Many of these went unseen, however, due to how little light was available in the establishment. While the doorway and bar were lit, much of the rest of the room remained cast in shadows. The patrons liked it that way because most of them wanted as little attention on them as possible.
The establishment was filed with smoke and clanks of glass. It was just as likely to hear someone laugh as it was to hear a death threat. Some tables had four or five stools around them. Others didn’t have any because the seats had been broken during the previous brawl, of which there were many.
To combat the noise of persistent threats and violence, the bartender hired a Quaddrolop to provide music. Three of the Quaddrolop’s four arms played different instruments simultaneously. The fourth arm held a glass of ale. The longer the Quaddrolop played, the more he drank. Sometimes this resulted in a drunken Quaddrolop becoming depressed and playing gloomy music. Other times, he became effusive and played upbeat songs.
On nights the Feedorian bartender was in a good mood, he thought of one random characteristic and awarded a free drink to whichever patron qualified. This also served to keep everyone contented and to delay the next round of fighting. One night it was the customer with the most eyes. A Cryptic, all two hundred of its miniature eyes gleaming with pride, accepted the free drink. Another night, it was the patron with the most scales. That had been the evening that Traskk, a Basilisk, had won. One night, anyone with red skin. Another night, anyone with horns on their face. On the rare occasion there were no brawls in his bar, the Feedorian awarded free drinks to entire groups of customers. But that prize wasn’t given out very often because there were almost always clashes in Eastcheap. Sometimes, multiple fights simultaneously.
The brawls and violence left the bartender miserable more often than he was happy, because instead of serving drinks to patrons he spent his time yelling for the fights to stop (during the less severe brawls) or hiding behind the bar until the fight was over (for the more common and deadly clashes). To add to this, he had to explain to the local authorities why so many dead aliens were found in the alley outside his bar.
“Install a Treagon barrier,” the authorities said. “That’ll cut down on the violence.”
“I did!” the Feedorian bartender replied, throwing his four hands in the air.
A Treagon barrier was a device that prevented electronics of any kind from being operated. Blasters couldn’t shoot. Bots couldn’t function. Explosives couldn’t be detonated remotely. This had completely stopped the blaster shootouts that had occurred in his early days as a bartender. But now, instead of lasers zipping in every direction, the drunks and thieves just pulled out knives or used their teeth or claws to settle disputes. It also hindered the bartender. Now, he had no bot beside him to help pour drinks or, much more important, to decipher all of the different languages when aliens asked for drinks.
The first time Traskk had gone up and ordered another round of drinks following the Treagon device’s installation, the bartender could only look at him in confusion. Basilisks have short tempers anyway, but especially if they are inebriated. The only reason the bartender was still alive was that Vere happened to be walking by at the same time and translated the order into Basic. Even as he poured the drinks, the bartender could hear Traskk growling, his foot-long tongue slithering in and out between fangs the length of a pitcher of ale. All of this as if the incident had been an intentional slight.
There was no winning for the Feedorian. It was enough to make the bartender, a little alien with gray skin who had lived a century longer than anyone else who had ever been to his bar, wonder why he had ever thought opening such an establishment was a good idea.
Traskk—one of the many aliens he could no longer understand—was still in Eastcheap. He was always there because Vere was always there. Wherever she went, the giant Basilisk was always nearby. Along with Fastolf, Occulus, and A’la Dure. Each day, the four humans and one enormous reptile sat at the same table, in the far corner of Eastcheap. They liked being away from the entrance and from the bar because those were the two most common places for fights to break out.
From their booth, they drank and laughed all day and all night. Seven days a week. No one cared that Fastolf was twice as heavy as anyone else at the table or that Occulus was nearly three times as old as anyone else. No one commented that Vere and A’la Dure, while certainly able to handle themselves in a fight, seemed too young to be spending every day in a place like Eastcheap.
