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II The Wanderer’s Tale

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The doors of Zhirov’s Inn swung open to admit a man in from the thunderstorm that raged out in the dark night. His dark, straight hair dripped rainwater down his face, the tiny rivulets leaving white streaks behind them in the grime that covered him. He wore the clothes typical of a journeyman warrior – tough brown trousers and a pair of stout boots, a suede jacket and a long cloak, the colour of the night, which reached from shoulder to knee. About his waist, prominent for all to see, was strapped a huge long sword in a black sheath. Over his shoulder was slung a half-full cloth sack.

He stood there a moment, his piercing eyes surveying the nearly empty room. Apart from four oldsters, who to his knowledge had sat in the corner playing cards since the beginning of time, there was only a balding, plump, middle-aged man sitting at the bar with some whore whom he was trying to impress.

Then there was a shout of glee as a small dwarf rushed in through a door. The traveller’s face broke with a tiny grin at the small person’s excitement.

“Jak,” cried the dwarf as he shook the man’s hand energetically, “Jak Perceval, my old friend. Many greetings to you, but where is Maroc your faithful companion and sidekick? I’ve missed his merry jesting.”

“Alas, small Qook,” said Jak, lowering his eyes, “he was killed by the witch of the Fervonan Hills.” He raised his eyes again with abroad grin spreading across his face. “But he died a man’s death, so let’s not be too sorry. As Maroc would have said: Life is short, so drink wine and wench women as much as is possible because each time may be your last.”

“Well, my friend. There are no women out here on the edge of the Swiftflow River, so far from anywhere, unless you count that hussy over there.” He pointed over to the woman at the bar, who Jak realised was an old hag. “But anyway, you say that ole Maroc was killed by old Shlaieg so you must have some tale to tell!”

“Aye,” Jak told him, swigging at a tankard of beer which the dwarf set before him, “I have at that. A tale of high adventure, astounding action and pounding muscle.”

“Okay, okay,” said Qook, “We all know that much from the stupid blurb on the back of the book.”

“No you don’t,” said the masculine hero, “it isn’t on the back of this book. Take a look.”

So they did, and Lo! There, for all to behold as they wished, it could be seen that there were no words about high adventure, astounding action and not even pounding muscles. “Uuuuurgh,” said Jak, somewhat incoherently as the ale had gone to his head quickly since that had been where it had found the most room. “I hate people who are wrong!” With those words, he did unsheath his long sword and swung it at the thick neck of the quick and nimble dwarf, who, unfortunately for him, was not able to move because of Jak stepping on his toe. The sword severed Qook’s head at the top of his spine, sending blood spurting up everywhere.

The four card-players looked up slowly in unison, then went back to their game. Suddenly the old hag rushed to the body, her lips drawn back expectantly to show blood-red fangs, and started sucking at the neck.

“Euch!” said Jak, shaking his head in disgust. “A vampire. How revolting!” So he jumped upon the woman’s head until she was well and truly squished. The four old men in the corner, their faces blood-splattered, looked up then continued playing. “I hate you,” shouted Jak, his brains addled by the beer, “you’re just so incredibly boring. Why don’t you die?” He sliced them all in half in one fell sweep, with ease as they were old, thin and frail. The sound of their bones cracking filled the room, and then eight pieces of dead flesh fell to the floor.

A door behind the bar opened and a man in white clothes came out, pushing a large wheelbarrow in front of him. He collected the bits of the four aged men, then picked up the bodies of the vampire and the dwarf, and dumped them unceremoniously into the barrel. He paused a moment over the gibbering wreck of a man who had fallen off his chair at the bar, but the man looked up at him with a questioning look in his tear-soddened eyes.

“Food for the dragon,” said the wheelbarrow-pusher, and then he dragged a huge bowl out of a cupboard and emptied the bodies into it. “This happens all the time.”

The white-clothed man pulled the bowl out of the inn door, then came back inside and re-entered the door behind the bar. As soon as it had closed, it opened again to allow four frail old men to come in. They walked unhurriedly over to the corner of the room and began to play cards.

The man, looking horrified, got up and plonked his ample rear onto his stool. He ordered some strong ale from Zhirov, the barman, who gave it to him straight away.

“Hey Zhirov,” shouted Jak from where he stood in the corner of the room, his blood-covered clothes giving him all the looks of a minor demon, “got a room for me?”

“Sure we do, Jak,” said the barman/owner, “everyone seems to be off fighting wars at the moment. I’ll give you your normal room, okay?”

“Yeah,” replied the macho warrior, “that’ll be just fine.”

Then he walked over to the bar and sat down next to the quavering man.

He ordered a beer, then turned to the cowardly fellow, “Do you want to hear a story about high adventure, astounding action and maybe even pounding muscle?”

The man started to squeal a high-pitched scream.

“Oh dear!” said Jak resignedly. “What do you have to do to get some peace in this place?”

So he decapitated the poor man.