“What in nine hells was that!?” Svorbald roared as he smacked away the little man’s hand. He’d awoken groggy to find himself upside down in a ditch. Evening had snuck up on them. The world wore black, broken only by the torches that lined Fairmount village’s palisade.

“I’m not a fighter,” the stranger protested. “If I was I wouldn’t need you.”

“You could have said something before I charged,” Svorbald grumbled. He pulled himself from the ditch, kicking wet mud from his boots. They squelched when he walked and he took them off, emptying black sludge onto the ground.

“I would have if you’d given me the chance. Besides, I thought it would be obvious.”

“It wasn’t,” Svorbald tongued a loose tooth in his mouth. “Well? Go on then, how do we get in?”

“I tried to tell you before you charged — I have already paid off the night guard. We’re expected.”

“Paid with what?”

“Ale. Spices.”

“You had ale and you didn’t tell me?”

“Not anymore. Come, they’re expecting us.”

Svorbald followed behind, grumbling as he went. His boots still squelched, his tooth wobbled, and his head felt like a blacksmith was using it to practice his hammering skills.

They paused before the gate. A tall, friendly-faced man met them. “Genus!” The guard said. “We were beginning to think you’d never show.”

Genus! That was his companion’s name. Svorbald looked at the smaller man. Didn’t look like a Genus. No wonder Svorbald had such trouble remembering his name.

“We had a little difficulty,” Genus said.

The tall guard turned to Svorbald, eyeing him up and down. “I’ll say. There’s a watering station you can wash in just behind the wall here. It’s mostly used for the livestock, but if you keep to the shadows a man of your size could probably be mistaken for cattle.”

Svorbald swore and, as they passed, the man chuckled and made a comment about Svorbald having the same smell as the livestock too. Svorbald didn’t hear how that joke ended. His fist struck the man’s helmeted head, knocking the guard to the floor.

“Pasht’s balls that hurt!” Svorbald yelled, examining his knuckles.

“For Tenatun’s sake!” Genus shouted. Already other guards were appearing from the guard house. Genus stuck out his arms, palms up. “What’s this going to cost?”

“Double,” the first guard grunted.

“Fine!” Genus huffed. “I’ll have it with you tomorrow. Can we go?”

“Aye, you can go.” The guard glared at Svorbald. “Just keep him out of trouble.”

“Easier said than done.” As they passed through the gate Genus swung on Svorbald “Control your damn self! Your temper will see me impoverished.”

“I thought you brought me here to punch people.”

“I brought you to punch certain people! Not every damn person we see.”

“It’s dark,” Svorbald replied.

“What?”

“it’s already dark. Are we stealing this donkey tonight or no?”

“We’re not stealing the donkey. The donkey is already stolen. We are retrieving it. And I first need to find where it is kept.”

“Why is this beast so important to you?”

“You have no idea how the world works, do you Svorbald? You see any mules on the way here? Any horses? No? Exactly. Once maybe the world was full of them. Not anymore. An ass like that is worth its weight in salt. Now, I must figure out where it is kept.”

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Svorbald shrugged. “If you say so.”

“Where are you going?” Genus asked as Svorbald pushed past him.

“Far as I remember you brought me to do the punching. I’ll leave the finding and the thinking up to you. Let me know when you find your ass. I’ll be in there.” He pointed to the biggest, brightest, noisiest building in town. A building he assumed was the tavern.

*********

Svorbald was eight - nine? Six. Definitely six. Maybe seven, ales deep when Genus appeared at his table. Svorbald blinked and rubbed at his face with dirty hands. “Where’d you come from?”

“We have to go!” Genus shouted.

“Eh?”

“Go. Now!”

“But your beast?”

“I have it! Come. Quickly.”

“Alright. But I still get paid,” mumbled Svorbald, staggering to his feet.

“Yes, yes, fine! Just let’s go.”

Outside the air was chilled and carried the faint smell of waste. Human and animal. Sure enough, there in the shadows, an odd shaped animal was pawing at the ground. “That your beast?”

“No, it’s another ass! Of course it’s mine. Come.”

“Genus!” The shout came from behind them. Svorbald twisted, staggered a bit, then completed his turn with a little help from a nearby wall. A tall, well-built man came towards them. Svorbald knew him. Li’an Coxswain. Impressive looking bastard, Svorbald had to admit. Coxswain pushed passed Svorbald, who was still struggling to successfully right himself, and grabbed Genus by the shirt. Svorbald shouted something, and swung a punch. Li’an Coxswain flung Genus to the ground, in the same move he arched away from Svorbald’s swing and cannoned a fist against his head.

