Not far from the clean streets and polished houses of Greystone Forrest, the grand Capital of the kingdom, stood Billinfort village. It was the opposite of the city in every way imaginable - houses were poor and wooden, roads resembled a freshly mushed darkberry puree, and people walked, ran, shouted, and laughed everywhere.

There were no income-related limitations in Billinfort, therefore, the majority of the population was poor. And where there's poverty, there's life. Of course, it was a hotbed of crime, a haven for all kinds of outlaws and guilds, but it was also fun in its peculiar way. Perhaps, it had something to do with art because art is poor too, and so Billinfort had plenty.

One more thing the village was famous for - its taverns, inns, and places where tired travelers could get a decent beverage. Drinks, fights, brawls, celebrations - Billinfort pubs had it all.

One of the oldest among them, the "Twitty Princess," was busy as usual. Farmers, tired of the preparations for the upcoming Harvest Festival, merchants cutting deals behind the Royal Tax Office's back, soldiers from the assigned garrison - all wished their cups full and their heads light.

A table in the far east corner, although often forgotten by barmaids and known for long waits to order, offered a great view of the rest of the pub. That happened to be exactly what the man occupying this table was looking for.

He took a sip from the wooden jug and slowly placed it back on the table, without taking his eyes off a figure in a dark gown-like garment, sitting alone at one of the tables.

"The nerve of this guy," he said to his companion, a huge lady in leather armor. She reached for her cup, and a tiny taburete squeaked, barely holding the pressure of her mighty weight. "I mean, look at him, drinking in a pub filled with soldiers, like nothing happened."

"Is he our calajad?" asked the woman, finishing her drink in one big sip.

"He's a dark wielder, alright. An Augmentor, enslaved a whole village just two days' ride from here," said the man.

"Well, what is he doing here? His place is at the Greystone Forrest in the Royal Palace," the woman let out a laugh. The man smiled and shook his head.

"Careful, Brienne, those jokes can add a few extra feet between your head and your shoulders," he said, scratching his curly black hair.

"I think I'll be alright," Brienne huffed. "Besides, I've got a future king at my side, that ought to get me out of trouble."

The man laughed into his cup.

"I told you, I have nothing to do with my ancestry. And my blood nowadays is as royal as a pig's. Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we're just a couple of calajad hunters, getting our hands dirty for the right amount of money."

"Can't run from your family, Bal Harriott," Brienne shrugged. "You'd be a better king than Ikalot. Honestly, anyone would be better at this point."

"Anyway, politics aside," Bal reached into a leather bag on his left and fished out two silver amulets, one with a jade incrustation. "I think that will be enough."

His companion took a suspicious look at the amulets while he tied them over his neck and adjusted the black collar of his shirt. She let out an angry grunt.

"You're going to pick a fight in the 'Princess'?"

"We'll see where it goes," said Bal, shivering as one of the amulets set off a thin yellow line all around his body. "You got your keepers on?"

"Yes. Wait. Let's drag him out?" Brienne pleaded, appealing to Bal's reason. "It's a great pub."

"Then swing your axe with care," Bal responded, nodding to a huge double-bit axe with a heavy metal knob on the handle. "I don't want to fight him here. I want to talk. But who knows how it ends."

Brienne reached for the axe, letting out a breath of disappointment, "I know. It always ends with me looking for another pub."

#

Stepping very lightly, Bal navigated through the crowd. When he got closer to the figure, he stopped to take a look around. Brienne walked toward the exit, her shoulders wide enough to cover the whole doorway.

Bal saw a barmaid with a freshly filled tray, and with a single swift turn, appeared right in front of her. They shared a few words, the girl laughed, took a silver coin from the handsome man, and gave him the tray. Bal turned to Brienne, winked at her rolling eyes, and headed towards the figure.

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

"Your order, sir," he said, and the tray landed on the table with a dump thud. Some figbeer spilled over the edges of the jug all over the bread.

"Clumsy idiot," started the figure, raising its head to see who had messed up so badly but stopped as its eyes met the emerald green smiling eyes of Bal.

The figure, who turned out to be a middle-aged man with inhumanly pale skin, grinned, "Bal Harriott."

Bal grabbed a chair from the nearby table and sat opposite the man, "Good, you know who I am. Now we can talk."

"I know who you are, Bal Harriott. I know Freye family blood runs in your veins. A descendant of the greatest Reign Supreme, now a spit under the blacksmith's shoe," the man burst out in cracking laughter. "What would your ancestors say?"

"Thing is, they all are dead. Wanna meet them and ask for yourself?" said Bal, picking a grape and throwing it into his mouth.

"Well, Ball Harriott Freye, what brings you here?"

"You stepped away from the ways of magic and enslaved a poor village. That makes you a calajad, my friend, and puts a price on your head," said Bal, leaning on the table. "I bring you in, get the money, save the village and all that."

