Four if we Die

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. There had always been sheep, though fewer since the dragons arrived. At least that was Rat’s recollection. Even in his maybe, eleven years of life he was sure there used to be a great deal more sheep in Grimwaters Valley. Many of his earliest memories were of sheep. Counting sheep, patting sheep, watching his father push herds of the daft things from one field to the next.

Later it was his father cursing the “lizards”, how many sheep they’d torn apart, how the flock wasn’t safe in far pastures, where’d the bastard things come from, how much coin he was losing. On and on it went. In the end it balanced out. A sheep herder’s loss was Rat’s gain as with the dragons came hunters, and hunters needed guides.

Dusting flies from his roughly shaved head, Rat shielded his freckled brow from the mid-afternoon sun and took in the latest stranger to approach The Baron’s Rest. The formerly meagre tavern now expanded and brazenly prospering from the steady supply of would-be heroes and certainly-idiots looking to make names for themselves or fortunes for their patrons. There was good coin to be made from lizards, selling scales to smithies for armour no one could afford, or organs, horns and teeth to druids for cures and charms that usually didn’t work.

This risky economy had shown Rat more than his share of heroes. He’d lead more of them to their self-induced, largely justified deaths than he’d seen lizards slain and could pick a glory boy from a serious blade.

From his water barrel perch Rat took measure of the man destined to be his next customer. In the late afternoon glare he was more silhouette than man, though his walk spoke of much. Even, rhythmic stride as graceful broad shoulders would allow, with enough spring to move a large frame from harm’s way or into striking distance with haste.

He was walking his horse, so he’d travelled far and knew how to treat an animal. The tall grey stallion bore several saddle bags, a bed roll and a small armoury. Strapped to one side, just visible under an oiled hide cover, was a thick bow near as long as Rat was tall. The arrows packed beside as thick as a man’s thumb and bristling with raven black flights.

Two well-worn sword hilts of varied length jutted out just behind the saddle, easily drawn by a rider. Most notable was the ornate shaft of a polearm. The blade was covered by a leather bag though what could be seen of the handle was a deep glossy black, almost blue and laced with silver script unlike any Rat had seen, not that he could read at all. The man was well travelled and well equipped, not some lordling off to play knight after finally leaving daddy.

As he closed on the wide eaves of The Rest the stranger was only a shade less a shadow than he was at a distance. Wild ebony hair and furious beard framed a grim glance under heavy brow. His skin was a darker than the ancient sun-browned shepherds of the valley and as the boy observed the man a hint of recognition prodded somewhere deep in his head. Before he could think further on it Stranger was over him, fixing Rat under a strict gaze that motivated the boy off the water barrel and into a deep flourished bow.

“Good arf’anoon ser,” announced Rat in his most eloquent tone. “Names Rat, if yer look’n fer lizards I can point ya to any ya fancy. Reds, bronzes, greys, eggs. If it’s eggs you’re afte-”

Brushing by Rat, Stranger flicked the top off the water barrel for his horse to push between him and the boy and dunk it’s nose. Rat, returning from his bow, was forced to skip back to save his toes.

“How long you lived here lad?” asked Stranger, barely glancing at Rat from across his mount.

“How long?” piped Rat, swatting more flies. “All me life ser. Been in Grimwaters since me ma’s boobs. Know every lizard perch and shit pit between ‘ere and the Twilight Walls,” Rat’s head split in an overly toothy grin as he pointed triumphantly at the sign hanging over the nearby tavern door, “Was me who took Baron Grimhold to that giant red.”

Swinging gently above was an image of an overly smug man sporting full plate and ridiculous moustache. In one hand the Baron held a spear thrust into the ground, the other hand on the knee of his raised leg, resting on the cow sized head of a deep crimson dragon. The paint was still bright though there were gouges and pock marks about the sign, a concentration of which seemed focused on the Barons overly generous codpiece.

Glancing from the sign to a still smiling Rat, Stranger sniffed, unbuckled a saddle bag and fished out what sounded like a well filled coin pouch. Rat slapped his thigh and stepped wide past the back of Strangers horse to offer his hand. “I took you for a smart one ser,” said Rat “How many days we hunting?”

Stranger paused, strapped down his saddle bag and turned for the tavern entrance. Rat, realising his error, skipped to keep step with the man’s strides. “I mean, I took you for a strong one too ser…not just a smart one,” said Rat in a panic, “I mean not that I think you’re daft or nuthin. Look at the arms on you, like braided rope those forearms. I bet you could pull the-”

“Quiet lad, I’m not one for talkers,” said Stranger, stopping at the low, heavy door of The Rest.

“Oh,” said Rat, “that’s all good ser I can just point us about. Be a mouse I will, though no squeaking, likely that’d give you the shits ser. I can hand sign though, once lead a bloke from the Lowlands had no tongue.” Realising he was rapidly losing what little of Strangers interest he may have held, Rat got to the point. “It is dragons you’re here for ain’t it ser?”

