#storybash

[storybash]

The Fulsome Yak

was the nicest inn for 20 miles in either direction along the North Coast Road, the fact of it being the only inn for that same distance playing no small part in its appeal. The stained, crumbly stone facade and the peeling paint on the thick wooden shutters weren’t exactly inspiring, but the low common room was warm and cozy, and the rooms above it were slightly less drafty than a night in a cave would have been.

A half dozen regulars huddled moodily around the wide stone fireplace, griping about the weather, the state of the last year’s harvest, and the prospects for planting in the spring. They were a significant fraction of the adult population in the tiny pinprick of a village that clung to the hillside like a lonely barnacle, and they largely ate and drank for trade. The grain they grew went into the ale, their livestock ended up sizzling on a spit in the small kitchen behind the bar. The rare coin one of them had to spend on a bottle of something finer eventually went into the pocket of another in exchange for the chopping of firewood or some other labor. It was very nearly a closed economic system, especially in the cold months when the weary sun never seemed to rise fully above the pine-covered hills, and the flow of traffic to and from the eastern plains slowed to a sporadic trickle. If some of those coins came out of the pockets (or off the bodies) of insufficiently wary travelers, well, that was just the way things sometimes went this far from civilization.

The whole of their out-of-town custom on that dark winter evening was the compact man with the neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard. He’d marched in the previous evening, stamping his numb feet, demanding wine, and paying in advance for a week’s stay in one of the spartan upstairs rooms. The icy stares of the locals softened some when he bought a round, but hadn’t melted anywhere near to the point of striking up a conversation, which didn’t seem to bother him. He’d sat in the same spot at the far end of the bar for most of the day, nursing a glass of spirit, nibbling on bits of bread and hard cheese, and reading with care from a small leatherbound notebook. He was in his spot, the townsfolk were in theirs, and nobody else was expected, so it was with some amount of surprise that they all turned their heads as the heavy wooden door scraped open and a tall figure stepped over the threshold in a bitter cold swirl of snow.

The newcomer was wrapped head to toe in several layers of skins and furs. Snow dusted its head and shoulders, and a rime of ice coated the scarves covering its nose and mouth. It shoved the door shut and shrugged off a bulging pack, which landed on a table with a clanking thud. It began unwrapping itself as it snorted and stomped across the room to the bar, trailing bits of snow and ice in its wake.

As unusual as it was for anyone to be traveling east toward the plains during the winter, it was even rarer to see anyone of the plains tribes headed in the other direction, no matter the time of year. Thord Jordson, oldest son of Jord Krondson, hadn’t seen one in all his 14 years of life. He wouldn’t have seen this one either, except his father had taken ill just a couple of days after his mother had given birth to his new baby sister. Despite none of them actually thinking he was ready, they’d had no choice but to let Thord take over running the inn while the rest of the family huddled under blankets, his father groaning as though no one could understand the depths of physical deprivation to which he’d sunk. So it was Thord, pale and anxious, who started in surprise as the figure tugged down its heavy knit scarf to reveal the bronze skin and deep amber eyes of the plainsfolk.

“G-good evening, sir,” Thord stammered. “Tis quite a night out there, I reckon. Didn’t expect much of anyone after dark.”

The figure stopped with its hands on the unevenly shiny wood of the bar, staring down at him, and then snorted. “I am often unexpected, child, as is one your age standing watch in a place like this. Do you have a father, or perhaps a master whose shoes you are trying to fill?”

Thord drew himself up to his full, not very imposing height, and stuck out his not very intimidating chest as best he could. “My father’s taken ill, and so it’s my job to run the place, and I don’t mind telling you we want no trouble, sir, so unless you’ve got coin I’d -”

“My name is Cryndal Thorngrass,” she growled, “and my mother is Queen of all the lands east of the Fellmarch. Trust that if I wanted trouble, child, I would have brought 50 warriors with me to burn your rotten little village to the ground before this rabble could get their trousers on.” She waved her hand dismissively at the men by the fire, who weren’t even pretending not to stare. “Thankfully for you, I bring not trouble, but benevolence.”

