Against The Odds
Copyright © Keith McArdle 2015
Keith McArdle asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, are the work of the author’s imagination.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, adapted, altered, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
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Against the Odds
Matthew vaulted the bar, iron club in hand, pushed a patron out the way and bludgeoned the giant in the face. The seven foot brute spat out a tooth, wiped blood from his nose and grinned.
“T’at all you gonna bring?” the giant asked in a broad Irish accent.
It’s all I fuck’n got, thought Matthew, although he knew better than to say it. It was obvious to all and sundry that Irish was drunk; no, in fact, beyond drunk. But it was the bad manners and harassment of other patrons that had caused him to fall into disagreement with Matthew. He dodged a ham fisted right hook, stepped in close and clobbered the huge man again, opening up a two inch laceration across his forehead. Blood oozed into the Irishman’s eyes, blinding him.
Matthew turned to the Irishman’s friends who were standing idle, watching the confrontation with glee. “Get him out of here!” commanded Matthew.
The tall, well-built man attempted to punch Matthew again, but the attack was off balance and mistimed. Matthew slapped the fist aside and hammered the steel bar into the man’s face several times in quick succession. The Irishman tumbled to the floor unconscious, face plastered with blood.
“Get him out now, before I club someone to death!” roared Matthew, pointing the steel club at the Irishman’s friends, their glee now substituted by genuine fear. They nodded and complied, dragging the groaning man out by his feet, leaving a long streak of blood on the floor. Matthew decided to clean it up the next morning, and vaulted back over the bar to begin serving the next customer.
After fifteen years serving as a Red Coat in his Majesty’s Coldstream Guards, Matthew had seen his fair share of war. He could reload and fire a musket three times within one minute and could march on foot for weeks at a time, then fight a battle at the other end. In truth, he was able to load and fire a musket four times within one minute, although the ramrod would still be half way down the barrel on the last shot. That had saved his life once. The bullet had completely missed the French soldier who was one stride from burying his bayonet into Matthew’s body. The ramrod had not. It slammed into the man’s throat, exiting at the base of his skull in a bloody swathe. The Frenchman was dead before he hit the ground.
That battle and others similar had left the fair skin of his face scarred. A long scar ran the length of his face, from the corner of his left eye, to his chin, complements of the near miss of an enemy soldier’s razor sharp bayonet. A minor burn above his right eye remained visible years later, caused by pouring too much gunpowder into the flash pan of his rifle. That had been a hard and painful lesson to learn, Matthew thought, touching the burn scar.
“I say boy, be a good lad and get me three pints would you?”
Matthew’s reverie broke as he looked up at the customer in surprise. The Eagle and Rabbit was a popular tavern on the outer western side of London. Most of the patrons were farm workers, all unable to read or write, so it was with some surprise that Matthew served a posh Englishmen. He did not like the way the pompous man spoke to him; like some lowly servant. He scowled at the well-dressed patron. His dark, short cropped hair was slicked back with grease and glistening in the light thrown by various torches hanging from the walls.
“What’d you say?” asked Matthew through gritted teeth.
“Oh, are you hard of hearing, boy?” asked the posh Englishman in mock surprise. He stroked his waxed moustache and leaned over the bar. In a loud voice, as if he were addressing an elderly man, hard of hearing, he said, “get…me…another…three…pints…boy!”
“What if I don’t?” Matthew responded, anger warming him.
“Oh good heaven’s above, my boy, I should think I would cut your throat,” grinned the posh man.
Matthew glared at the customer, and instinctively realised that for all his arrogant airs, the man was dangerous. Behind the patron’s well-dressed, posh demeanour lingered controlled violence. It was rare he saw the two traits combined. Posh, upper-class people were rich and educated. But they usually had men of sterner stuff than themselves, carry out their violent, dirty work. Matthew knew as much as he disliked the customer, the man could fight. Moreover, he had killed before today.
“Right y’are,” Matthew said.
“Don’t mumble boy! Speak properly!”
