?” Her expression said: you certainly look hungry.
Naile Fangtooth didn’t reply, but he held out his mug.
Though Milo Jagon was a big man, at six feet with wide shoulders and thickly muscled arms and legs, Naile dwarfed him. He was a head taller and was easily the largest man in the tavern. His neck was thick and short like the stump of a tree, the roots thick veins that disappeared into the neckline of his tunic. He was massive without being fat, with a barrel-like chest and a broad, haggard-looking face, eyes so black one could not discern his pupils. Naile was by no means handsome, which Milo bordered on, but he had a presence. And where Milo was dressed in a city man's jerkin and breeches, with hair reasonably short and combed, Naile looked as if he had been dragged in from some forest. He wore animal skins—wolf and fox pelts, boar, bear, and deer hide, all crudely stitched together into a tunic, trousers, and cloak. His metal helmet was pitted, and boar’s tusks curved up and away from the sides, resembling horns. The hair that spilled out was a tangled red-brown mass that matched a bushy beard that hung to his waist.
Most of the patrons had taken turns ogling the mismatched pair, with most of them paying more attention to Naile and giving him as wide a berth as possible in the jammed confines. However, the server edged closer, thinking Naile hadn’t heard her.
“Sir? Aren’t you hungry? Shall I bring a plate for you, too?”
Naile shook his head and made a noise in his throat that sounded like the growl of a wild animal. His dark eyes, crinkled with faint lines at the edges, absorbed the light from the fireplace and, glowing, held her gaze for a moment.
“You must be thirsty,” she said, unable to take her eyes from his lace. But then he blinked, and she quickly filled his mug, then she moved to another table.
Milo watched her, wondering how long it would take her to bring the food. In this world there wasn’t as much to choose from, no long menu to peruse while you sat in a comfortable padded chair and sipped from a glass of ice water. He’d taken so many things for granted back home; money in the pockets of his favorite jeans, his own apartment (though a small one-bedroom place, he didn’t have to share it), a car (albeit a rusty one with too many miles which he’d been intending to replace), an impressive collection of comic books and science-fiction and fantasy paperbacks, and an assortment of movies and tapes. What he wouldn’t do to be home right now. He made a fist and squeezed, his fingers digging so tight he could feel the pulse in them.
Taking another gulp of ale, he managed to shake off those thoughts and returned his attention to the serving wench, wondering if she might speed up her route to the beef. At the same time, he listened to the skald continue his song.
The goblin army came with the first spring flood
The moon shone full, this pearly, pearly night
King Kale dropped their general in the mud
And the moon spilled down on the bloody, bloody sight
“Over all of this noise . . . hic ... I can hear your stomach rumble, Naile.” Milo was still looking away from his companion, his eyes following the wench, who had a platter in her hand, piled with bread and cheese. She sliced a piece of meat off the spit, then worked her way back toward the pair, grabbing up another jug on her way. Milo glanced at the black-cloaked figure, swearing to himself that the cowl was aimed right at him. Was the ale making him suspicious of strangers? Then Milo looked for the patron in the ash-colored clothes. “Gone,” he said. “Hic.”
“I am hungry, Milo,” Naile admitted. He drained his second mug. “But it’s bad enough that I’m drinking this ale. It’s not right, me drinking this.”
When the server arrived, she dropped the platter in front of Milo. She filled Naile’s mug without his asking, topped Milo’s off and announced she would bring their bill soon.
“That jug,” Milo said. “Leave it.”
She nodded then hurried to a nearby table, where a quartet of obvious farmers were waving for her and singing along with the skald. Milo speared the piece of meat and began to devour it without pausing to inhale. Naile stared at the blood dripping from the slice and unconsciously licked his lips.
“It’s not right, you eating that,” Naile said when the last piece of meat was gone. But the words lacked conviction.