She tossed her snow-crusted mittens on the bar and pulled a small, glittering green stone from inside her sleeve. “When your father rises from his fever bed, he will tell you that this gem is worth enough in your crude coin to run this place for a month.”

Thord’s eyes widened. He instinctively raised his hand as she leaned over the bar, a little curtain of snow falling off the fur-lined leather wrapped around the top of her head. Holding the stone between her finger and thumb, she placed it gently in his waiting palm. “I expect to be moving on far sooner than that, but it should suffice for a room and some food for a couple of days?”

He stared down at the gem in his open palm and nodded when she coughed expectantly. “Yes s- uh, ma’am, yes ma’am. Only we’ve just got bread and cheese at the moment. There’s some sausage frozen in the shed out back, but father said I wasn’t to leave the bar while there was anyone in.”

“Bread and cheese will do just fine, child. Fetch it for me, and by the time you return I will have worked up an appetite shaking off the rest of this cursed snow.” Thord nodded, and backed through the door into the kitchen, slipping the stone into the pocket of his oversized apron as he went.

The conversation in the common room, which swooned when the plainswoman stomped out of the dark, had proceeded to die of shock at the sight of the jewel. The stranger at the bar, who’d been trying very hard to appear disinterested in anything past the pages of his book, was now looking directly at her as though he was trying to divine the value any other gems she might have tucked in her furs. Cryndal returned his look with a defiant glare, which was why she was slightly startled when she heard a raspy cough almost in her ear.

She turned slowly toward the sound, furiously projecting dismissive calm while inwardly cursing herself for being caught off guard. Five of the townsfolk were standing in a half circle around the sixth, a big man about a head taller than her, with a beard and set of teeth competing over which was more raggedy and brown. When he saw that he had her attention, he spread his meaty palms and chortled in a voice that sounded like an avalanche of rotten tree limbs.

“Well hello there, miss,” he said, the hard look in his brown eyes softened not a bit by the grin plastered on his face.

[storybash]

They mounted the stairs slowly,

Cryndal’s form silhouetted in the flickering light of the small candle on the shelf at the top. Jens could see her swaying as she climbed, more than the creaking floorboards, uneven and worn as they were from age and use, should have prompted. He paused briefly in the dark, picturing the carnage of her limp body toppling backward, sweeping them both down the steps in an undignified heap, then hurried to keep pace, holding the bottle away from his body so as to keep it outside the potential crush zone. 

Cryndal stood unsteadily when she reached the landing. She looked first right, then left, and, not seeing light from under any of the closed doors she shrugged, wincing, and turned toward the dark hallway to her left. Jens leaped the last two stairs, heaving her bag onto the landing and interposing himself in front of her. Her scowl deepened, and he sketched an apologetic half bow.

“I know either side of this establishment looks equally…” he paused, eyes darting to the sagging wallpaper and back to her shadowed face “inviting. Yes, inviting is a word. However, my humble corner is in this direction, and I think it prudent for a number of reasons that you join me.”

Her eyes narrowed and she grunted. “I paid for a room. Why should I not have one?”

Jens smiled broadly. “My dear, you paid enough to rent a suite at the fanciest hotel in the Seven Cities. Unfortunately, no amount of money is enough to inspire diligent housekeeping to have occurred before you arrived. I daresay my accommodations are slightly less appalling for having my attention for the last day. At least,” he waved his hand vaguely down the hall ��compared to the baseline.”

Cryndal made a noise halfway between a growl and a sigh. “Between distracting the bearded fool, and keeping the boy from shooting me through the chest, you most likely saved my life tonight. Do it a thousand more times, and it won’t be enough to make feel I owe you a tussle.”