When a fight broke out the five of them bet on who would be victorious. Each time Fastolf or Vere went to the bar, the other person challenged them to pick someone’s pocket. Each time Fastolf returned he kept the treasure or used it to buy more drinks. Each time Vere returned, she just as quickly slipped the newfound money into an unsuspecting patron’s pocket and laughed until the wallet was inevitably found and another fight ensued. If one of the brawls got too close to their table, they all lumbered out from the booth and partook in the fun.
As they watched, a woman in her late twenties, maybe the same age as Vere, came running through the door. She didn’t make it six feet before she bumped into a Gthothch, an ungainly alien with short legs but a long torso and arms. The Gthothch also had no hair, almost no neck, and skin the texture of stone. When she jostled him, the Gthothch jerked forward and splashed his drink all over himself. Growling, the stone alien turned to see who would pay for the rudeness. But in her rush the woman was oblivious to the accident she had caused and was already darting from table to table, looking for a specific customer.
Instead of confronting her, the Gthothch turned around and found a pack of MaqMacs, a tiny alien race known for their mining abilities. Of course, he blamed them for the spilled drink. The Gthothch roared. With one blow of his fist, he smashed the nearest table to bits. Most of the MaqMacs offered little bleats as they scurried away. But the leader, or at least the one wanting to make a name for himself, calmly pulled out his blaster and aimed it at the Gthothch’s granite face. The unfortunate alien couldn’t read Basic and didn’t know a Treagon barrier prevented such weapons from working. Instead of a laser blast hitting the stone giant’s forehead and leaving a smoking hole, the blaster only clicked each time the MaqMac pulled the trigger.
“Poor little guy,” Fastolf said as he and Vere and the others at their table watched.
A’la Dure nodded and rolled her eyes. In addition to not speaking, she rarely showed emotion—other than slight contempt or disdain—one of the reasons she was a perfect fit in the group.
Occulus, the only member of the group with gray hair, sighed and said, “Poor little guy, indeed.”
Fastolf pushed money into the middle of table and pointed at the Gthothch.
“It’s not even your money,” Vere said, knowing it belonged to someone who didn’t even know they were missing it.
“Neither is yours!” was the only retort he could come up with.
No one would take the bet because it was obvious what would happen. Everyone except the MaqMac, who kept clicking the blaster’s trigger over and over, knew how things would turn out. By now, the MaqMac’s confidence was gone and his tiny shoulders were slumped. The blaster began shaking uncontrollably in his hands.
“No fighting!” the bartender yelled, first in Basic, then in every other alien language he knew.
The Gthothch tore the useless blaster from the little miner’s hand, crushing it into scrap metal and tossing it behind him. Then he lurched forward, snatching the MaqMac off the ground with one hand. The MaqMac’s torso was so dainty that the Gthothch’s stone fingers wrapped around it with ease. The outcome was obvious. The only question was in its specificity. Would the Gthothch tear the miner’s head off, rip his body in two, crush his chest cavity and leave him as a puddle of goo, or perhaps throw him all the way to the other side of the bar?
A pair of Watchneens observed the fracas with glowing red eyes. Watchneens were the only known alien race whose blood was energy rather than liquid, and re
d flashes pulsed under their transparent skin as they approached the Gthothch. During the disruption, the Watchneens’ drinks had been knocked over. Seeing that it was unlikely there would be an apology forthcoming, the Watchneens tackled the Gthothch. As soon as they did, the MaqMac scurried away with a series of bleeps and was gone.
“Well, I didn’t see that happening,” Fastolf said, retrieving his money from the table too quickly for anyone to make a counter wager.
Everyone else near the Gthothch and the pair of Watchneens moved away to give the aliens room to settle their differences.
“No fighting!” the Feedorian cried, but it was useless. He closed his eyes and let the brawl play out.
The fight didn’t last long. The Watchneens were ferocious combatants and their claws would cut most anyone else in the bar to shreds. But on the Gthothch, the claws only flashed sparks against the stone skin. One Watchneen was on the Gthothch’s back, clawing at his face and biting everywhere its mouth could find, but the Gthothch was bothered only by the sparks flashing in his delicate eyes. Despite having to squint and groan, he was able to focus on the other Watchneen, whose hands he took in his own before crushing them. The Watchneen howled in pain, his red blood-energy misting up toward the ceiling before dissipating. The Gthothch let the alien go. Defeated, the first Watchneen was able to get back to his feet, look down at his crushed hands, then dart for the exit, leaving his companion alone.
The other Watchneen, still on the rock alien’s back, gave a cry of indignation at his friend’s betrayal. Then he was ripped away by a mighty stone hand. Instead of fleeing like his friend, this Watchneen became even more furious in his attack, as if everything up to this point had been a warm-up. His legs clawed so fast they were a blur. Sparks flew from the Gthothch’s chest where the claws scratched at an amazing speed. His hands did the same thing. The Gthothch cringed at the bright sparks flying in front of him and his shirt was completely torn to shreds, but otherwise he was uninjured. With a roar of his own, he took this Watchneen’s hands in his palms and crushed them as well. The Watchneen stopped fighting and cried out as his red life force escaped from his pulverized hands. After being released from the giant stone grip, this Watchneen also fled the bar.
Everyone in Eastcheap, except for Vere, applauded the Gthothch’s sporting gesture of letting the Watchneens go. The bartender, happy not to have more dead bodies in his bar, gave the Gthothch a complimentary drink. Vere withheld her applause, not because she disapproved of the sportsmanship that had been shown, but because she was too busy watching the woman who had rushed into the bar and unknowingly started the fight.
The woman was still going around from one dimly lit table to another until she saw everyone who was seated at it. Once she had, she continued to another part of the bar. By the time the fight was over and the applause had died down, the woman was at the table next to Vere’s.
That was when Vere got her first good look. The woman looked frantic but not scared. Each time she had gotten to another table she had assessed its occupants and moved on. When a table of Jur-Nan assassins hissed at her, she had stared them down rather than run away. Seeing her up close now, Vere noticed she had big blue eyes and short, bushy hair that bounced as she darted to and from each table.
Finally arriving at the only table she hadn’t yet intruded upon, the woman scanned the faces, and then her eyes lit up.
“Vere, I— ” the woman started to say.
“I don’t know who you think I am,” Vere said, her gray eyes shining, “but I can assure you that you’re mistaken.”
“You’re Vere CasterLan,” the woman said, her eyes not wavering. “Daughter of Artan the Good, and heir to his throne.”
“Friend, I think you must be confused,” Vere said under her breath, her eyes narrowing with irritation. But as she said it, she also scanned the bar to see if anyone else had overheard what the woman had said.
Traskk gave a soft growl, his diamond-shaped reptile eyes narrowing at the person bothering them. The scales on the back of his neck went up and the entire table moved when his giant tail, hidden beneath them, twitched with anger.
Vere put a hand on the giant reptile’s shoulder, then asked the woman in front of them what her name was.
“Morgan,” the woman said. “Morgan Le Fay. I come from Edsall Dark, where you are from,” emphasizing you as if it were an insult, “and where your father still rules.” The woman’s voice grew louder: “And I don’t have time for these games.”
“Listen,” Vere said. She tried to take the woman by the shoulder but the woman jerked away.
“Part of your father’s fleet just destroyed a ship full of people who didn’t do anything wrong,” Morgan said. “He had them killed for no reason.”
Fastolf gulped another portion of his drink and belched before saying, “And?”
“And they did this in Vonnegan space,” Morgan said, her eyes narrowing as she gazed at the fat man for the first time, knowing immediately that she didn’t like him.
Sitting on the far side of Traskk, Fastolf felt safe enough to ignore her dirty look and instead shrugged and kept drinking.
“Listen,” Vere said, “I’m sure this is all some sort of misunderstanding, but—”
“But what?” the woman yelled. “I know it must be fun to spend your days drinking and thieving, but there’s going to be all-out war if you don’t get up off your seat and do something.”
Before Vere could say anything, Fastolf leaned forward and said, “Honey, don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?”