Milo shrugged and stuffed a hunk of cheese in his mouth. He followed it with a long pull from the mug of ale. The drink was beginning to mar his speech. “Was . . . what’s . . . not right? We’ll be good for — ” “It’s not right,” Naile continued. “We don’t have a single coin to pay for the ale, let alone the meal you’re shoveling down your throat. When that waitress — ”
“ Wait redd? Wench,” Milo corrected, finishing the mug, then pouring more, wagging a finger at Naile when he was finished. Milo’s gesture was clumsy, and his red-rimmed eyes blinked when he tried to lock onto Naile’s stare. “Don’t you know that around shere . . . here ... in this time and place, they’re called serving wenches. Hie.” "Fine. When that serving girl comes back later and finds out we can’t pay for what we’ve been drinking ...”
“When that wench finds out ...” Milo paused, hiccuped, and finished the cheese. He shook his head as if to clear it, and blinked furiously. “Well, I’m certain by then we’ll have the coins to pray . . . pay.” He took another gulp of the ale. “We’ll have found us some work by the evening’s bend . . . end. That guy we talked to, the one who told us about this tavern ... he said they hire mercenaries shere. And he shaid he knew someone coming by tonight looking for folks.”
“Wonder if they hire drunk ones?” Naile said too softly for Milo to hear.
“And the guy who shires us . . . hires us . . . you know he’ll give us some sort of advance. We’ll use that to pay for the ale and food. 'Sides, Naile, we had to order shomething. Can’t come into a tavern and not order shomething. “It wouldn’t be proper.”
“But you ordered too much,” Naile said. He finished his ale and poured the last bit from the pitcher. “And you’re drinking far more than I am. And too quickly. You’re drunk. Very.” This he said loud enough for Milo to hear.
“Like you can talk. Sides, I got plenty to drink about.” Milo wiped at the ale that had dribbled down his chin. “Stuck in this world, like shomething out of our game. Drawn here . . . these bracelets.” He let his jangle against the table. It was the same as Naile’s, copper links with gems of varying cuts and colors dangling from it. “Dice is what they are,” he said of the gems. “Like in the game we splayed . . . played. ’Cept this isn’t a game, this world. We could’ve been skilled . . . killed ... by a dragon, Naile. A friggin’ dragcn! Fought swamp creatures. Found our way to Quag Keep. None of sit . . . none of it . . . took us home. So I don’t know about you, but I got plenty to drink about.”
Milo waved his hand, and the serving wench brushed by him, lingering for a moment and pressing against his back when she refilled his mug and set a full jug on the table, taking the empty one away. He stared at his reflection in the ale for a moment, then drained half the mug in one gulp. “But I shtink I am a little too drunk, my friend. And I shtink I better start sobering up if I want to get hired.”
Naile raised a hairy eyebrow. “When’s this guy coming by anyway? The one doing the . . . hiring? ” Naile was having a little trouble with his words, too. They were coming out slightly slurred, and they were thic
k, to match the feel of his teeth. He picked up his mug, inspected it, then drained nearly all the contents in one gulp.
“What guy?” For a moment Milo seemed oblivious. “Oh. Yeah. The guy hiring mermermercen. ...” He couldn't quite wrap his tongue around the word. “Hiring men. Don’t know. But I wouldn’t shrink it should be much longer. I shrink — ”
The door flew open and three men staggered in. The dust from the streets was heavy on their clothes and faces, and their hair was streaked with gray, making them older than most of the patrons. The one in the lead looked to Milo and Naile’s table and headed toward it, pointing and posturing at Naile as he stumbled along.
"S’gots me seat,” he said. “Some big, hairy, ugly cuss’s gots me seat.”
Naile made a move to rise to accommodate the stranger, but Milo put a hand on his forearm. “We were here, first, Naile. And ’sides, they’re drunk. And ’sides, they ain’t the ones who’re hiring mermermercen . . . men.”
“We’re drunk, too,” Naile said. “At leash 1 am a little bit, and you are more than quite a bit.”