Jens pursed his lips. “I’m utterly charmed, of course, but I assure you that even if you magically shed the mud and stench of what I can only assume is several weeks on the road carrying a dead horse, you’d still be less my preference than any of the poor sods you left in a heap in the dining room.” He drew himself up stiffly. “Very well. Take your chances in another room. If rodents have nested in the sheets, I suppose you can think of it as bed and breakfast. Besides, I’m happy not to have to share this,” said, waving the dangerously close to her nose.

Cryndal looked down and started. When she did, Jens planted the bottom of the bottle in the middle of her chest and shoved. She stepped back in surprise and stumbled over her forgotten bag. Eyes wide, she flailed with her arms as she fell over backward. Jens turned, faster than a striking snake, pinned her left wrist under his arm with the bottle, and planted his feet. There was an abrupt, jarring pop from her shoulder and he released his grip.

Cryndal practically bounced off the threadbare carpet in a rage. She pinned Jens to the wall with her right arm across his throat, wrenched the bottle from his grasp with her left, and raised it above her head. Her head throbbed with anger, her shoulder pulsed with pain. Jens smirked, opening his mouth to speak. Cryndal shoved her right arm up, closing his jaws with a clack.

She communed with the weight of the bottle in her hand. It felt comfortable, recalling the solid heft of the club she’d used to stun livestock before going to work with her knife. Life on the plains left little room for idleness. Being the daughter of a queen didn’t exempt her from taking part in the work required for survival. Many times on her journey westward, as the pain of grief and loss clung like the ash that still streaked her cloak, Cryndal found herself feeling gratitude for the practical nature of her upbringing, and the hard, precious lessons she’d learned. She snarled in Jens’ face. Her grip tightened as she prepared to bash his brains out when the realization struck her; she had the use of her left arm for the first time since the fall.

[storybash]

The stranger’s words

seemed to burn in the air for a long moment before the oaf’s face flowered with a hot, angry redness. When he spoke, it was in a harsh whisper. “Lads,” he wheezed, an angry vein throbbing in his forehead, “I want you to make sure this bitch goes nowhere,” raising his voice as he went until he was practically screaming, “whilst I feed this arse-tickler his FUCKING TEETH!”

Cryndal sighed deeply as he raised his thick fists and took a step past her toward the man at the end of the bar, whose laborious prattling seemed to have snuffed out the feeble light of thought flickering in the oaf’s thick skull. She whipped her right arm up and cast the loop of her scarf around his head. Kicking out with her left leg, she caught him just behind the knee and dragged the scarf down. He squawked as he lost his balance and crashed down onto his back.

She stomped her right foot onto his broad chest and stepped up. As she went she reached back with her left leg, hooked her foot under a stool and flung it at the two gawping fools to her left. She let the momentum of the throw carry her off the oaf and over the long loop of scarf still connecting her right hand to his head. She landed on her left foot and aimed a spinning kick with her right into the chest of the man with the red scabs blossoming from his collar. She felt a satisfying chorus of crunches in his ribs as he flew off his feet and crashed through a wooden chair. Cryndal planted her right foot, then pulled up on the scarf and kicked her left foot back, mashing the oaf’s face into her heel and slipping the loop over the top of his now limply lolling head.

The two fools on the left were momentarily put off by the unexpected stool, and the rashy one was lying in a gasping heap halfway to the door, but the piggy-eyed one and his nondescript friend seemed to have at least half a sack of guts between them. They both stepped toward her, Piggy drawing a crude but well-sharpened stub of a blade, and his mate hefting a thick wooden rod capped with a band of black iron.

Cryndal involuntarily started to raise her left hand in a defensive posture. She gasped at the heavy hammer blow of pain that blossomed from her upper arm and shoulder. Four days since she’d landed on it so badly, and she still wasn’t accustomed to it being useless. Mr. Nondescript must have mistaken her gasp for one of fear; his hunched shoulders relaxed a bit and he darted forward, raising the stick over his

Gritting her teeth, Cryndal raised her right hand and whipped it around in a tight spiral, wrapping the scarf around her forearm. She raised her arm, took the blow from his stick on her forearm, then spiraled her arm again, twisting his arm up and digging her thumb hard into the pit. A sharp kick to the knee sent him completely off-balance. She shoved him backward into Piggy, wrenching the club from his hands as both fools fell flailing. She threw it end over end at the one furthest to the left, smashing him between his off-kilter eyes and dropping him like a rock, blood spraying from his shattered nose.

