Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn From: hutch@ibeam.intel.com (Steve Hutchison) Subject: [P8] Pieces of Eight 2: Fighter Message-ID: Date: Thu, 10 Dec 1992 18:25:34 GMT [Admin] Parts of this take place before the BLADE thread. ------- The South gate of Generica would be closing soon. Not that it mattered. The gates kept the city safe during sieges, but in times of relative peace like now, they were bypassed with routine ease. Grigor pondered this fact, wondering whether it would turn into a problem some day. He pondered a lot of things. Guard duty is boring, especially the late shift, watching a gate that had little traffic by the time he came on duty. They had told him it was a cushy job, but he was getting the idea that they didn't really trust him to do anything else, after his accident. He was so tied up in his musings that he almost missed it when the woman rode into town. Well, truth told, he'd have to be a real fool to miss it; the gate served as a bridge over the chasm formed by a small creek, and even if the bells mounted on the front face of the gate didn't sound, he'd have felt the vibration as this huge white horse walked on. It was a massive, powerful brute, yet had the lines of a more elegant ancestry than the usual warhorse. It had a black star on its brow, and a black tail and socks - in addition to its size and apparent training, it was a beautiful animal. The rider would do well not to lose it in this town, where some people would risk being maimed by such a creature in order to steal it for some jaded merchant or petty noble. It focussed one deep blue eye on him, as if weighing him; it seemed to decide he was no threat, and snorted. The rider leaned forward, and Grigor cursed politely under his breath. She was a warrior, all right, and well befitting her horse. Silvered platemail, well-tailored, did not conceal the elegant strength of her form, the classic beauty of her face only enhanced by the delicate tracing of a faint scar which crossed her brow, over her right eye, and onto her cheek - she must have dodged just in time. Her helm and coif concealed her hair, but her brows showed a fiery red, nicely set off by emerald green eyes which glinted in her tanned yet youthful face. A Greatsword hung beside her on the horse, and a longsword at her side, a shortsword, a mace, and several dozen daggers also visible. A small round target-shield hung from the saddle opposite the Greatsword. She bore no device on the shield, and no one color dominated in her garb. "ahem, Pardons, Ma'am, but we must ask anyone going into town to state their name, their business, and how long they plan to stay." He hopped out cautiously in front of them, careful to avoid spooking the horse. "Certes, goodman. Hight A'ree, late of Stormgard, mercenary and trained bodyguard. I've lost my cohort, so I seek employ, and to leave when I find it. Ken ye of any hiring mercenaries within?" "No, ma'am, not in particular, but there's always someone wants to hire a good fighter." "Mayhap. An ye ken wot of't, lend me the name of a good publican, I've need to drown this road-dust from m'throat." "Just go north along this road until you come to the Plaza of Glittering Steel, ma'am, it's at a crossroads with Dragons' Way. There's an Inn on the corner there, the Dragon's Inn. Prices are a little rich for me, but it's the best place in town to find adventurers and it's where all the caravansers go to hire special bodyguards." "Thank'ye most kind, goodman." She tossed him a silver piece, strangely large and heavy. He nodded, and waved the all-clear to the tower guard. He watched, admiringly, as she rode into town. Then he returned to his post, trying to identify the place the coin came from. She continued until she was out of view, then guided the horse to a watering stall outside a small seedy tavern just off the road. -- This isn't the place, A'ree. -- the big blue eye rolled at her. "I know that. But you're too conspicuous." She dismounted, taking the shield and a pouch from the saddlebag. -- *I'm* conspicuous? Who was the one blathering on in Ancient Hillspeech, then throwing our hard-earned silver around like it was water? -- "Just stop horsing around and come on." The warhorse deflated, shrinking down until it was replaced by the form of a large white wolf, still marked with a black blaze on its head, and black tail and paws. The blue eyes blinked experimentally as it regained binocular vision, and then it trotted after her retreating form. And just in time. There, in the road ahead, as usual, she was being mobbed by beggars. All but one of them fled at his approach, but that one's back was turned, and he was in mid-spiel about having six wives and forty children to feed. "Well, if you'd work instead of making children," she snapped, " you'd be able to feed yourself." He was taken aback, momentarily, then began his alternate wheedle. She interrupted him. "Look, man, I've taken a vow. I only give charity to those who can defeat me in personal combat. You want to try me?" She offered him a dagger. He fled. The white wolf laughed - canines do this better than equines - and followed alongside her. She remained unaccosted any further, and they came to an intersection, covered in beggars as they began settling in for the night on the sun-warmed steel. The Dragon's Inn was obvious by two things: first, the sign with a stylized rendition of a dragon; second, by the number of black-clad mighty-thewed men striding purposefully in and out. She entered. The man behind the bar was clearly a retired fighter, but he looked to still keep in practice. He nodded as she came in and took in the place with one glance. There were no empty corners - drat - so she sat at a table between two corners, with her back to the wall. The wolf reclined on the floor beside her. A harried, red-headed woman came up to her. "What'll it be?" "Elvish wine, if you have it, and a half a game hen with rice. And a good-sized cow bone with some meat on it for my wolf friend." The woman nodded and whirled off to take other orders. A'ree leaned back, watchfully. The wolf watched, as well. ----- The River Gate, at sunset, was always crowded with traffic - boats and barges trying to get in, or out, before the portcullis was lowered. One barge in particular didn't make it inside in time. The boatman shrugged helplessly, at his passenger. The passenger grunted, then dove into the