“Here?” asked Stranger, raising his chin at the two story pub as he pushed on the door “I’m here for an ale.”

Inside the tavern floor wore the generosity of its allegedly well-endowed benefactor. New fittings, long hard-wood tables, stained glass windows letting in enough of the days light to warm clean, leather cushioned benches.

A few locals sat drinking, typical farming folk whose typical farming conversations were briefly interrupted by the pairs entrance. As Stranger and Rat made their way to the bar a few eyes lingered on the dark man and widened as he passed.

In a far corner was an ox an of a man with no neck and a head as pink as a festival ham. By the way his conversation dominated the room it was clear the pint he gestured with wildly above his head wasn’t his first, or third for the afternoon. “Bloody thing cocked about in a shhircle above me, didn’t it Damon,” proclaimed the brute, “too scared to land and cop another spear up its arse.”

Ale sloshed over his drinking partner. A comparatively smaller fellow wearing a dark smirk and lattice of scars across one check. On noticing Stranger he said something to his mate, who halted his tale and plodded on to a seat.

“Fine ale here ser, get it sent straight down from the abbey,” said Rat, drawing Stranger’s attention from the locals, “One of the monks brings the kegs down every week himself. Tell you what, being I’m a generous type I’ll buy you one.” With a sharp ping Rat flicked a bronze mark in the air, snatched it back and slapped it on the dark lacquered bar top, “Winston, one handle of Abbey Dark for the gentleman ‘ere.”

The tavern keeper, a fair-haired rugged sort, flicked a hand towel at Rat who darted away to the end of the bar. “Bugger off with the crawling act you little shite,” said Winston, winking at the lad, “I’m sure a grown man can order his own beer.” Winston gave Stranger a slight nod, “That’s what you’re after?”

“It’ll do,” said Stranger, “I’ll take the brats word for it given his years of experience.”

Winston took a large clay mug from under the bar and turned to fill it from one of several oak barrels racked on the wall behind. “Been a great many seasons since even my grandfather saw your sort round here, or anywhere for that matter,” he remarked over his shoulder, “you’ve travelled far?”

“Depends on your idea of distance,” said Stranger, “though long enough to earn this drink no doubt.”

Winston turned back and placed the mug on the bar, thick, brown tinged bubbles running over the edge. “Well, you’ve no quarrel here ser, I judge a man on his actions, not legends,” he offered “Anything else I can help you with, a warm room? A warm body?”

Stranger took a deep draught of his ale, foam clinging briefly to his moustache. “The boy here,” he said, nodding at Rat who was busy dragging a stool to the bar, “is he as good as he claims or playing make-believe?”

Winston considered Rat “At tracking beasts? Don’t know how the kid’s alive truth be told, though he does have a talent for it I’ll give him that. Put m’lord Grimhold onto the biggest red we’ve seen and it was a clever bastard too. He’s had more time out there than most men twice his age so he knows the land.”

“Better than anyone,” chirped Rat, clambering on to his stool, “told you that outside.”

“Did you tell him how many times you’ve come back alone?” Winston goaded. “Granted you can find a beast that don’t want to be found though you don’t warn people you could just as easy lead them off a cliff.”

Rat snaped upright on his stool, “I told that boxhead to mind where he was going, it’s not my fault if his rich dad never taught him to ride proper like.”

Winston hushed the boy, “Calm down lad, you earn your coin well and to be fair you bring me enough business while doing so, here.” Winston slid the bronze mark back across the bar. The boy swiping back into his purse.

“Finally, some respect round ‘ere.” Rat quipped.

A jolting crack of wood on wood turned heads to the back of the room. Ham Head was back on his feet having skittled two chairs in the effort. Damon giving him a wide berth while sniggering and flicking more spilt ale from his shirt. The blonde brute kicked a fallen chair as he lumbered towards the bar, taking a quarter step back or sidewards for every one forward.

“Oi! Hey! Sssssnake, I see you there. Think we forget?” he growled, a fat finger waving about in the air as he searched for his target. Stranger regarded the big man as he would a stray dog and turned back to the bar, taking another deep drink.

Winston shot a short, sharp whistle, “Leave it out Erwin, I’ll have no trouble from you, this man’s done no wrong.”

Erwin slumped heavily against the bar, near on top of Stranger who offered the slightest sideways glance.

“SSSSSSnake, look at you. Think we wouldn’t know? Think we all forget what you devils did, playing with the dead.” slurred Erwin, trying to eyeball Stranger though succeeding only in going slightly cross-eyed.

“I said enough,” Winston barked, only to be waved off by a single finger.

“Sssssnake,” Erwin hissed, “Ssssssssss.” his fat tongue flapped about, spraying spittle about the bar. A flash of movement and sharp slap turned the hiss to the yelp of a kicked dog. A plume of blood shooting across the bar as he reeled from Stranger’s elbow strike, cupping his hands to his mouth.