The last one turned on his bowed legs to run and Cryndal leaped at him. Her reaching hand snagged the hood of his tattered cloak. She yanked back on it hard, jerking him off his feet and slamming him down, shattering the stool that was lying on the ground.

She stood there panting and, for a moment, all she could hear was her own ragged breathing and the pounding of blood in her head. As they started to fade she began to register the groans of one or two of the fools who’d escaped unconsciousness, and then another sound from behind her. A clicking rattle, like the innards of the great geared clock that had hung in her mother’s dressing chamber, carving up time into moments, reminding her of her duty to mark the past and prepare for the future. But the clock was gone, as was the chamber, and her mother, their memories and plans both turned to ash and blown away by the cold north wind.

Starting to turn, she heard a high, frightened voice. “D-d-d-on’t move,” it stammered in time with the rattling noise. The boy behind the bar, whose name had fled from her recollection. “I-I-I won the ribbon for shooting at the last festival day,” he said, “and I’m n-n-not afraid to put a bolt in you if you try anything else.” He must have slipped back through the door during the commotion.

Cryndal slowly started to raise her hands, groaned as pain flared in her useless left arm, and let her right hand continue upward as she calmly turned toward the bar. Sure enough, the lad was standing there wide-eyed, training a crossbow at her. From the sound it made as it shook in his hands, she guessed he was learning quick how different it was to take aim at a breathing target.

She forced a wholly unconvincing smile onto her face. “Come now, child, I’m sure that was frightening, but it is settled now. There is no need to spill blood…” she looked down at the fool whose nose she’d smashed, and the maroon puddle soaking into the rough planks of the floor. “Any more blood.”

“I’m not a child!” he responded, fear twisting his shout into a shriek. “This is my father’s place, and that makes it my place, and if you bust up my place and my customers then I’m justified to shoot you if I have to.”

As Cryndal opened her mouth to respond, the man who’d so enjoyed the sound of his own voice cleared his throat in a precise, practiced way. “Of course you’re not a child,” he said. “You’re the man of the hour, aren’t you? Saving a helpless traveling maiden from a gang of ne'er-do-wells.”

“I what?” the boy said, eyes rolling as he tried to look at the man without turning his head away from Cryndal, who nose began to prickle as she stared at the man with an equally confused look.

“Why of course,” the stranger continued, waving his hand across the scene with a flourish. “These rough and tumble privateers were threatening an honest traveler, whose only crime was paying for a room with a gem worth-” his eyes flicked upward for a second as he did a rapid calculation, then settled calmly on the boy, “-about 300 of the old Baron’s gold coins.”

“But I didn’t,” the boy said, his confused gaze now firmly fixed on the man still perched calmly on his stool. “It was her, she-”

“She, my boy, is a road-weary lass whose most endearing features are a lame left arm and a shocking unfamiliarity with the exchange rate in local currency. You, however, are a strapping local lad who was honor-bound to defend your livelihood and reputation, not to mention your new best customer. Why, they’re lucky you didn’t give them worse. As it is, there are only a few broken chairs, which that gem will easily pay to replace, and a few broken bones which, while unfortunate, should only hamper their usefulness in the short term. Unless that one makes his living with his face.”

Cryndal noted the rattling of the weapon starting to diminish as the boy’s hands calmed. “But no one will believe it. They’ll tell everyone I’m a liar.” The prickle in her nose crawled up between her eyes, which started to water just slightly.

“I am confident that, when they limp back to their usual places tomorrow evening, they’ll doubtless be inclined to corroborate that version of events, rather than admit to being so thoroughly disassembled by a member of the - ahem - milder sex.”