Morgan’s nostrils flared, then she picked an empty glass off the table and threw it at the fat man’s face. “Call me honey again and I’ll tear your nose off.”
Traskk, whose reflexes were stunningly quick, snatched the glass before it hit Fastolf’s face and set it back down.
“Listen, I’m sure this is all some sort of mistake,” Vere said.
“Yeah, sure,” the woman said. “Tell that to the fleet of Vonnegan ships that are massing at Mentieth.”
5
In front of the Mentieth portal, deep in the space ruled by Mowbray Vonnegan, an Athens Destroyer moved itself closer and closer to the circular confines of the energy field that would transport the vessel from one portal to another. From the edge of the Vonnegan Empire to the edge of the CasterLan Kingdom. As it did, its tinder walls slid down over every part of glass and every exhaust port. All of the destroyer’s cannons were facing forward like forty black eyes staring in judgment.
After the ship disappeared into the portal, another Athens Destroyer moved into position to do the same thing. Behind it, another was ready. And another. And another after that. Nearly one hundred Athens Destroyers in all, each fully equipped for war, were aligned in a perfect row so that if you faced one, all of the ships behind it seemed to vanish. And one by one, each ship entered the portal.
6
Vere motioned everyone aside to make room for their guest.
“I don’t want to sit,” Morgan said. “I want to get back to Edsall Dark.” She looked at Vere and added, “With the one person who may be able to stop this war.”
“War?” Fastolf laughed, then took another drink. To him, nothing was happening in the galaxy except what was going on in Eastcheap, which was why he turned his attention to the bar and to ordering another round of drinks rather than letting the visitor ruin his good mood.
“There has to be a misunderstanding,” Vere said again, because it was the only thing she could think to say and because she had no intention of leaving Eastcheap.
Traskk and A’la Dure remained quiet. Only Occulus, who had lived twice as long as anyone else at the table, spoke up: “Who sent you here?”
“Who sent me?” Morgan said, looking at the old man and then at everyone else seated around her. She shook her head as if she wanted to take each of their drinks and break the glasses over their heads. “Who sent me? A war is going to break out because her father”—she jabbed a finger at Vere—
“ordered innocent aliens to be blasted away. In Vonnegan space, of all places. And you’re asking who sent me? Common sense sent me.”
In a soft voice, rubbing his gray beard as he spoke, Occulus said, “What you’re saying just doesn’t make any sense.”
Vere ignored what her friend had to say. She was too busy staring at Morgan, her mouth slightly open, trying to decide if she should take offense at having a finger jabbed in her direction. Also, she was wondering if there was any point in trying one last time to claim she wasn’t who Morgan thought she was.
Just then, Fastolf returned from the bar with another handful of glasses, each filled with gold liquid. One for everyone except Morgan.
“You’re not still talking about nonsense, are you?” he asked Morgan. Then, not waiting for a response, he raised his drink in the air and said, “To horrendous blunderings!”
Morgan shook her head and slammed her fist against the table. To Vere, she said, “Why are you associating with people like him? You, the heir to the kingdom, and you’re drinking with this... mess.”
“Hey,” Fastolf said, leaning forward, “If you’re going to keep sweet-talking me you should at least buy me dinner first.”
Morgan’s other fist appeared on the table alongside the first. Her tongue poked into the side of her mouth, causing her cheek to stick out. Her nostrils flared. As she let the anger dissipate, she continued looking at Vere instead of at the man who had taunted her. But then, shaking her head, realizing there was simply too much irritation to ignore, she lunged across the table, one hand grabbing as much of Fastolf’s left ear as she could find and the other punching him twice on the eye.
Traskk roared and stood up from the table. When he did so, his tail broke the chair he had been sitting on and slammed into the wall with enough force that the plaster crumbled away. With his teeth bared at her, each longer than her fingers, she quickly forgot about the insult she had been given and let go of Fastolf’s ear.
The Green Knight (Space Lore Book 1) Page 2