Quicker still Stranger flashed another elbow to the side of Erwin’s head and as his target’s hands flew up in defence Stranger grasped behind the man’s head and smashed it twice into the bar top.

Erwin dropped to the floor like grain bags thrown from a market cart. Stepping back from the bar Stranger spun to be met by Damon, brandishing a small wooden bludgeon as he darted by his fallen comrade.

“Bastard,” he swore, swinging violently at Stranger’s head. The instant before the club arced into his skull Stranger pivoted back and away, opening the space he’d just occupied. Dipping, he caught Damon’s arm high and dragged him further on. As the movement continued the thug was slung over Stranger’s shoulder, crashing into the base of the bar with a sickening thud. He moaned briefly before slumping into a broken snore.

The tavern was silent, several patrons either stared or made hurried, mumbled excuses about needing to be somewhere as they made for the door. Rat sat mouth agape on his stool as he looked from the fallen men to Stranger and back again. Stepping over Damon, Stranger drained the last of his pint.

“Apologies for that,” he said to Winston. Reaching into his pouch he drew a silver mark and placed it on the bar. “For the trouble, I’m generally not one for avoiding quarrel to be honest.” he offered, wiping the back of his arm across his mouth.

“Doesn’t appear that way,” said Winston, “though I’m not that put out by the result if I’m being honest.”

Stranger almost smiled and headed for the door, lightly clipping Rat behind the ear on the way past. “Let’s go boy, need some rest for tomorrow.” Revived by the promise of business Rat jumped off his stool and followed.

Afternoon had given way to a sharp, cool evening as Stranger clicked for his horse who stood chewing grass. Rat sprung about at the man’s side.

“What was that about then? The fat pillock carrying on like a snake?” said the boy, throwing elbows at the air, “Hardly even saw you hit him ser, like lighting you were. He’s a bull that Erwin and he just fell like a heap of-.”

“Forget it lad,” Stranger cut in, “meet me back here first light, how much do you want for the track?”

“Oh, four if we die ser, four silver marks a day,” Rat said, standing a little taller.

“Four if we die?”

“Aye ser, you pay four now and if either of us die we know it was worth the coin. If we both come back, it’s two marks, easy does it.” Rat crossed his arms on his chest, his logic sound.

Stranger raised a thick eyebrow, “What’s to stop me from being lead off a cliff and you keeping the four anyway?”

“What’s to stop me from not taking you at all for calling me a thief!” spat the boy.

“Settle lad, I didn’t mean to start a blood feud.” Stranger took the four marks from his purse as he placed it back in a saddle bag.

“Pleasure ser,” the boy said as he pocketed the coin, “you staying here then? I sleep in the stable out back so I’ll be up at sparrows fart.”

Stranger shook his head. “I’ll stay out there,” he said, gesturing at nowhere in particular, “only man should sleep in a box is a dead one.” Stranger took his horses’ lead and moved off, Rat keeping pace.

“You’ve not said what you wanted ser. Green scale, bronze horn, want to slay a named one?” Rat asked, “I can take you straight to Shining Fate in a half days ride, he’s not as fierce as they say.”

Stranger stopped, the dying light inking his dark features together, his heavy mane a cowl, “There’s a black out here isn’t there lad,” he said.

“Aye ser there is,” the usual bravado seemed to drain from the boy, “but.”

“But what?”

“No one goes after that…thing, not anymore, it’s not like others, we should leave it be ser,” Rat crossed his arms, looking nervously towards the distant tree line as though the creature would ascend, summoned by little more than the boys fear. “It comes in a cloud of death ser, I’ve seen it with my own eyes. Men dead without drawing a sword, clawing their own throats out they were, wailing like babies. It didn’t eat nobody either, just watched them die, watched like a farmhouse cat does a mouse it’s paddled about for an afternoon.”

“You’ve seen it close?” asked Stranger, a taint of surprise creeping into his measured tone.

“Aye, it’s odd, the face is strange and it’s horns point down and it’s…,” Rat paused, “it’s the only one ser, there’s not a single other thing like it been seen or heard of here or beyond The Walls.”

“That’s right, it is the only one and it is not like the others,” said Stranger, reaching down and clasping Rat on the shoulder, “that’s why you have to take me to it. Can you do that?”

“I can ser, I know where it sleeps.”

“You did ask me what I wanted lad, that’s what I want,” Stranger stood for a moment, looking at Rat then off towards the wall of trees at the valley’s edge. A soft nudge from his horse broke the trance and they moved off. “First light boy,” he called to the dusk sky.

Rat stood a while longer, suddenly cold he rubbed his hands together, cupped them over his mouth and caught three quick breaths, “Damn monster,” he muttered to the packed dirt of the road, “I should’ve asked for eight marks.”

He glanced after Stranger and his mount, though in the failing light they’d already vanished.