Cryndal scrunched up her eyes, trying to ward off the burning tickle in her nose. “I would not usually allow anyone to take credit for my victory, but I could make an exception if it means you’ll stop pointing that bow at me.”

“There, we’re all in agreement. If you’ll just put down the crossbow, the lady and I will retire to our rooms and take all your troubles with us. What do you say?”

The boy opened his mouth when Cryndal was wracked by a powerful sneeze. With her eyes squeezed shut, she heard almost simultaneously a yelp, a twang, a crack, and a thud, and felt a bright flare of pain from her injured shoulder. She unclenched her eyes just a crack, and saw the boy staring at her wide-eyed, the man leaning over the bar with his walking stick pressed down on top of the bow, and the bolt sunk deep into the wood of the counter.

The man swept his stick back, scooped up his book and dropped it into a pocket, plucked a bottle from behind the bar, then hopped off his stool. “There is truly nothing like small-town hospitality,” he exclaimed. Threading between the fallen townsmen, he slipped an arm through one strap of her pack and pushed her toward the door next to the fireplace with the other. As she stepped through the dark threshold and onto the first stair, she heard him pause. The bottle sloshed as he waved it in salute, and then he followed her through the door and up the stairs.

[storybash]

Jens had lived this long

by developing a keen nose for trouble. He’d sensed immediately that the outrageous plainswoman and her newly keen admirers were positively steeped in it. Meeting her glare with a practiced calm, he took in the odd lumpiness of her left sleeve, the way she moved that arm as little as possible, and how hard she was working to keep from making it obvious. He would have bet every one of his… distinguished number of years on two things. One, that she was very close to the end of whatever handwoven rubbish cord her people used for rope. And two, that the suddenly looming townsmen had still wildly overestimated her vulnerability.

Her head ground slowly around, giving her time to bury the look of alarm that had flashed across her face at the sound of the big man roughly clearing his throat. Jens’ gaze flicked lightly across the assembled townsmen, then back down to the book in his hand.

He pressed a neatly trimmed thumbnail into the margin of the page he was feigning interest in, putting several small dents in the parchment that made a rough diagram of the impending melee. Big Beard was in the middle, looking down at the woman from no more than two steps away. His mates were standing in a half circle behind him, Lazy Eye and Bowlegs to the left, Rash Neck, Squinty and No Distinguishing Features on the right.

“Miss?” Jens heard her say with a hiss, as though she were describing something she’d stepped in.

Big Beard’s brown, ragged grin grew wider. “Why, of course, miss,” he said, gravelly voice oozing with what he might have honestly thought was charm. “You’re a strapping lass, ‘strue, but you’re still a girl, I reckon. We don’t get many o’ those out here, ‘specially not on their own.” Several of the lads nodded along. They were clearly used to Big Beard’s brand of hospitality, but tight smiles and flexing hands betrayed their nerves.

She drew herself up and around to face him. Even under the pile of furs and traces of melting snow, Jens could see the tense set to her shoulders, and the way left arm trailed along the bartop as though her hand was a sack of bricks. He let his long, nimble fingers drift to the silk cord hanging off the end of the maroon leather marker he’d stuck inside the back cover of his book.

The plainswoman took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then spoke with forced calm. “Miss. A word you might use to beckon a milkmaid or serving girl,” she said, unwinding a long scarf from around her neck and shoulders with her right hand. “My honor bristles, but the sun is long abed, and I only wish the same. If there’s to be trouble between us, perhaps it could wait until I’ve had a hot meal and a night’s rest.”

Big Beard guffawed at that. Lazy Eye and Rash Neck laughed too, while Bowlegs and No Distinguishing Features looked at each other with a touch of nerves. “Hear that, boys? I told you she was more reasonable than she looked. We want no more trouble than you do. You should get the room and board y’ve paid for. We’ll just collect the toll and be on our way.”

