by Dan Rice
in Issue 99, April 2020
“Look at the cripple, lads!”
Mean spirited laughter erupted around the tavern. Eric looked up from the bar to gaze at three men wearing dust covered leather armor with short swords girded at their sides. They looked like toughs who guarded caravans for merchants and thoroughly drunk. The focus of their cruel mirth stood a few feet from the bar leaning heavily on a crutch for support.
“We don’t serve raggarbash such as you here,” the fat tavern keeper behind the bar snarled at the cripple.
Through a stinking haze of tobacco and candle smoke, patrons jeered the cripple and encouraged the young men in their wickedness.
Eric clenched his right hand into a brawny fist, his arthritic knuckles sending tendrils of pain to the tips of his fingers. Wincing, he relaxed his right hand and took a sip of beer from the tankard he held in his left hand on which he wore a black dragonhide glove. Best not to get involved, he reminded himself, tamping down his sense of injustice, he was too old for a tavern brawl. There were plenty of alehouses within limping distance, even for a woman using a crutch.
A mob gathered to watch the guards surround the cripple and push her back and forth between them. A handful of people muttered complaints, but most of the crowd offered boisterous approval. Eric understood that young warriors needed to let loose occasionally and that sometimes that led to nastiness. Then again, he had never abused a cripple.
Frowning, Eric leaned his bulk against the bar and stared at the frothy brew in the mug. Not the best beer but good enough to drink until he passed out.
A thud followed by drunken laughter drew Eric’s gaze. The cripple was on the floor. A guard dumped beer onto her head as she cowered.
“Leave her be,” Eric rumbled.
The guards faced him.
“Why should we, you old gobermouch?” asked a guard, who was a good twenty years younger than Eric and just as big.
Grimacing, Eric straightened, knees creaking and back popping, to his full height and took a swig of beer.
“You louts don’t, I’ll beat respect into you,” Eric said.
The guards laughed.
“They’re just having fun with the cripple,” the tavern keeper said. “What’s the harm in that? Besides, I don’t serve her kind.”
“My pappy was a cripple. Hurt during the Three Kings War. I don’t abide those who abuse cripples and those who don’t serve them.”
“You must have dragon dung for a brain,” the guard nearest Eric said and threw a jab at his face.
Eric had anticipated the attack and meant to sidestep the punch while simultaneously busting the tankard he held in the man’s face. Alas, not only was the man twenty years younger than Eric, he was far quicker. His fist smashed Eric on the nose. Pain bloomed. The beer mug slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor.
A second punch caught Eric on the chin and sent him reeling into the bar. Head buzzing, he blinked his eyes to clear his vision only to have his legs become flimsy twigs unable to support his weight. Arms flailing, Eric crashed to the floor. Cheers erupted around the tavern. A few people called for Eric to stand up and continue the fight, but more patrons urged him to stay down.
Eric groaned, his entire body aching. Gods, he thought, it didn’t use to hurt this much. He pushed himself up to his hands and knees, blinking until his vision started to clear. His eyes focused in time to watch a boot swinging toward him. The foot struck him in the mouth with such force, he was catapulted onto his butt.
Feeling like he suffered from a massive hangover, Eric spat teeth and blood. Most of the crowd shook their heads and returned to their drinks.
“Had enough?”
Eric guffawed, blood pouring from between his lips. “Enough? I haven’t won yet.”
A guard aimed a kick at Eric’s midsection, but he blocked the boot with his gloved hand. A crunching sound followed the impact, and the guard howled. The man hopped on his uninjured foot while holding his other foot in both hands. A murmur of renewed interest went through the crowd, and the tavern keeper started calling for bets.
Eric rose to his feet, and with his gloved hand, punched the hopping guard in the face. His fist landed with a crack and squelch. Gurgling, the guard toppled to the floor. The two remaining guards exchanged uncertain glances.
“You’ll pay for that,” the younger of the guards snarled and reached for his sword.
“Keep that hog poker in its scabbard,” Eric warned.
The guards drew their swords and methodically advanced towards Eric. They might be drunk, but they knew their business, and backed him up against the wall. Some in the mob shouted the fight was unfair, but none interfered.
They brought this upon themselves, Eric thought as he peeled off his dragonhide glove, revealing a hand as blue and cold as glacial ice. The crowd fell silent at the sight of the ice hand.
Eric threw the glove at the guard who lunged at him, aiming for the eyes, and missed. The gods must have been smiling upon him because he caught the guard’s sword with his ice hand. With ease, he snapped the blade in half and backhanded the guard across the face. Where the blue appendage touched the man’s cheek, the skin turned black as if frostbitten. The yaldson fell to the floor, clutching his ruined visage.
The remaining guard, shock plain on his countenance, backed away. Eric gave the man a rictus smile.
“Run,” Eric said, bloody spittle flying from his mouth.
The guard bolted from the tavern. Only one man cheered Eric’s victory. Smiling broadly, the fellow rushed to the bar to collect a bag full of coins. Eric snorted and shook his head. That was one of the few advantages of being old, people underestimated you.
Eric discarded the broken blade and, knees cracking, knelt to retrieve his glove and pulled it onto his frost hand. Standing, Eric leaned against the bar to steady himself and catch his breath. The guard with the frostbitten face scrambled to his feet and darted into the street.
“That was hardly fair. Using that demon hand on them,” someone in the dispersing mob bellowed.
Eric smiled ruefully. “Fair doesn’t win fights.”
“I’ll call the city guard,” the tavern keeper said.
Eric laughed. “Go ahead. Captain Stout knows me. He’ll take my word over yours and the oafs I whipped.”
“Stout retired five years ago or more,” someone shouted.
“Runs an inn out in the country…near Clearwater, I think.”
Gods, has it been that long?
“The city guard will know my name and deeds. I am Eric of the North, the Icehand, slayer of the Winter Queen and defender of Bloodfort.”
The crowd responded with blank stares.
“No one remembers me?”
People shook their heads and went back to their beer and food.
I used to drink for free at every tavern from Firelight to the Ice Ocean, Eric thought.
“The city guard will be here soon,” the tavern keeper hissed. “I sent my boy to summon them.”
Eric gave the tavern keeper his meanest glower. Whimpering, the gluttonous scoundrel recoiled.
Eric limped over to the cripple, who had sat up and had her crutch across her lap. Squatting next to her, he offered the woman a hand, which she did not take.
“Is it true? What you said about your daddy,” the cripple said.
“It is.”
“At least you didn’t help me with the expectation of getting some,” the cripple snarled and spat on the floor.
The ungrateful words stung Eric more than his busted mouth and sore joints, but all he did was shrug and stand. The victims of the world, he had lived long enough to have learned, didn’t always want help and weren’t required to be grateful to their saviors.
Eric was about to turn away, but stopped and pulled a leather pouch clinking with coins from his trouser pocket.
He held the pouch out to the woman. “You need this more than me.”
She eyed him suspiciously.
He shook the purse, jingling the coins inside.
She snatched the bag out of his hand. “Don’t expect my thanks.”
Joints creaking, Eric trudged out of the tavern onto a dirt road under a blazing sun. He didn’t want to tangle with the city guard, and a long trek down a dusty path separated him from Clearwater. If the gods smiled on him, Captain Stout would remember his name and offer him a brew free of charge.
©April 2020, Dan Rice
Dan Rice has published stories around the web, most recently in Fantasia Divinity Magazine. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.