The Spine of the World

by Philip Athans

  The other man, who had bounced off him harmlessly, leaped onto Wulfgar’s side with a heavy flying tackle, but Wulfgar, with a defiant roar, held fast his footing. He twisted and wriggled his left arm up under the clinging man’s shoulder and grabbed him by the hair on the back of his head.

  Ahead strode the barbarian, roaring, punching again and again with his free right hand, while tugging with his left to keep the clinging man in check. The chain-fisted ruffian backed defensively, using his left arm to deflect the blows. He saw an opening he couldn’t resist and came forward hard to land another solid blow on Wulfgar, clipping the barbarian’s collar bone. The ruffian should have continued retreating, though, for Wulfgar had his footing and his balance now, enough to put all his weight behind one great hooking right.

  The chain-fisted ruffian’s blocking arm barely deflected the heavy blow. Wulfgar’s fist smashed through the defenses and came crashing down against the side of the ruffian’s face, spinning him in a downward spiral to the floor.

  Morik sat at his table in the far corner, every now and then dodging a flying bottle or body, unperturbed as he sipped his drink. Despite his calm facade, the rogue was worried for his friend and for the Cutlass, for he could not believe the brutality of the row this night. It seemed as if all of Luskan’s thugs had risen up in this one great opportunity to brawl in a tavern that had been relatively fight-free since Wulfgar had arrived, scaring off or quickly beating up any potential ruffians.

  Morik winced as the chain slammed into Wulfgar’s face, splattering blood. The rogue considered going to his friend’s aid, but he quickly dismissed the notion. Morik was a clever information gatherer, a thief who survived through his wiles and his weapons, neither of which would help him in a common tavern brawl.

  So he sat at his table, watching the tumult around him. Nearly everyone in the common room was into it now. One man came by, dragging a woman by her long, dark hair, heading for the door. He had hardly gone past Morik, though, when another man smashed a chair over his head, dropping him to the floor.

  When that rescuer turned to the woman, she promptly smashed a bottle across the smile on his face, then turned and ran back to the melee, leaping atop one man and bearing him down, her fingernails raking his face.

  Morik studied the woman more intently, marking well her features and thinking that her feisty spirit might prove quite enjoyable in some future private engagement.

  Seeing movement from his right, Morik moved fast to slide his chair back and lift both his mug and bottle as two men came sailing across his table, smashing it and taking away the pieces with their brawl.

  Morik merely shrugged, crossed his legs, leaned against the wall, and took another sip.

  Wulfgar found a temporary reprieve after dropping the chain-fisted man, but another quickly took his place, pressing in harder, hanging on Wulfgar’s side. He finally gave up trying to wrestle away the powerful barbarian’s arm. Instead he latched onto Wulfgar’s face with two clawing hands and tried to pull the barbarian’s head toward him, biting at his ear.

  Yelping with pain, roaring with outrage, Wulfgar yanked hard on the man’s hair, jerking his head and a small piece of Wulfgar’s ear away. Wulfgar brought his right hand under the man’s left arm, rolled it over and out, twisting the arm until breaking the hold on Wulfgar’s shirt. He grabbed hard to the inside of the man’s biceps. A twist turned Wulfgar square to the bar, and he drove both his arms down toward it hard, slamming the man’s head against the wood so forcefully that the planking cracked. Wulfgar pulled the man back up. Hardly noticing that all struggling had abruptly ceased, Wulfgar slammed him facedown into the wood again. With a great shrug followed by a greater roar, Wulfgar sent the unconscious thug flying away. He spun around, preparing for the next round of attacks.

  Wulfgar’s blood-streaked eyes focused briefly. He couldn’t believe the tumult. It seemed as if all the world had gone mad. Tables and bodies flew. Practically everyone in the place, near to a hundred patrons this night, was into the brawl. Across the way Wulfgar spotted Morik where he sat quietly leaning against the far wall, shifting his legs now and then to avoid whatever flew past them. Morik noticed him and lifted his glass cordially.

  Wulfgar ducked and braced. A man, chopping a heavy board down at Wulfgar’s head, went rolling over the barbarian’s back.

  Wulfgar spotted Delly then, rushing across the room, ducking for cover where she could and calling out for him. She was halfway across the inn from him when a flying chair cracked across the side of her head, dropping her straight down.

  Wulfgar started for her, but another man came at the distracted barbarian hard and low, crunching him across the knees. The barbarian fought to hold his balance, staggered once, then another man leaped onto his back. The man below him grabbed an ankle in a two-armed hug and rolled around, twisting Wulfgar’s leg. A third man rammed him full speed, and over they all went, falling down in a jumble of flailing arms and kicking legs.

  Wulfgar rolled atop the last attacker, slamming his forearm down across the man’s face and using that as leverage to try to rise, but a heavy boot stomped on his back. He went down hard, his breath blasted away. The unseen attacker above him tried to stomp him again, but Wulfgar kept the presence of mind to roll aside, and the attacker wound up stepping on his own comrade’s exposed belly.

  The abrupt shift only reminded Wulfgar that he still had a man hanging tough onto his ankle. The barbarian kicked at him with his free leg, but he had no leverage, lying on his back as he was, and so he went into a jerking, thrashing frenzy, trying desperately to pull free.

  The man held on stubbornly, mostly because he was too scared to let go. Wulfgar took a different tact, drawing his leg up and taking the man along for the slide, then kicking straight out again, bringing his trapped foot somewhat below his opponent’s grasp. At the same time, the barbarian snapped his other leg around the back of the man and managed to hook his ankles together.

  A second thug jumped atop the barbarian, grabbing one arm and bringing it down under his weight while a third did likewise to the other arm. Wulfgar fought them savagely, twisting his arms. When that didn’t work, he simply growled and pushed straight up, locking his arms in right angles at the elbows and drawing them up and together above his massive chest. At the same time, Wulfgar squeezed with his powerful legs. The man fought frantically against the vice and tried to cry out, but the only sound that came from him was the loud snap as his shoulder popped out of its socket.

  Feeling the struggling ended down below, Wulfgar wriggled his legs free and kicked and kicked until the groaning man rolled away. The barbarian turned his attention to the two above who were punching and scratching him. With strength that mocked mortal men, Wulfgar extended his arms, lifting both the ruffians up to arms’ length, then pulling them up above his head suddenly, at the same time rolling his legs up with a jerk. The momentum sent Wulfgar right over backward, and he managed to push off with his hands as he came around, landing unsteadily on his feet, facing the two prone and scrambling men.

  Instinct alone spun the barbarian around to meet the latest charge, his fist flying. He caught the attacker, the chain-fisted man, square in the chest. It was a tremendous collision, but Wulfgar hadn’t turned fast enough to get any defense in place against the man’s flying fist, which hit him square in the face at the same time. The two shuddered to a stop, and the chain-fisted man fell over into Wulfgar’s arms. The barbarian brushed him aside to land heavily, facedown, far, far from consciousness.

  The blow had hurt Wulfgar badly, he knew, for his vision spun and blurred, and he had to keep reminding himself where he was. He got an arm up suddenly, but only partially deflected a flying chair, one leg spinning around to poke him hard in the forehead, which only heightened his dizziness. The fight around him was slowing now, for more men were down and groaning than still standing and punching, but Wulfgar needed another reprieve, a temporary one at least. He took the only route apparent to him, rushing to the bar and r
olling over it, landing on his feet behind the barricade.

  He landed face-to-face with Arumn Gardpeck. “Oh, but ye’ve done a wonderful thing this night, now haven’t ye?” Arumn spat at him. “A fight every night for Wulfgar, or it’s not a fun one.”

  Wulfgar grabbed the man by the front of his tunic. He pulled him up roughly from his crouch behind the bar, lifted him with ease, and slammed him hard against the back wall above the bottle shelving, destroying more than a bit of expensive stock in the process.

  “Be glad your face is not at the end of my fist,” the unrepentant barbarian growled.

  “Or more, be glad ye’ve not toyed with me own emotions the way ye’ve burned poor Delly,” Arumn growled right back.

  His words hurt Wulfgar profoundly, for he had no answers to Arumn’s accusation, could not rightly argue that he had no blame where Delly Curtie was involved. Wulfgar gave Arumn a little jerk, then set him down and took a step back, glaring at the tavernkeeper unblinkingly. He noticed a movement to the side, and he glanced over to see a huge, disembodied fist hovering in the air above the bar.

  Wulfgar was hit on the side of the head, harder than he ever remembered being struck. He reeled, grabbing another shelf of potent whisky and pulling it down, then staggered and spun, grabbing the bar for support.

  Across from him, Josi Puddles spat in his face. Before Wulfgar could respond, he noted the magical floating hand coming at him hard from the side. He was hit again, and his legs went weak. He was hit yet again, lifted right from his feet and slammed hard into the back wall. All the world was spinning, and he felt as if he were sinking into the floor.

  He was half-carried, half-dragged, out from behind the bar and across the floor, all the fighting coming to an abrupt end at the sight of mighty Wulfgar finally defeated.

  “Finish it outside,” Reef said, kicking open the door. Even as the man turned for the street, he found a dagger point at his throat.

  “It’s already finished,” Morik casually explained, though he betrayed his calm by glancing back inside toward the thin wizard who was packing up his things, apparently unconcerned by any of this. Reef had hired him as a bit of insurance. Since the wizard apparently held no personal stake in the brawl, the rogue calmed a bit and muttered under his breath, “I hate wizards.” He turned his attention back to Reef and dug the knife in a bit more.

  Reef looked to his companion, holding Wulfgar’s other arm, and together they unceremoniously threw the barbarian into the mud.

  Wulfgar climbed back to his feet, sheer willpower alone forcing him back into a state of readiness. He turned back toward the closed door, but Morik was there, grabbing his arm.

  “Don’t,” the rogue commanded. “They don’t want you in there. What will you prove?”

  Wulfgar started to argue, but he looked Morik in the eye and saw no room for debate. He knew the rogue was right. He knew that he had no home.

  anderlay,” Temigast announced as he entered the room to join Priscilla and Feringal. Both looked at the steward curiously, not understanding. “The woman you saw, my Lord Feringal,” Temigast explained. “Her family name is Ganderlay.”

  “I know of no Ganderlays in Auckney,” Priscilla argued.

  “There are few families in the village whose names are familiar to you, my dear lady,” Temigast replied, his tone somewhat dry, “but this woman is indeed a Ganderlay. She lives with her family on the south slope of Maerlon Mountain,” he explained, referring to a fairly populated region of Auckney some two miles from the castle on a step-carved mountainside facing the harbor.

  “Girl,” Priscilla corrected condescendingly. “She’s nowhere near to being a woman.”

  Feringal didn’t even seem to hear the comment, too excited by the steward’s news. “Are you certain?” he asked Temigast, jumping up and striding determinedly to stand right before the man. “Can it be?”

  “The gir—the woman, was walking the road at the same time your coach rolled through,” the steward confirmed. “She matches the description given by several people who know her and saw her on the road at the time. They all mentioned her striking long, black hair, which matches your own description of her, my lord. I am certain she is the eldest daughter of one Dohni Ganderlay.”

  “I’ll go to her,” Feringal announced, pacing back and forth eagerly, tapping one finger to his teeth, then turning fast, and then again, as if he didn’t know where to go or what to do. “I will call the coach.”

  “My Lord Feringal,” Temigast said quietly in a commanding tone that seemed to steady the eager young man. “That would be most inappropriate.”

  Feringal stared at him wide-eyed. “But why?”

  “Because she is a peasant and not worthy of …” Priscilla began, but her voice trailed off for it was obvious that no one was listening to her.

  “One does not go unannounced to the house of a proper lady,” Temigast explained. “The way must be prepared by your steward and her father.”

  “But I am the lord of Auckney,” Feringal protested. “I can—”

  “You can do as you like if you desire her as a plaything,” Temigast was quick to interrupt, drawing a frown from both Feringal and Priscilla, “but if you desire her as a wife proper, then arrange things properly. There is a way, my Lord Feringal, a manner in which we are all expected to act. To go against the etiquette in this matter could prove most disastrous, I assure you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Temigast said, “but I do, fortunately for us all. Now go and bathe. If the young Ganderlay doe stood downwind of you she would run away.” With that he turned Lord Feringal toward the door and gave him a solid push to start him on his way.

  “You have betrayed me!” Priscilla wailed when her brother was gone.

  Temigast snorted at the ridiculous assertion.

  “I’ll not have her in this house,” the woman said determinedly.

  “Have you not come to realize that there’s nothing short of murder you can do to stop it?” Temigast replied in all seriousness. “The murder of your brother, I mean, not of the girl, for that would only invite Feringal’s wrath upon you.”

  “But you have aided him in this foolish pursuit.”

  “I have provided only what he could have learned on his own by asking questions of any peasant, including three women who work in this very house, one of whom was on the road yesterday.”

  “If the fool even noticed them,” Priscilla argued.

  “He would have discovered the girl’s name,” insisted Temigast, “and he might have embarrassed us all in the process of his undignified hunt.” The steward chuckled and moved very close to Priscilla, draping one arm across her shoulders. “I understand your concerns, dear Priscilla,” he said, “and I don’t entirely disagree with you. I, too, would have preferred your brother to fall in love with some wealthy merchant girl from another place, rather than with a peasant of Auckney—or for him to forget the concept of love altogether and merely give in to his lust when and where it suited him without taking a wife. Perhaps it will yet come to that.”

  “Less likely, now that you have so aided him,” Priscilla said sharply.

  “Not so,” Temigast explained with a wide smile, one that caught Priscilla’s attention, for her expression changed to intrigue. “All I have done is heightened your brother’s trust in me and my judgments. Perhaps he will hold fast to his notion of loving this girl, of marrying her, but I will watch him every step, I promise. I’ll not allow him to bring shame to family Auck, nor will I allow the girl and her family to take from us what they do not deserve. We cannot defeat his will in this, I assure you, and your indignation will only strengthen Feringal’s resolve.”

  Priscilla snorted doubtfully.

  “Can’t you hear his anger when you berate him about this?” Temigast demanded, and she winced at his words. “If we distance ourselves from your brother now, I warn you, the Ganderlay girl’s hold over him—over Auckney—will only heighten.”<
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  Priscilla didn’t snort, didn’t shake her head, didn’t show any sign of disagreement. She just stared at Temigast long and hard. He kissed her on the cheek and moved away, thinking that he should summon the castle coach at once and be on with his duties as emissary of Lord Feringal.

  Jaka Sculi looked up from the field of mud along with all the other workers, human and gnome, as the decorated coach made its way along the dirt lane. It came to a stop in front of Dohni Ganderlay’s small house. An old man climbed out of the carriage door and ambled toward the house. Jaka’s eyes narrowed slightly. Remembering suddenly that others might be watching him, he resumed his typically distant air. He was Jaka Sculi, after all, the fantasy lover of every young lady in Auckney, especially the woman who lived in the house where the lord’s carriage had stopped. The notion that beautiful Meralda desired him was no small thing to the young man—though, of course, he couldn’t let anyone else believe he cared.

  “Dohni!” one of the other field workers, a crooked little gnome with a long and pointy nose, called. “Dohni Ganderlay, you’ve got guests!”

  “Or mighten be they’ve figured you for the scoundrel you are!” another gnome cried out, and they all had a good laugh.

  Except for Jaka, of course. Jaka wouldn’t let them see him laugh.

  Dohni Ganderlay walked over the ridge behind the peat field. He looked to those who yelled for some explanation, but they merely nodded their chins in the direction of his house. Dohni followed that movement, spotted the coach, and broke into a frantic run.

  Jaka Sculi watched him run all the way home.

  “You figuring to do some digging, boy?” came a question beside Jaka. When he turned to regard the toothless old man, the fool ran a hand through Jaka’s curly brown hair.

  The young man shook his head with disgust, noting the black peat encasing the old digger’s fingers. He shook his head again and brushed his hair robustly, then slapped the man’s hand away when it reached up to give another rub.