Milo shrugged and ate a hunk of bread. He kept his voice to a whisper so he wouldn’t interfere with the hushed conversations and the skald’s lengthy ballad. “Y’know what I mish most about home?” He didn't wait for Naile to answer. “Going to the movies on Sunday afternoon. But not in the fall and winter, that’s when I swatched football. Go Pack, y’know? Me being from Wisconsin. Rooting against Da Bears. But I mish movies and buttered popcorn the most.” He paused and took another pull from the mug: “But this meat’s not bad . . . whatever it is.” After another moment: “Better than popcorn. I wonder what it is? This meat?”
“I miss Alfreeta,” Naile said flatly. He watched the three men stop a few feet away, the one in the lead shaking his finger and mouthing me deal.
The skald raised his voice in an effort to be heard over a burst of laughter that had erupted at the bar over an obnoxious bad joke.
The goblins fell hard in a spreading pool of blood The stars gleamed hot, so pearly, pearly white
King Kale’s axe came down with a thud And the moonlight shone on the ugly, ugly fight
“S’my seat you gots,” the lead man said.
Naile ignored him. "I miss her a lot, Milo. I miss Alfreeta.”
Milo finished the mug, stuffed another piece of bread in his mouth, and poured some more from the pitcher. “Alfreeta? That little flying lizard of yours?”
Naile nodded and stared at the ale. “Ish not like a boy an’ his dog, Milo. Ish more than that.” He waved a hand in front of his face, as if to brush away a cobweb, then he drank some more.
“S’my seat you gots.” The lead man spoke louder and poked Naile in the shoulder.
“Quiet, all of you,” a nearby patron snapped. “I want to hear the end of the song.”
“I really do miss her, Milo, my little Alfreeta. She disappeared right before we came into this town. She was handy in a fight.” He took another drink from his mug and turned so his back was to the trio. “She wash . . . was . . . my friend. And did I tell you she wash handy in a fight? Must’ve wanted to be with her own kind. Jush flitted away, she did. Jush flitted away.”
“I had a dog once,” Milo offered. “One of them little schnittzle-wiener fellas.” He frowned at the memory. “I was a kid. Got hit by a car, the dog. And my folks didn’t let me get another one.” His eyes filled with tears and he made a sniffling sound. “Now why’d you make me go and shrink about that dog?”
“Alfreeta's more than a dog, I tell you again, ” Naile said. “And she was handy in a fight. Hey, maybe we should let them three sit here. The skinny one looks upset. Did I tell you she was handy in a fight?” “S’my seat, I say. S’my seat.”
Milo sternly shook his head. “We was here firsht.”
The trio moved around to the other side of the table, the lead man standing in front of Naile now. He bent over and belched in Naile’s face. "I said, ugly man, that you’s gots me seat. And if you don’t give me that seat — ”
Before Naile could reply or the man could finish the threat, the tavern door banged open again, and a portly gentleman strode in. He was dressed in a fine brocade tunic that hung to his knees. A heavy, burgundy wool cloak trimmed in rabbit fur swirled around his booted feet. He looked of money, as did the younger and significantly smaller man at his side, and they drew the attention of nearly every patron. The room quieted.
King Kale’s axe came down with a thud
And the moonlight shone on the bloody, bloody fight
“That’s got to be the man doing the shiring,” Milo said. He blinked to clear his foggy vision. "Lesh go talk to him.”
Milo pushed away from the table and shakily stood, Naile doing the same and accidentally knocking the man over who was shaking his finger.
“First you takes me seat, and then you hits me. Hits me! He hits me!”
His two grizzly companions helped him up, at the same time shouting that Naile had started a fight.
Naile took a step back and spread his hands in a peaceful gesture, and he tried to apologize. But his tongue was thick from the ale, his head woozy from drinking on a long-empty stomach.