Squinty’s narrow eyes had settled on her pack, sitting at the center of a small puddle of snowmelt on the table where she’d dropped it. The woman’s attention had drifted toward him, but snapped back to Big Beard on the word “toll.”

“Toll?” she spat. “I passed no gate or marker to suggest that I’d strayed from the free road.”

“Ya, sorry ‘bout that. We’ve had hardly any travelers through lately, so it didn’t seem worth the expense to put up a sign. See, that way is the free road to the Seven Cities,” he said, flapping a meaty paw to the west. “And that way,” he said, waving his other hand to the east, “is the free road to… well, I reckon you know more’n me about what’s out that way.” He brought his hands together just over his chest. “But this bit here, this is our town road, and we think it’s only fair for them that uses it to help us pay for its upkeep.”

“Upkeep? Your town road is the same rotted track as I’ve been on since I crossed the Fellmarch. Frozen mud, drifting snow, and holes enough to break a hundred unwary ankles.”

“It’s a humble piece, sure, but it’s our piece.” His eyes crawled over her, from her boots to her furs to her unruly black hair. “And nobody uses it without our permission. Ain’t that right, boys?” The other men nodded and made encouraging noises. “Now we all seen you pay for a room with a shiny stone. Another like that would do just fine.”

“A stone,” she said, right hand clenched around the dangling scarf. “It seems l just gave my last one to the boy. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to wrangle with him for the change?”

Big Beard’s smile widened, but his narrowed eyes spoke of nothing humorous. “I’m wrangling with you, miss, and who I wrangle with after that is my business.” He leaned in closer and took a half step forward. “Now are you gonna give me what I’m after, or-”

“Uuuuuuuuugggh,” Jens groaned, so loudly that it stopped the man’s threat short and drew all their eyes in his direction. Jens rolled his eyes so broadly that his head wobbled a bit. “Really gentleman? I love a good shakedown as much as the next weary traveler, but pretending that your outrageous extortion is intended to fund public works?” Jens hunched up his shoulders. “This were our road and yer gots to pay to use it,” he said in an exaggerated growl.

“What’s it matter to you?” Big Beard snarled back, face reddening as a couple of his mates chuckled involuntarily at the accuracy of the impression.

“It’s just such a transparent fallacy,” Jens said with a wave of his hand. “I’d believe you being a wayward prince, only playing dress-up as a filthy rock farmer, before I’d believe that gem is going to pay for anything but a slightly cleaner sheep for your boys to stick their poxy knobs in.”

“Our what knobs?” Rash Neck said with a squeak. “Here now-”

“Oh my,” Jens said, closing his book and placing it on the bar. “Sorry. I’m sure it’s a monstrous affront to your sensibilities to even think about livestock debased in such an outrageous manner.”

This time it was Lazy Eye who sputtered. “Are you accusin’ us of buggering sheep?”

“No, of course not. You’ve certainly been far too absorbed in carefully orchestrating this masterful caper to spend much time grooming your flock.” Jens rolled his eyes again. “A handful of ruffians levy an arbitrary tariff on an unaccompanied lady. It’s the dried up dowager aunt of worn-out gags. I suppose next you’ll graciously consider letting her pay the fee with her womanly virtues. Or maybe you were going to avail yourselves of those with or without her say so?” Another round of guilty looks flickered between them. “Honestly, as the only entertainment in this piss-pot town, it leaves nearly everything to be desired.”

Big Beard’s face flushed even more deeply, and he took a threatening step toward the end of the bar. “Listen, friend,” he said, voice tight and dangerous. “I’ve no quarrel with you, but if you don’t shut your gob, I’ve half a mind to put you on the spike for her bill.”

Jens’ neatly trimmed salt and pepper goatee twitched slightly as he smirked with amusement. “In my misspent youth I might have let you take your spike to me, but alas. I’ve developed a rare condition in the intervening years. It’s an affliction deadly to many a romantic tussle. I doubt you’ve heard about it, as far as you are from any education of note, but in the Seven Cities, we call it ‘standards.’”