Seething, Matthew departed to pour the drinks. He reminded himself to spit in the drinks would be somewhat unprofessional.
As he poured the drinks, he watched the man. He was a tall man, his dark eyes raking across the patrons, out of curiosity or ever watchful for a threat, it was difficult to tell. He wore a rapier at his hip, the blade of which was no wider than a man’s thumb. With two pints poured, Matthew began filling the third. The hilt of the weapon was coated in scratches and dents. It was not a ceremonial weapon.
“Why thank you, my boy, you are a gentleman and a scholar,” smiled the Englishman.
“I am neither,” replied Matthew, nodding as he accepted the man’s money.
The Englishman chuckled as he departed. “Nor I,” he said over his shoulder. “Nor I.”
Matthew relaxed, leaning against the bar. The Eagle and Rabbit was full tonight and had been every day of the last fortnight. He had gone through some tough financial times in the past. In fact, close to two years before, his bank had almost been forced to foreclose on him. Those had indeed been tough times, the toughest through which he had ever lived. Now, finally, he was turning a healthy profit. He had heard the saying, “money does not make the earth turn.” Whoever coined that phrase must have been a rich bastard.
“Alright laddie?” spoke a broad Scottish accent. Matthew snapped out of his thoughts and saw a Highlander of average height standing before him. A shock of shoulder length red hair adorned his head and thick fiery beard reached his chest. His sharp green eyes twinkled with cheeky humour.
“What can I get you?”
“I’ll ‘ave two pints o’ ya beer and one large Scotch,” he grinned.
“Sorry, we don’t have any Scotch, just the beer I’m afraid.”
“Ah well,” said the Highlander. “Worth a try, ay?” he winked, still grinning. “Three pints o’ ya beer then.”
Matthew poured the drinks and watched the Highlander, who he noticed was also armed. He wore a large claymore broadsword at his hip. The Highlander turned and leaned his back against the bar as he waited. Matthew saw he wore a dagger as long as a man’s forearm on his opposite hip. Strapped to his back was a small shield, the diameter of which could have been no more than one foot. He was not used to armed patrons to his tavern, certainly not two in one night. If it continued, he would have to consider introducing rules. But for the time being, armed patrons were still somewhat of a rarity. He had no doubt many of his patrons wore hidden blades for self-protection. But wearing large weapons on open display was still something rarely seen in the area of the city in which The Eagle and Rabbit was located.
“Here you are,” said Matthew.
The Highlander turned, dropped some coins into Matthew’s hand and took hold of t
he wooden pint cups.
“Slanch-uh-va!” beamed the Scotsman, nodding his thanks to Matthew before turning away.
He had spent enough time around Scottish soldiers as a Red Coat to know the Gaelic phrase. “Good health!” was the English translation if he recalled. The Highlander carried the pints to the same table at which sat the posh Englishman.
Matthew was growing tired as he continued to serve his customers, but the thought of ever again having to foreclose to the bank was his driving force. He pushed through the fatigue and maintained his motivation. He much preferred to go to bed exhausted than finish up a beggar on some frozen street corner.
Accepting money from a patron, Matthew smiled, wished the man a pleasant evening and turned to see a tall, well-built man waiting to be served. His blonde hair reached past his shoulders, cold, piercing blue eyes glared out from beneath thick eyebrows. His beard plaited either side of his chin.
“Three pints,” growled the man in a thick Scandinavian accent.
Matthew knew the man also came from the table at which sat both the posh Englishman and Highlander. Like his comrades the Northman was armed; a sword sheathed at his hip and a large round shield slung on his back. Sheathed horizontal and above his sword belt was a small knife, held into the tiny deer skin scabbard by a leather strap. On the opposite hip, he wore a drinking horn. Matthew had heard of them before, but never seen one.
“May I?” Matthew asked, gesturing towards the drinking horn.
The Scandinavian giant scowled, distrust glinting in his eyes, but he removed the horn and handed it over.
Matthew turned the horn over. The lip was lined with a narrow band of well-polished silver, into which was etched runes. What they spelled was beyond him, maybe the owner’s name.
“You want your beer poured into this?”
The Northman’s scowl immediately disappeared to be replaced with a broad grin. He nodded.
Taking the coin, he watched the Scandinavian stride away, taking a deep gulp from the drinking horn as he went.
“That’s him lads!” a voice roared and Matthew looked to the door. A group of men stood there, most armed with wooden clubs, some held rusted knives, or in one case, a pitchfork. Behind them, his face a bloody ruin stood the monstrous Irishman who Matthew had dealt with earlier.
Keeping his face calm, he allowed his hand to drop behind the counter and grip the familiar steel bar. Matthew knew there would be no talking out of this one. Blood would be shed, and perhaps lives lost. He just hoped his was not one of them. It had been almost one year since there had been significant trouble at the Eagle and Rabbit.
“Get ta bastard!”
The group of thugs surged forward, patrons scrambling in a mad rush to move out of the way.
“Now, now, boys, before we get ourselves too worked up, I should say we need to talk a few things over,” said a loud voice. It was the posh Englishman, his comrades standing either side of him. Somehow the trio had moved with lightning speed to stand between Matthew and the group.
“What say we talk things over old boy?” asked the Englishman, directing the question towards the Irish ringleader.
“What’s ta talk about ya English gobshite?”
“Your breath for instance,” smiled the Englishman.
“What about me breath?”
“It stinks.”
Silence.
The Irishman pushed through the throng of thugs to stand before the trio.
“What da fuck you just say ta me?”
“Good lord above, my boy, stop talking, I’m going to bring up my dinner. When was the last time you cleaned your teeth?” The Englishman cursed himself and slapped a hand to his forehead. “Blast, I forgot. You don’t have any teeth!”
The Highlander roared with laughter; he seemed to be enjoying the confrontation.
“You’re a bloody dead man,” snarled the Irishman. “You’re all dead!” he shrieked.
The Northman paused, the drinking horn still in his hand and half way to his lips. He held the horn away from his body and upended it. Apart from the sound of beer spattering upon the wooden floor as the drinking horn was emptied, the tavern was silent.
“I believe you have offended our good northern friend here,” said the cheerful Englishman.
Shaking the last few drops of beer clear of the horn, the Scandinavian giant placed it away. Removing the shield from his back, he drew his sword.
“I don’t bleed’n care! Kill ‘em!” shouted the Irishman, allowing the thugs to rush past him towards the trio.
Matthew watched dumbstruck.
The Highlander roared some Gaelic war cry and brought his claymore whistling down in an overhead stroke. The giant sword cut clean through one man’s shoulder and sliced through skin and bone until it came to rest, wedged in the bone of his sternum. The Scotsman took a step back and kicked the dying man from his blade. Advancing, his small shield now worn on his left arm and the knife held in his left hand, the sharp blade pointing down towards the ground. A grubby looking man charged forward stabbing his pitchfork as he advanced. The Highlander stepped aside, and then strode forward. Backhanding the offender with his shield, he slashed open his throat. As the man let the pitchfork drop to the floor, he clutched at his throat with both hands. The Highlander, once more, brought the claymore down in a powerful overhead blow which almost cut the man in half, ending his pain.
The Northman, with two men dead or dying at his feet, slammed his sword through a third’s stomach. The blood drenched tip exploding through his back, severing the spine. Ripping the blade free, he met the charge of another attacker with his shield, battering the man from his feet, where he landed upon a table nearby. With a scream, he dropped his knife, took one last glance at the Northman fast approaching and fled.
“No, no, no, you don’t seem to be listening to me, my boy” said the Englishman in a matter-of-fact tone. He lunged forward, the thin rapier puncturing his opponent’s throat, hot air and blood exploding from the trachea. “Like that. You see?” he said to the dying man, who stumbled back, his eyes as wide as saucers.
The next man approached. His eyes, full of fear, flicked from the rapier to the Englishman’s face and back again.