King Kale’s axe came down with a thud And the moonlight shone on the ugly, ugly fight
And suddenly there was so much noise in the tavern that Naile couldn’t be heard no matter how loud he talked. There were the sounds of glass breaking and something heavy hitting the floor. There was the sound of knuckles breaking, when one of the three men punched Naile squarely in the chest. There were moans —from that man and from others who were suddenly being pummeled by people they’d been dming with. Unintelligible shouts filled the air — a shriek from one of the serving wenches; Milo thumping his empty mug on top of a stranger’s head; that same stranger jabbing a fork into Milo's stomach and cheering when Milo doubled over; the skald yelling out the lines to his song, then suddenly stopping in mid-word and howling.
Naile glanced to the makeshift stage and saw the skald holding his broken jaw, blood spilling down from his broken nose.
Pandemonium ruled.
A chair was splintered against Naile’s broad back.
“I felt that,” Naile growled. A bench was leveled against the back of his legs—this bringing him to his knees and coaxing a snarl of pain from his lips. The grizzled trio surrounded Naile and begin pounding on him with fists, mugs they’d acquired from somewhere, and a platter that shattered against his helmet.
Naile retaliated, though he tried at first to pull his punches. One swing took down the man in front of him, the one who’d wagged his finger so vehemently. Another took down one of the man’s companions. A head-butt sent the last to the tavern floor.
At the same time, Milo was flailing away at a pair of miners, who were using chair legs as clubs. Milo reached a hand to his side, intending to pull his sword. But then he remembered he’d had to “check” it at the door.
“The door! The guy doing the shiring . . . hiring," Milo cried. He turned and searched for the portly merchant through the press of swinging, battering, ramming, pummeling, pounding fists and legs. Everything was a blur of color, splashed red from blood flying in arcs from shattered noses, cut lips, and worse. There was a small cloud of black, the mysterious cloaked man, making his way toward the door. The aristocrats were trying to leave as well.
“The guy doing the shiring! ” Milo called again.
But there was no sign of the merchant and the younger man with him—the pair he was certain was hiring mercenaries. There was only the press of fighting bodies. Milo gagged on the scents of spilled ale, sweat, and blood. He was jostled by bodies shoving against bodies, people pressing closer, jabbed by elbows. He hit back, swinging now at anyone, accidentally connecting with Naile’s arm when the big man got too close.
“Shorry.”
Naile seemed not to notice. He was punching everyone who came within reach of his fists, too. “Milo . . . Milo!"
“What?”
<
br /> “Milo, the door! Lesh . . . let’s . . . get out of here!"
“Thash . . . thash . . . that’s . . . one way to avoid paying a bill with coins we don’t have.’’ Milo threw all his efforts into parting the bodies in front of him.
Naile simply picked up those blocking his way and tossed them. The pair staggered and fought their way to the door.
“Hear something?’’ Naile called.
“Yeah, thish fight,” Milo returned.
“And a whishle . . . whistle.”
“Yeah, Naile, it’s coming from outside.’’
Picking Up Some Pieces
Yevele had taken the lead, Wymarc walking directly behind her and pushing to keep up with her quick, long strides. Ingrge was back nearly a city block, keeping close to the edges of buildings. It wasn’t that the elf disliked the company of the other two, or that he couldn’t match their pace —he could have passed them by if he so chose, and with very little effort. He was just overly cautious. Ingrge preferred either to scout ahead for danger, or — as was the case this night—trail back and keep to the shadows to make sure no one was following.
Deep down, the elf knew his tactics were unnecessary in this city, as no one knew them here or cared about their comings and goings. But skulking was a practice Ingrge hadn’t been able to shake since coming to this “backward, medieval world,” as Deav Dyne had called it. The elf figured it was better to be unduly deliberate than to be dead.
Ingrge studied the other people he saw out this evening. Nearly all of them were walking to or from taverns —drinking and gambling being the main time-passers in this neighborhood. Only a few people
seemed to have other destinations, these being to rented rooms on the second floors of the various businesses that lined the street. Most of the people in this part of the city would be considered “commoners,” Ingrge decided, with passable clothes, likely a few copper coins in their pockets, and reasonably clean hands and faces. The elf had learned early on that the cleaner a person was, and the better he smelled, the richer he tended to be. At the moment, he considered himself and his companions squarely in the lower class.
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