Chapter ONE – A Jackass and his donkey.

 

            Graxsur let out a loud, long sigh of relief as he let loose a strong, steady stream of urine into the cool night air. A thick, pungent steam arose from the bramble weed bushes he was presently assaulting. He chuckled to himself, proud of the stench and strength of the stream. He could not believe how badly he had needed to pee. Perhaps that last mug of ale at the Prancing Pony pub before this evening’s patrol was one of many, too many. Graxsur had once again pulled advance scout duties for tonight’s patrol of the King’s guard. He often pulled this duty. It was said to be due to blind chance, but was mainly due to the fact that he had an abrasive demeanour and a foul odour, and his fellow guardsmen could not stand to be around him for any length of time.

            Graxsur thought he heard a slight rustling in the darkness of the woods over the splashing of his much-needed relief.

            “Eh, who’s ‘at there?” he barked, “come on now, show yourself. Git on out here! This ain’t no peep show for sneaky degenerates. You wanna good look, come on out, I’ll get you somethin’ to look at!” He shifted his hands from one weapon to another as he quickly tried to unsheathe his sword, letting his pants drop down to his ankles when, all of a sudden, a dark black form emerged from the seclusion of the woods. Graxsur caught a subtle glint of moonlight reflecting on a thin black blade. He fell flat to the ground, sputtering blood from his mouth, as he now saw the evening’s moonlight glistening off a small red pool forming on the hard-pack dirt in front of his face. A wave of nausea ran through him as the panic of his approaching inevitable end sank into his ale-laden mind. The last thing he saw was a pair of dark black boots disappearing back into the shadow of the woods.

                                                                *            *            *

             Spring’s revitalizing rains had finally spent their last drop, with its warm, sweet winds having blown through, making distant memories of winters all too long and icy grasp. Now, the intense summer sun’s warm and welcoming embrace shone mighty rays over a most grateful kingdom. Its restorative rays spread a warm glow over the broad forest lands that covered most of O’Dharan’s vast countryside. The great Western realm of O’Dharan sat nestled among a dense, ancient forest. Its leafy canopy sprawled over hard-packed ground, with gently rolling forestlands teeming with all manner of wildlife, both docile and dangerous. The forest comprised mainly of ancient, colossal oak trees and a dense, unyielding underbrush.  The undisturbed trees, having grown high into the overhanging sky, offered protection to the many inhabitants lurking below their watchful gaze. Their great size was a result of the many centuries of growth allowed to them by the inhabitants of O’Dharan, who wisely left the mighty trees to their eternal vigilance. The O’Dharans were a modest and intelligent people, both hard-working and stoic in their own right. They held deeply to an honoured respect for the ancient trees and, for the most part, allowed the great oaks to grow undisturbed as their kingdom expanded.  Felling only the smaller trees they needed for themselves and planting seedlings in their place to maintain the delicate balance of nature. The forest provided both for them and the wildlife within; thus, it was taken care of in return.

            Most of the animals indigenous to the forest were now bustling with vibrant pent-up energy resulting from their long winter’s rest and an overly rain-soaked spring.  After cleaning dew-covered feathers, various wondrous birds raised shrill voices in a chorus that carried upon the stiff summer breeze. All while numerous small critters searched the underbrush for tasty bites to eat or looked for a shady haven to rest out the day in peace.

            Morning was beginning to take hold of the numerous small villages, farms, and hamlets that cropped up across the face of this great forest land. The sun’s rays were gently caressing one such city, Reglevick, the vast capital stronghold of O’Dharan, warming the homes and waking its slumbering citizens.  Soon, they would also rise to face another day in the sweltering heat that poured over O’Dharan in the summer’s long daylight hours.

            The city’s shopkeepers, who had been awake and tediously working since long before sunrise, opened their doors and swept off their stoops in anticipation of the day’s budding business. The scents of freshly baked loaves of bread, sourdoughs, and other tasty delicacies produced by the skilled hands of the city’s many fine bakeries cascaded through the empty streets, carrying temptation within the warm morning air to waiting nostrils.

            In the centre of the city, past the numerous citizens’ housing and the plentiful merchant shops, loomed the resplendent Palace of O’Dharan. The city of Reglevick had been built up around a mighty palace that had proudly stood at its centre for centuries, even before the great city had grown up around it like a thick belt. At one point in time, long before the city had sprung up, the glorious palace had been the most significant military fortress on the O’Dharan peninsula.  Its vast perimeter walls towered well above the new city’s shops and meagre dwellings, making the palace an exceptionally imposing spectacle for first-time visitors to the capital. As impressive as it had been during its days as a military outpost, the palace was even more so now after its transformation from a military fortress into the Royal family’s luxurious home.  The old and rough, but defensible exterior walls of the fortress were now covered with slabs of brilliantly polished alabaster-white marble. They gleamed in an almost ethereal manner, dazzling the eyes with wondrous displays of ever-changing colour.  Its newly erected, glimmering towers loomed far above the city’s rooftops, reaching like giant fingers high into the brilliant, crystal-blue skyline.  Countless, beautifully crafted stained-glass windows adorned the palace’s many walls, adding more splendour and colour to the impressive Royal home. The lower levels of the structure had been converted into several meticulously tended grand garden balconies.  Both the towers and the gardens provided a splendid view of the kingdom’s sprawling crown city for the pleasure of the palace’s occupants and their guests.

