In a Tavern, Vengeance Begins (PG-17)

Writers: Estelle, Miriah
Date Posted: 25th February 2020
Series: The Assassin's Story

Characters: Varlin, Cimplan, Derilt
Description: Varlin remembers how he took revenge for the capture of Lusilk
Location: Emerald Falls Hold
Date: month 2, day 26 of Turn 10
Notes: Mentioned: Lusilk
Notes: PG-17 for suggested violence and assault

Evening came, and the riverboat continued its slow journey upstream. The
forest had closed in around them and the day had been humid and
oppressive, with the day's end bringing little relief. The passengers
slumped on benches on the deck, swatting insects and watching the
passing trees with glazed eyes. Two traders were sharing a bottle of
liquor between them, their voices rising with boorish jests and
boasting. Beyond them, Varlin saw Khaggo, seemingly dozing in a patch of
shade. He didn't look for long. The hunter wasn't going anywhere. He'd
stick to Varlin, if only to keep him from claiming Lord Rorrigraf's
reward first.

He closed his eyes, hearing the creak of the boat and the steady rhythm
of its engine, the rush of water and above it, the drunken laughter. His
mind drifted back, and he remembered another night, and a tavern...

***

Varlin approached the tavern as night was closing in, following the road
to the big Hold that loomed, square and oppressive, above the trees,
casting its shadow over the lands that surrounded it. He kept his head
down as a trader cart passed him, heaped with crates of vegetables. Deep
as he was in Rorrigraf's lands, he knew he could expect no mercy if he
was recognized. It had been a while since he'd raided here, but he knew
better than to hope the old man would have forgotten him.

He'd chosen the plain, travel-worn garb of a cotholder, perhaps
traveling to the Hold on business. Gritty dust in his hair made it more
grey than dark, and he'd adopted the slightly stooped gait of a man
who'd spent a long life in the fields. Fortunately, no-one paid any
attention to him, occupied as they were with hurrying back to the Hold
before darkness fell.

He took the side track that led to the tavern door. It was a large
building, two stories high, and busy, with the clamor of loud voices
seeping out from inside. This close to the Hold, on a convenient site to
bring in barrels of ale on the riverboats, it was prosperous and, Varlin
knew, popular with the Hold guards, who would often gather here when
they were off duty. Some holdless men took the risk of visiting from
time to time, hoping to catch news of a tithe train or a hunting patrol
from drunken tongues.

This night, he had a single purpose, and it wasn't overhearing gossip.
He pushed open the door and stepped inside into the stuffy, sour
beer-scented air of the tavern's main room.

The guards were in force this evening, grouped around several tables
as they called out to serving girls, waved mugs of warming ale as one
drunk man began to sing a ribald ballad about a serving wench who
favored two cotholders, showing that favor by lifting her skirts to
show her legs to entice them. The guardsmen laughed uproariously when
the wench was revealed not to be a woman, but a man who stuffed his
bodice with grain sacks and made off with both of the cotholder's
marks. The serving wenches smiled coyly as they were pulled into laps,
bodies patted playfully to ensure that they were not stuffing anything
about their persons.

One man sat apart from the guards; though wearing the same badge, he
didn't take part in the revelry. Though not ignored by his peers,
neither was he invited to join them and the serving wenches who
approached did so with scarcely hidden expressions of wariness.
Another mug was set down before and he lifted his scarred face with
stark cheekbones. Ragged brown hair flopped over his brow, hiding the
beginnings of a fresh scar that trailed over his nose and across his
cheek, making his mouth pull up in an ugly twist.

Varlin moved quickly into the crowd of tavern-goers, his gaze searching
the room until it halted on the guard who was alone. He vaguely recalled
the face, but it was the man's bearing that gave him away, the spare
build and the ever-present watchfulness that marked out those who'd
lived holdless. He didn't approach at once, but edged around the room to
the bar and bought a drink, then found a spot in a quieter corner with
some other travelers. There, he nursed his ale, his attention
apparently on the raucous main group of guardsman, but every now and
then shifting to the scarred man.

As the night wore on, some of the guards departed for home and bed,
while others settled into groups for some serious drinking or gaming.
The lone man had been drinking steadily for some time, and when he
finished his latest mug and shook his pouch, scowling, for marks, Varlin
judged that the time was right. He ordered two more drinks and went over
to sit opposite the man, pushing one mug across to him. "Here you are,
friend. Have another one on me."

Cimplan lifted his head, withdrawing his hand from his pouch as his
eyes fell on the mug. "Many thanks, friend." He grasped the mug and
took a long swallow, stopping to wipe foam from his upper lip with a
sloppy hand. His words were slurred. "Not enough folk 'round here
gives proper respect to guards. Buying us drinks like they ought." He
lifted his mug and peered at Varlin, brows furrowed. He blinked slowly
as he tried to focus, slurring his words. "D' I know you friend? Owe
yas f'r anything?"

"Nah, it's us cotholders who owe you. The guards. For keeping the roads
safe from bandits and thieving holdless folk." Varlin raised his glass
to the man, though he took only the barest sip. "Least I can do. Heard
on the way here that you took down a whole lot of the stinking vermin a
month or so back."

The effect on Cimplan's face was immediate; it was clear that no one,
not even the guards, had ever shown him a bit of gratitude. Evidently
pleased at the complement, Cimplan lifted his chin and nodded
drunkenly, lifting his mug. "Tha's right. Tha's what I do. Vermin, the
lot o' em. No respect." He took a healthy swallow. "I did. I did. Got
th' leader too. Sort of leader...just a girl. Stupid lot, trusting a
girl." He wavered a bit in his seat. "But she got hers...'specially
for refusin' to... give respect." His grin widened as he chuckled.
"Lord Holder...he's takin' care o' her now. Serves her right to be his
whore now...she's a learnin' her lesson, but I gave her th' first
lesson." He rubbed at the scar on his jaw with a scowl. "Taught her
who was boss, I did."

"Did you now?" The man opposite him closed his eyes for a moment so
brief it would have taken a more sober man than the guard to see it at
all. **Lusilk...** He gestured to the scar. "She give you that? Must
have fought like a wild feline."

A wide sloppy grin spread over the man's face as he reached to pat
Varlin's arm companionably. "Aye, I did and she did, but a good few
belts across the jaw and some kicks was enough to settle her and pay her
back for that dagger up her sleeve. Stupid bitch. But we beat her down
good and proper. " Then he grimaced, but thereafter looked smug, leaning
forward to burp, then lowered his voice. "Lord Holder Rorrigraf made
good on his promise to me. Good man... told his hunter to let me her
first crack at her. " He pointedly reached between his legs and
squeezed. "Time we was through, she didn't have no fight left, get me?
That's all them thieves is good for, you know? She won't be stealing
nothing no more. " He downed the rest of his mug in noisy swallows.

"No, don't suppose she will. Good thing for us honest men, eh?" Varlin
was glad the man's guzzling hid any hint of a reaction on his part. He
forced himself to focus and waved over the nearest girl to bring another
mug of ale. "There was a hunter, you said? Is he around? Maybe I'll buy
him a drink, too."

Cimplan waved his hand, negating the comment, but didn't notice that
his uncoordinated movement caused him to nearly strike his newest friend
in the face. "Won't see him 'round. Never sticks about much." He eyed
the woman approaching and gave a twisted grin, eyeing her with evident
lust. "Hey sweets, come and join us for a round!"

The girl wrinkled her nose as she set down the mug, but forced herself
to smile in an effort to be charming. "You know better, Cimplan. I'm
working." She glanced at Varlin, smile sickly sweet, but clear that his
association with Cimplan made him far less than welcome. "Can I get you
anything more?"

"Not for me, thanks." He handed her a few small marks in payment and
pushed the mug across the table to the guard. Neither of them saw the
little twist of powder that he slipped into the dark liquid, though in
truth the man was drunk enough already to make it hardly necessary. "As
for my friend, I'll help him back to the barracks once he's finished
this one."

As Cimplan reached for the newest mug, the girl shrugged. "As you like,
holder. It looks like he's about fine anyways. " She seemed relieved to
hand off Cimplan to the strange man, returning to the tavern keeper to
fetch a pail to wipe down tables.

Cimplan clutched the mug in both hands to take another long drink. Much
of the alre spilled down his chin, but his throat worked eagerly before
he pulled back with a hearty, moist burp and wiped his mouth with his
sleeve. He took a breath, his head already sagging on his shoulders.
"Thanks, friend. Good man... good man. Got duty t'mrrow. Should g'
back soon..."

"I'll walk back with you, then. I'm going up to the Hold and a guard's
protection is worth having." Varlin managed to say that with a straight
face, though it was clear to anyone half-sober that the man could barely
focus, let alone protect someone else.

"Right...I'll pertec..per...protect ya." Cimplain got to his feet and
swayed before he righted himself, but had to catch himself on the
table before he steadied. "Whoa...the ground moved jus a bit." He took
a breath and patted his sword, missing the hilt entirely. "Les go.
Long walk."

"It is that." The other man threw down a few small coins on the table
for the tavern staff and followed him out, making sure to stay on the
sword side. The fresh night air was a relief after the heat and the
stinks of sweaty bodies and old ale in the tavern. Cimplan's breath
wasn't much sweeter, but he tolerated it for the time being. The road
was quiet now, the moonlight hazy behind heavy clouds, but up ahead he
made out the place where it curved around a dense cluster of trees,
shielding them from view from the Hold.

As they came close, Varlin let his steps sway, as if he was just as
deeply inebriated as his companion. He slipped a hand into his pocket
and brought out a few marks, then tossed them to the ground ahead. "Eh,
fardles. Dropped something."

As Cimplan staggered forward, his eyes following the fallen marks, he
straightened, reached for the guard's sword and drew it out in a smooth
movement. Before the man could react, he brought the hilt down hard on
his head.

Cimplan crumpled to the ground without a sound, blood trickling into
his hair from the blow. A creak sounded shortly after, Derilt emerging
from the cover of the trees along the trail leading a runner that
pulled a small rickety wagon piled with loose straw. He glanced around
and hurrying forward, bent to grip Cimplan's feet. "Did ye kill him?
That was quite the blow."

Varlin shook his head and looked down at the fallen man, remembering
what Cimplan had boasted of in the tavern. "Not yet." He set down the
sword and gripped the unconscious guard's shoulders, helping Derilt to
heave him into the wagon, then returned for the weapon while the other
man covered him with straw. "He'll be out for hours, though. Time enough
to get him to Lusena's cothold." After what had happened, even holdless
folk avoided the place. They wouldn't be disturbed there, and there
would be a certain justice about it.

He climbed up into the back of the wagon, leaving Derilt to take the
driver's seat. "I'll keep an eye on him back here, just in case." His
eyes gleamed in the near-darkness. "When he wakes up, I want to be the
first one he sees."

Last updated on the May 31st 2020

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In a Tavern, Vengeance Begins (PG-17)