The man threw his head back in laughter, and when he turned it back, his eyes were no longer dark brown. They were white, and he was smiling no more.

"And why should I give away my precious little toys?" a chilling voice rang in Bal's head, said by the man without a single lip movement.

"I don't know, because deep inside you are a good guy, who was treated badly by his abusive mother?" said Bal, reaching for another grape.

"Bow to my feet. And then, drown yourself in the river," the voice echoed. Bal's hand stopped right above the grapes. He sat without moving a muscle, staring at the pale face of the wielder. Then he cleared his throat and resumed picking grapes. The calajad's face creased in anger.

"You didn't expect me to come here without a few keepers? I know you're an Augmentor, but this stuff won't work, I have three talismans and a dozen protective tattoos," Bal said, raising an eyebrow. The pale wielder bared his teeth.

"You do. But they don't," the wielder retorted.

Bal frowned. He noticed it became quiet in the pub, unusually so for this time of day. He glanced over the wielder's shoulder, and saw every peasant, farmer, soldier, and barmaid looking at him, holding whatever they could grab as a weapon. He shifted his gaze to Brienne, who tightened her grip around the axe's handle. Bal looked back at the augmentor.

"Listen, we don't have to involve them. What if we take it outside? I mean, it's a good pub."

The pale wielder huffed, "Too bad."

Everybody in the pub rushed to attack Bal as if by the sound of a magic horn. The Augmentor disappeared into the mad crowd. Bal jumped from his seat, kicked some rage-driven farmer in the gut, and turned the table to the side.

He heard loud noises of cracking wood as he saw Brienne throwing people left and right. A cute barmaid appeared in Bal's way, holding a sharp fork for pulling pork. Bal shook his head, ducking, stood up, and grabbed the fork out of the girl's hands. He climbed onto the table, jumped to reach a wooden log on the ceiling, and after a clumsy swing landed in the middle of the room. Pushing away enchanted villagers and bending to avoid the swords, Bal looked around for the calajad. The crowd was too thick and he couldn't see anything.

"Leg!" roared Brienne.

Bal gave her a confused look, worried she had been wounded, but a heavy wooden prosthetic leg arrived right at his right jaw. Holding his aching face, he turned around and saw the barkeeper wielding his wooden leg as a club. Bal took a step back preparing to dodge the inevitable attack, but then saw a familiar dark gown behind the barkeeper, standing near the window and ready to escape. He grabbed the chair, and as the barkeeper struck again, caught his arm in the chair's legs, twisted it, and the barkeeper, unable to balance on one leg, fell on the floor.

Bal grabbed the wooden leg and threw it at the gowned figure. The leg hit the man in the chest, and for a second the fighting stopped. That was more than enough for Bal to reach the wielder. In two giant steps, Bal appeared, looking right at the Augmentor's pale face. The man raised his hand, but Bal picked him in the air and threw him out of the window.

The man landed in the dirty alley. Bal followed him, jumping out into the street. He stepped on the man's palm and twisted his foot.

"Enough," said Bal, breathing heavily. "Shut up and I'll drag you to the guards alive, deal?"

The man didn't respond. He was mumbling something under his nose, spitting blood from broken teeth.

"What?"

"Djar kut malib. Djar gib ahat," the man whispered.

"No, no, come on, don't do that," Bal shook his head. "The deathwish curse will make you dead, and you cost more alive."

The calajad's whisper turned into a burst of laughter. Bal shook his head.

"What a waste. I mean, yes, you curse me with your life, but that's why I always carry a little something from my pal alchemist," Bal reached for a tiny glass bottle on his waist and raised it to drink the potion. "Huza."

He turned the bottle to pour the potion into his mouth, but nothing reached his tongue. Bal's eyes crossed, focusing on the bottle. The bottom was cracked and all the liquid leaked out, leaving a stain on Bal's grey pants. The pale wielder on the ground began laughing harder and as his laughter grew into a gargling cough, he let out his last breath.

"Never pick a fight in a pub," concluded Bal, feeling his legs become weaker. A moment - and collapsed on one knee, unable to stand straight.

"Bal? Bal!" a familiar deep voice came from behind. "Oh good, you got him."

Brienne walked out of the pub, adjusting her armor and carrying their bags. She saw Bal kneeling and rushed to his help, throwing the bags on the ground.

"What happened?"

"Deathwish curse," said Bal, feeling his mouth turning into a desert. He tried to stand but lost balance and almost fell. Brienne caught him, picked him up, and wrapped his arm around her neck.

"And the potion?"

Bal nodded at the empty broken potion bottle on the ground.

"This is bad, what do we do?"

"Let's go to the alchemist," said Bal, trying hard to remain conscious. "He'll figure something out."