Steel and Sorrow: Rise of the Mercenary king

Mariol had named the place a tavern; Vilon would have batter called it a stable. It certainly smelled like one, a mix of wet hay, cheap tallow, and unwashed bodies.

The walls were built of dark, weathered wood and the roof was thatched with yellowing straw, looking no different from every other structure in the hamlet. Who knew? Perhaps by sole virtue of being the last building left unburned, this place could claim the grand prize as the most magnificent tavern in all of Oizen. Or at least on this side of the border.

Ash did not make a great opponent.

There was very little to distinguish the establishment from a common peasant’s house, save for the faded wooden sign swinging above the door that displayed an unmistakable, overflowing mug of ale.

It was well past midday. By the time Vilon finished his business here, only a few fleeting hours of daylight would remain. It would be far wiser to pass the night under a roof than out in the ditch. He was certain Owen wouldn’t begrudge a proper bed and a warm hearth for once. And while Vilon always begrudged spending his hard-earned coin, he certainly wouldn’t hate the comforts it bought.

Having sent Owen to lead Chestnut to the village stable,which, from a distance, looked suspiciously like a collapsing barn, Vilon stepped toward the tavern door.

The heavy oak door was wide open, so he didn’t bother waiting for an invitation.

The moment his tall, armored frame crossed the threshold, every eye in the room snapped toward him. The sudden silence was punctuated only by the clatter of a wooden spoon against a bowl. It was hardly Vilon’s first time stepping into a taproom filled with local drunks; his father had been a most devoted patron to every tavern from here to there, which meant Vilon had learned early on how to handle a hostile room.

He planted his boots firmly on the floorboards, resting a gauntleted hand casually over the pommel of his sword, and met the stare of every man inside. Plainly enough, the sight of a towering, broad-shouldered knight clad in iron made the local troublemakers reconsider whatever fool notions they were entertaining. There was a vast, dangerous difference between trying to extort a wide-eyed peasant boy and attempting it on a battle-tested knight.

Satisfied by the quiet shift in the air, Vilon walked up to the grease-stained counter. It was still lunch hour for the locals, so the place was packed to the brim. It made him wonder how suffocating it would get by evening, when the villagers gathered to drown their misery in cheap ale and sour wine.

Vilon could never understand the appeal of it. He had taken a few desperate sips from his father’s waterskin as a boy whenever the old man passed out drunk, and he had gagged at the bitter, foul taste. Even after the triumph at the Ford, during the grand celebratory feast, he had tried a cup of fine red wine, and had disliked it just as much. People said that was what noble drank. What did water have that was so foul for them luxurious throat?

He disliked drunks even more, particularly those who started early. Case in point: a local was laying slumped over a corner table, thoroughly soaked in his own spilled brew.

”Pay the useless bastard no mind,” a stout, whey-faced woman croaked, snatching a wooden bowl off a neighboring table. ”He’s always sitting there drinking when he isn’t out in the fields. Got the only working mule in the whole village and maybe more, so he isn’t short on coin or labor be it inside the village or outside.He usually come here spending what he has in food and ale. ”

”A lazy man...” Vilon judged dryly.

”A man who can afford to be lazy,” she snapped back. ”Now, if you’re quite finished gaping at the village fool, I have a proper establishment to run here.” She spat directly into a pewter cup and began scrubbing it with a filthy grey rag.

Vilon instantly resolved not to drink a single drop of liquid from this place. There was a perfectly clean creek barely a minute’s walk outside.

He must have stared a moment too long, for the woman filled the silence once more, her sour eyes narrowing. ”Well? Are you here to rob me?”

”What?” Vilon blinked.

”I asked if you’re here to rob my till with that big sword on your hip.”

”Wh—no! No, of course not.”

”Good. We’ve had our absolute fill of robbers and bandits already,” she grunted, tossing the cup onto a shelf. ”The bastard with the wolf pelt on his back may hang three of ’em every time his patrol rides through, but five more pop out of the weeds the moment he leaves.They are still in the village, so mind where you go pointing your steel.And keep your curses of their king to a minimum.”

”I am no robber, mistress.”

”And what about a bandit?”

”I have the honor of being a knight of the road,” Vilon said, drawing himself up.

The woman looked him up and down, her gaze lingering on his worn scabbard and mud-splattered boots. ”Thought you were one of the patrol guards at first. I was just shitting you about. A knight, eh? Got a horse?”

”I do.”

”Is my idiot son looking after it in the barn? Or did the little rat scamper off again?”

”I sent my squire to tend to the mount. I do not know your son.”

”I swear, if the boy went running off to the creek again to look at them wom...” She threw Vilon an angry glare, as though his arrival were directly responsible for her child’s shortcomings. ”Well, sit where you like. Do you want food, or are you just taking up me air?”

”I’d like food. For two.”

”We’ve got thick porridge with peas and dark bread, if you’re feeling poor. Or a good joint of lamb cooked with onions. Even got some stork a hunter brought me yesterday, if you’ve actually got the coin for it.”

”How much would it be for the lamb and the stork?”

”Both?” She stopped her wiping, squinting at him again as if searching for a missing limb or a brain injury. Did she think he had no coin in his purse? ”Five bronzii for a proper serving of lamb, and six for the stork.”

Vilon did a quick mental count. He still had twelve bronzii and three silverii tucked safely into his belt pouch. He could afford a proper feast for once.

”Give me two servings of the lamb, plenty of bread, and fill me a sack of oats for my horse,” Vilon ordered. ”And whatever dried rations you have suitable for the road. How much for the lot?”

”I’ll prepare everything you asked for two silverii and two bronzii.”

”Two silverii?” Vilon echoed, his brow furrowing. ”For lamb and oats?”

”Did you somehow miss the bloody famine outside, ser?” she barked, leaning over the counter, her face turning red. ”Every scrap of grain we have left comes from those fucking Yarzats! For all we know, the bastards are selling us our own stolen grain back and making us bleed silver for it!

Nasty, greedy bastards!They got themselves here with fire and then go out with coin” She threw him a venomous glare as if he once again was responsible for that. ”You got the coin to pay, or are you going to stand there looking pretty in armor? Pay up or fuck off.”

Vilon kept his voice cool. ”I thought Mariol said this was an honest establishment.Do I have to bring opposite word back to him and clock him in the face for playing me a fool?”

The woman froze mid-snarl. ”Wait... Mariol sent you?”

Vilon didn’t know what to expect after dropping the Hound’s name, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated the sudden, terrifying shift in her posture. A heartbeat ago, she had been ready to spit in his face; now, the sour fury drained from her expression, replaced by a tense, nervous meekness.

”I’ll... I’ll make it a single silverii, then,” she said at once, her voice dropping an octave.As if she were looking to oversee a past mistake. ”And I’ll throw in the bread and oats for free.”

It wasn’t spoken kindly, she was still glaring at the wooden counter, but the snarl was completely gone.

The Hound wasn’t lying, Vilon realized. Mariol and his war-band truly were the only thing keeping the peace out here. Vilon shuddered to think what would become of this village if the Crown’s Hounds ever stopped patrolling the highway.

”Ser!”

A cheerful voice broke through the gloom of the tavern as the heavy door swung open further. Owen trotted up to the counter, wiping his dirty hands on his tunic, his face red from exertion.

”I brushed Chestnut down, ser! Scrubbed his coat clean, checked his hooves, and gave him a big bucket of fresh water from the trough,” the boy reported proudly and all in one breath as unless he spoke them fast , he would forget them.

Vilon offered an approving nod. ”Good lad. Take a seat at the corner table. I’ve ordered us a proper meal. A joint of roasted lamb with onions and fresh bread for the both of us.Eat till you got your fill.”

Owen’s eyes went as wide as dinner plates, his mouth dropping open in sheer disbelief. ”Meat, ser?! Real meat?!”

”Aye. Real meat.”

”Five gods be good, ser! It’s been months since I had meat that wasn’t salted to leather or pulled out of a pot of grey soup!” Owen gasped, clapping his hands together before darting off to secure a bench.

Vilon watched the boy slide into the wooden booth with a faint, fond smile touching his lips. He gave a quiet nod to himself as he reached into his purse for a silver coin.

It was well worth to see that smile.

And truth be told, he was missing the taste of real and proper meat just as much as the boy was.