            The sentry guards in front of the palace gates were changing, as they did every morning, and the flag of O’Dharan was raised to flap proudly in the stiff western breeze.  Hidden from the street, behind the sturdy walls and battlements, palace life began to stir.  Courtiers were busy preparing for the upcoming day’s events.  Making sure the King’s itinerary was in order and everything would be prepared for the visitors that came to discuss state affairs and the various litany of grievances that generally took up, in his opinion, far too much of his Majesty’s valuable time. Soldiers were turning out of the garrison houses to prepare for their varied duties, and the sound of commanders barking orders to new recruits resounded loud enough to be heard far into the city streets, bounding over the palace’s high perimeter walls.

            Life, as it wanted to do, was running in a typically smooth fashion throughout the city. Everywhere that was, except at Vole’s Inn, where, as it seemed to the owner, nothing ever ran smoothly.  Apparently, overnight, a donkey belonging to a Dar’genian trader staying at the inn had been released from its confines within the inn’s stable.  That very fact, invariably, of course, caused an overwhelming amount of distress to the donkey’s rightful owner.

            “Damn you, Vole!” The angry, red-faced trader scolded the ever-increasingly impatient innkeeper.  “I told you when the boy took my donkey that there would be trouble, didn’t I?  Don’t let him take my donkey, that’s what I said.  No, you said.  He’d be no trouble, you said. He’d see my donkey safely to the stables, you said!” With each ‘said,’ the man’s pudgy finger poked Mr. Vole in the right shoulder. “Well, as you can see, he didn’t, did he? So, what are you going to do about it, hmmm?  That’s what I’d like to know, hmmm?”  This particular Dar’genian was a rotund little man with a severe perspiration problem.  He wore a simple brown tunic, grey hose, and a thick brown traveller’s cloak, most certainly unneeded and ridiculous to don in the warm climate of an O’Dharan summer.  His flushed face was reddening with each passing moment as his anger over the loss of his donkey heightened. His flabby nostrils flared out, wider and wider, with each angry breath he took, looking much like Mr. Vole pictured, in his mind, how the poor man’s donkey would appear as it carried his great bulk from town to town. As he talked to the innkeeper, the trader glared at a sturdy lad of seventeen celebrations in age standing beside the stable’s doors. While waving another of his pudgy fingers, not on his poking hand, in the youth’s general direction, the trader tapped his foot impatiently on the hard earth, awaiting the innkeeper’s solution to the problem at hand.

            Mr. Vole stood proudly, shrouded in the brilliant rays of the morning sun, looking very distinguished, as he typically did, despite being a man who was considered by society as a whole to be somewhat past his prime. Nearing what was rumoured to be his mid-sixtieth celebration, he still commanded an extreme amount of respect or occasionally awe from those he encountered.  Even those much younger and physically superior gave him this regard.  A vast wealth of wisdom could be seen in his weathered but well-chiselled face and in his bright, alert, azure/grey eyes.  His smoky grey hair hung neatly trimmed from his head, and a short grey beard adorned his face.  He was obviously a man of the world and accustomed to very courteous and polite conversation, not the agitated rantings of this Dar’genian trader.  Mr. Vole had not slept well in the summer night’s warm air, so he was tired, and his back ached. As such, he did not appreciate this trader’s condescending, surly attitude so early in the morning, nor the incessant finger poking. It was evident that this innkeeper would not put up with any excessive amount of ill-treatment lightly, especially this early in the day; hence, Mr. Vole rose to his full height and glared back with his steely eyes at the angry trader, who faltered slightly for a moment and took a cautious step back.

            “Well, what are you going to do about it?” the trader questioned again, this time in a slightly softer, more civilized tone.

            Mr. Vole looked over at the boy who had caused this problem by releasing the man’s donkey in the first place.  The young lad was noticeably uncomfortable, kicking slightly at the dirt by his feet while being held in the older man’s gaze.  Mr. Vole frowned slightly and returned his attention to the trader who still stood foot tapping and nostrils flaring.

            “I shall gladly compensate you for your donkey, good Sir, and be pleased to send you on your travels with a complimentary breakfast.  Will that suffice to satisfy the inconvenience of your having to find a new ride?”  He ended his offer in a tone that implied there would be no alternative offer and that this one should be accepted or nothing at all.

            “I suppose that will do,” scoffed the trader. “Good thing for you that I’m in a reasonable mood, or you’d have the stars to pay.  Now, if you will excuse me, I’ll go to take my free meal and inquire at the bar as to where one might purchase a good donkey or maybe even a horse. I assume someone there will have such knowledge of these things?” Without waiting for a response, the round little Dar’genian grabbed the coins for his new mount from Mr. Vole’s hand, turned, and waddled his way back toward the inn’s bar to receive his ