CHAPTER 21
SHOWDOWN AT THE TAVERN
It had been a week since Mark crossed into the realm of Archon Innokentios. For him, borders between the Archons’ lands were just lines on a map, and he had no problem riding into territory ruled by an enemy of his "own" Archon, Anthemios. Mark didn’t care about the war; he was just following the road, making coin with his blade, and indulging in good food, drink, and female company wherever he found it.
He rode on, his horse kicking up dirt on the winding road, with thick woods stretching out on both sides. His destination was the town of Mavrosia, where he hoped to find mercenary work. But Mavrosia was still two days away, and as the sun dipped below the horizon, he knew he’d have to find somewhere to stay for the night.
Luckily, he spotted a small settlement – a handful of wooden houses with thatched roofs clustered along a single dirt path. The place was quiet and almost empty, save for an elderly, bald man hurriedly making his way home.
“Excuse me, sir,” Mark called out. “Is there an inn here?”
The man, visibly annoyed at being stopped, muttered, “We don’t get many strangers here. There’s a tavern at the end of the road. The owner, Kleomenes, might have a spare room for you.”
“Thanks,” Mark said, though the old man was already scurrying off before he finished speaking.
Mark rode to the edge of the village, dismounted, and stepped inside the tavern. It was bare, even by small village standards: just three tables, a couple of chairs, a wooden counter lined with a few dusty bottles, and a short, stocky man behind the bar – likely Kleomenes.
“Hey,” Mark called out. “You’re Kleomenes, I take it?”
The man nodded. “That’s me, the one and only.”
Mark tossed a couple of coins onto the counter. “A beer, and whatever food you’ve got.”
Kleomenes nodded and set a cold mug of beer in front of Mark, who downed it quickly. Soon after, he returned with a simple plate of chicken and bread. It wasn’t much, but Mark dug in without complaint.
“What brings you here?” Kleomenes asked, watching him eat.
“Heading to Mavrosia,” Mark replied between bites. “Needed a place for the night and was told you might have a spare room.”
“If you’ve got the coin.”
Mark tossed over more coins, which Kleomenes snatched up eagerly. “By the way, don’t suppose you have work for a swordsman, do you?”
Kleomenes shook his head. “Nope. This village has stayed clear of trouble. Even with the war, the local Baron hasn’t conscripted anyone here, and we’ve been lucky enough to dodge raids by enemy parties or bandits.”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Mark felt a pang of disappointment; he’d hoped to earn back some of the money he’d just spent. But luck wasn’t with him tonight. Kleomenes led him to a small room in the back, barely big enough for a narrow wooden bed. It felt more like a closet than an actual room.
“That’s your place,” Kleomenes said. “Good night.” He shut the door behind him, leaving Mark alone in the dim little room.
Mark stripped off his armor and boots, leaving just his undershirt and pants. He sat on the bed for a moment, letting himself relax, then reached into his bag and pulled out Vivian’s spellbook. Lying back on the bed, he began reading. These spells had already saved him once, helping him banish a succubus. Now, he was studying a chant to counter the invisible “pull” sorcerers could use to drag people. Just as he was getting into it, a loud crash echoed from the tavern’s front room. Instantly alert, he grabbed his sword and stepped out.
In the tavern, Kleomenes lay bruised and bloodied on the floor. Five men, wearing the red armor of Archon Innokentios’ forces, were tearing the place apart. Mark guessed they were deserters looking to loot and cause trouble.
They hadn’t noticed him yet. He was only in his undershirt and pants, unarmored, while they were in chainmail. If he wanted a chance, he’d have to use strategy – he noted that they wore no helmets. He crept up behind one of the men. In one swift move, he sprang up, grabbed the man’s neck, and drove his sword through his mouth, the blade piercing through the other side. With a slick sound, he withdrew the sword, and the man crumpled to the floor in a spreading pool of blood.
The remaining four spun around, eyes wide. “Who the fuck are you?” one of them yelled. “Get this bastard!” another shouted, and they charged with swords drawn.
Mark parried and dodged, blocking their blows with precision. He spotted an opening in one man’s chainmail and drove his blade into it, sinking it deep into flesh. As the man staggered in pain, Mark whipped his sword in a clean arc, severing his head. The head hit the floor with a dull thud, while the body dropped heavily beside it.
As he swung, Mark back-kicked another thug, his foot slamming into the man’s chest and sending him crashing into a table. But before he could catch his breath, the last two deserters lunged at him, forcing him to parry their blades in quick succession.
After deflecting a swing, Mark countered with a quick feint, pretending to strike the man’s chest. As the deserter moved to block, Mark shifted his aim and drove his blade straight into the man’s forehead, the tip bursting out the back of his skull. He yanked the blade free just in time to spin around and block an incoming slash from the other deserter. Their swords clanged loudly in the empty tavern.
They exchanged blow after blow, Mark’s attacks growing more relentless. With a fierce swing, he sliced off the man’s right ear. The deserter let out a shriek, dropping his sword. Mark seized the opening and slashed his throat with one clean cut. The man choked, slumped, and hit the floor, dead.
Mark turned to face the final deserter, the one he had kicked across the room. The man had scrambled back up and was now charging, sword in hand. Mark braced for the final clash.
Their blades clashed again and again, each strike harder than the last. Mark feinted once more, then slashed his sword across the man’s face, drawing blood. As the deserter screamed, Mark drove a powerful kick into his nose, breaking it and sending him crashing against the wooden wall. The man crumpled, unconscious.
Kleomenes had gotten back on his feet. "Thank you for saving me," he said, shaking his head. "Those bastards! They wear our Archon's armor. They are the very soldiers meant to protect us from enemies and bandits – and yet, here they were, trying to rob me!"
"This isn’t the first time I’ve seen soldiers desert and go wild," Mark said. "Some of them, instead of being disposable assets in this endless war, choose to desert and use their weapons for a little ‘fun’ of their own. It’s human nature, sadly." He paused for a moment. "Anyway, I’m heading back to get some rest. I’ve got more road ahead tomorrow."
Kleomenes nodded, and Mark returned to his room. He read a bit more of the spellbook until his eyes grew heavy, then drifted off to sleep.
The next morning, he woke to find Kleomenes had prepared him a meal of chicken and a cold beer, a thank-you for saving his life. After eating and drinking, Mark mounted his horse and rode off. For that is the life of the wanderer – always traveling.