water, swimming under the spikes of the portcullis as they went down to the river mud. He stroked powerfully until he reached the first barge of the train of four that he'd ridden in with, and held on to the gunwale until it was poled up to a dock; he pushed free and sought the ramp where boats were put in and taken out. One dockworker started towards him, but then when he got a good view, changed his mind about interfering. The man was a barbarian, at least seven feet tall, monstrously muscled, wearing only a well-filled loincloth and a gold amulet around his neck; his jet-black hair hung shaggily to his broad shoulders. His piercing green eyes flashed, not missing anything around him. The dockworker decided, from a safe distance, to see what the fellow wanted. "Hoi! You in the loincloth! What you looking for?" The words seemed to penetrate after a moment, and the barbarian noticed the dockworker. "Tell H'Ro where can find bheer, good fight." The man considered for a moment, then grinned. Trawm the half-troll was always looking for someone who was a good fighter. This monster ought to be worth a couple gold. "Tell ya what, I'll take you there. HEY, Jorg, I'm takin' off for lunch, finish wit' the second barge and take yer break!" He led the huge barbarian into town, skirting Merchant's Hill and heading for the Low City. The Spitting Cobra looked quiet tonight. Good, Trawm would be happy to get his fighter, would liven things up. He pointed the barbarian at the fighting pit, then walked over to Trawm. "OK, Trawm. My boy there is yours for ten gold." Trawm looked skeptically towards the hulking newcomer, then stared again, and grinned (how did all those teeth fit in that mouth, especially at those angles?) a grin of pure half-trollish joy. He tossed five gold to the dock man. "That's all I give you now. Five more at end of week if he still alive. Have a drink on me." He poured something remotely like beer into a less-dirty-than-most glass, and plonked it down in front of his benefactor. The liquid peered balefully at its alleged future imbiber from out of the glass, who surreptitiously poured it into the tankards of the men next to him, while they watched Trawm approach this new barbarian type. "Hey, you wit da muskles. Come over here." Trawm swaggered into the pit. The barbarian peered at him, sizing him up as a possible threat. "You want fight H'Ro?" "Nah, I just the bartender. You fight in pit, first one free. They lose, they give you four gold, me one gold. You lose, you give them four gold, me one gold. You win good, I keep you here to fight if you liking it. You win enuff, I pay for you fight." The barbarian thought hard for a moment (there was a strong smell of burning hair) and then nodded vigorously. His first fight was with a large, overconfident ogre. It swung once, he bobbed below the swing, punched twice (snapping bone each time) and then ducked around, putting him into a full nelson. The ogre yielded. His second fight was with a four-armed scaly fellow that Trawm had been giving free beer in order to get him to come in. H'Ro stared in amazement for a few minutes, but when the thing pulled out a set of four shortswords, he knew this might be harder. The swords began crackling with fire. H'Ro seemed to come to a decision; he reached behind his back and pulled, from nowhere, a sword. A bastard sword, for anyone smaller than him. It was a black blade, slightly translucent, and carven with runes and symbols. A gentle keening hum arose from the sword. Four-arms began a kata, which would end with all four swords embedded in the barbarian's heart. However, the barbarian began a counter, and ended up with the razor edge of the black blade resting just on the skin at the quadruple juncture of the sternum in the four-armed man's chest. The skin was just barely broken; a fine line of bluegreen blood showed. The sword began to whine louder, drawing the blood up onto its blade. Four-arms surrendered immediately. Nobody else seemed eager to fight just then, so Trawm waved his new prize over to his table. "Hey, good work, human. Here your share" - he handed over a few gold coins to the uncomprehending barbarian. The barbarian left them where they were at. "Not want gold. Want bheer. Bring H'Ro much bheer." Trawm eyed the giant human suspiciously, but prepared a drink anyway. An immense arm lifted the mug to a well-muscled mouth, and the brew vanished quickly. "More. " ... He went through four more, then settled into a sort of black study, staring into the bottom of the fifth. The half-troll considered, and realized that there was a chance this fellow might just use up all his beer. Oh well, he'd buy more. So far he was ahead by the ten gold pieces this guy had won; another four fights would pay for a weeks worth of beer for this one. A few days passed. Trawm grew richer. H'Ro drank much bheer. He also ate grakma, the "sewer rat surprise" which no human had been known to eat without dire side effects. But the hair remained on his scalp and not his tongue, and his skin did not break out in scales or feathers, and there was no sign of impaired brain function - there was little sign of ANY brain function, except when H'Ro got into the warrior pit; he was brilliant there, only pulling out his magical sword when magic was employed by the opponent. And, he only killed one opponent, a half-orc half-gnome who had tried to paralyze him with a spell granted by some vile godling of its people. Then one day a tall, lanky elf walked in, and, using some strange kind of sneaky fighting, forced him to yield, in an unarmed match. Trawm stared unbelieving, seeing the warrior held pinned by a joint lock. He had hardly moved, just went in, dodged, twisted, and the monster huge fighter just fell over his own feet, then the elf jabbed him in the neck with a finger, and he collapsed. The elf tossed his winnings to Trawm, ordered a round of drinks for the house, and walked out. H'Ro followed after him, but by the time Trawm reached the door to see what was going on outside, the streets were empty, only the street kids in sight. Damn. "Hey, Mister Trawm," one of the street urchins yelled. "What you want, rugbait?" "Somethin' happenin' at da Dragon Inn," the poor wee waif (HAH!) replied. "What somethin'?" "Big sharp nasty monster all cover wit' knifes 'n shit, crawl out of da Bay, go yellin' up street, `kill meshtak, kill meshtak' ..." Trawm was already running for the Inn.