Svorbald staggered and fell. His assailant chuckled. “This is who you brought with you?” Svorbald could hear the sneer. With a great deal of effort, he pushed himself to his feet. He knew of Li’an. The man was a champion fist-fighter. It was said he’d never lost. Powerful and lithe, he looked as deadly as his reputation suggested. Unrivalled and unbeaten. All who had faced him had lost. With sword or first he had killed men. In all ways Li’an Coxswain was a warrior without peer.

But Svorbald was drunk.

Really, really drunk.

And angry. So angry that he didn’t see the smile creep onto the lips of Genus, and so was robbed of the chance to interpret just what that smile might mean. If he had known, he might have acted differently. If the consequences of his actions and where they would lead him had been explained to him he may have turned and walked away. Though probably not. Svorbald had never walked away in his life. From a fight, anyway. He’d walked away from many other things. Work. Responsibility. Family.

But this was none of those. Svorbald raged and roared and charged. Li’an took a step back, but it wasn’t quick enough. Svorbald’s fist connected with his midriff, smashing the air from his lungs. Another punch from Svorbald caught Li’an below the eye and the warrior doubled over, stumbling backwards.

“Come on then you bastard!” Svorbald yelled.

It was a mistake.

Li’an took that moment to smash him in the face. Svorbald took the hit and threw one back. Then another, and another after that. Li’an threw punches of his own. Though for the life of Svorbald he couldn’t register them. He’d feel them later, that was for sure. But for now he punched and swung and growled and head-butted — that last wasn’t particularly wise, for Li’an spun, causing Svorbald’s nose to connect with his shoulder. Blood erupted from his face but still Svorbald fought. From behind someone shouted and charged in. Svorbald beat against them too. Hands grabbed at him, fists swung at him. Svrobald met them all with anger and knuckles.

When his wild punches met nothing but air, Svorbald finally stopped. He swung in a circle, fists still raised. But there was nobody left to fight. Three men lay on the floor. Three? Where had the other two come from? One groaned. Another lay on his back, eyes glazed. Li’an looked worst of all, face a bloody and bruised mess. Wasn’t so handsome now!

Footsteps behind Svorbald and he turned — and swung! Genus dodged it surprisingly swiftly, leaping back and throwing up the palms of his hands. “Whoa, it’s just me,” the small man exclaimed. Then added, “looks like Li’an and his brothers won’t be troubling us again anytime soon.”

“Brothers?” Svorbald asked. His face was beginning to hurt now. His jaw clicked when he stretched it. His nose dripped blood onto his lips.

“Fi’lan and Di’mar,” Genus replied, pointing to the other two unconscious men.

“Oh.” Svorbald shrugged. “Let’s get out of here. Bring ale this time.”

They left the small settlement in the fading night, Genus escorting the donkey carefully. As light began to reclaim its place on the world, Svrobald was surprised to see the donkey was grey. An immensely dull looking creature. They walked on and on, until they could walk no more. Then they slept, and the next morning repeated the walking all over again. Svorbald’s head was pounding now, hammering and pulsing like a blacksmith drumming out a rhythm with hot iron.

“This is as far as we go,” Genus said as they reached a crossroads. “I’ll return to my home. You will want to go that way to Vermasse.”

Svorbald followed Genus’ finger and then turned back to him. “Tell me again how this torc works first.”

“It doesn’t work,” Genus replied. “When you get to Vermasse find a merchant named Sheven. He will give you a small mountain of coins in exchange for the torc. You can exchange those coins for as much food and ale as you’ll need for a year.”

“Sheven,” Svorbald replied, rolling the name around his mouth.

“Here are some supplies I picked up in Fairmount.” Genus thrust a bedroll at Svorbald. “I wrapped dried meat and oak cakes inside so be careful when you unravel it.”

“And the ale?” Svorbald asked, eyes narrowed.

“You drank it all.”

“What! Damnit man, I said to buy two jugs!”

“I did. You drank both last night!”

Svorbald frowned. That would explain why his head hurt.

“Goodbye, Svorbald. Thank you once more for your assistance.”

Svorbald grunted and watched the little man and his dull beast go. Then turned to face the direction of Vermasse. With a grumble, he set off. His head really did hurt. So did the rest of him too. If he found a lake he’d take some time to soak himself.

Tenatun, but he he really wished he had some ale.