“Good heavens, is that all you have?” taunted the Englishman, the rapier dropping by his side. He gestured at the rusted knife the man held. “It is an insult, I say! An insult! I have spent almost an hour today alone, sharpening and polishing this,” he held up the rapier. Once so clean it caught the light like a mirror, now spattered with blood and small chucks of gore. “Not that you can tell, of course,” he shrugged. “Even so, that is beside the point young man!” he scolded the confused thug. “How long have you spent sharpening and cleaning that,” he gestured at the rusty knife once more, “that…thing?”
“Haven’t,” replied the man.
“Well of course you haven’t, it was a rhetorical question you imbecile! Now go away,” said the Englishman waving his hand at the man as if dismissing a particularly annoying waiter from a dining table.
The man hesitated.
“Go…away!”
Looking around him, the thug realised he was the last of his comrades left alive. The Irishman, who had promised to pay them, had reneged on his word and fled during the opening moments of the fight.
He backed away, watching the trio. When he closed upon the exit, he turned and fled.
“My thanks,” said Matthew.
“Our pleasure. Reginald Cotton, at your service,” said the posh Englishman.
Matthew introduced himself, shaking the offered hand. The grip was far stronger than he expected from such a slight man. He looked around at the Highlander, who was wiping his claymore clean on the dirty shirt of a dead man. The Scotsman looked up at him.
“Rob McNeill,” he nodded in his thick accent.
Matthew committed the name to memory and finally turned to the giant Scandinavian.
“Asger Thrainsson,” said the Northman holding out his hand.<
br />
Matthew almost winced as the grip closed around in his hand.
“I owe you all a drink,” said Matthew, placing the steel bar upon a nearby table, the only one still remaining on its legs.
Asger nodded. “We help you clean up first,” he rumbled. Before anyone spoke, Asger clutched the shirts of one deceased man in each hand and dragged them towards the door. Striding through the exit, he dragged them out into the street and dropped them onto the dirt.
“The watch will take them away come morning,” Asger said when he reappeared to carry out more bodies.
“Indeed,” agreed Reginald. “It will also display to others that you are an establishment not to be toyed with,” grinned the Englishman. “I say, could you help me with this one?” Matthew nodded and took the man’s feet, carrying him out between them.
“Can’t help it if you’re English,” chuckled Rob. He dragged two men out by their feet, their lifeless upper limbs displacing upturned tables and chairs.
Soon, apart from smears, spatters and pools of coagulated blood, the room was corpse free.
“There, good as new!” boomed Rob, righting a chair and taking a seat.
“Quite,” agreed Reginald.
Within a matter of minutes, all four nursed a pint of beer, sitting around a table amongst the upended tables and scattered chairs.
Asger was rubbing a small block of animal fat along the length of his sword.
“Takes care of his gear,” Matthew gestured towards the Scandinavian.
“He does. We will all do the same by the end of the night. Blood you see, horrible stuff.” Reginald took a swig of beer, swilled it around his mouth and swallowed. “Full of salt, causes swords to rust in short order if they are not cared for.”
Matthew nodded. “So what brings you and your men here Reginald?”
“Please, call me Rex, if you please,” spoke the Englishman. “We are being paid to hunt. We have tracked our quarry to this town.”
“What are you hunting? Bear? Wolf? Or something else?”
“Oh, something else altogether,” said Rex. He glanced at the others as if asking if he should tell the barkeep.
Rob shrugged and took another drink, finishing his pint with several large gulps. Asger continued to clean his sword, ignoring them.
“My dear Matthew, do you know anything about lycanthropy?” when Rex was met with a blank stare, he continued. “Werewolves, my man. Werewolves!”
“Are they not mythical beasts? Imaginative creations to scare children?” he asked.
Asger looked up from his work and roared with laughter, shaking his head.
“Oh, they are real, laddie,” chimed in Rob. “As real as we are sitting here.”
“I think I need another drink,” muttered Matthew.
“Aye! Me too laddie. Me too!”
Against The Odds Page 1
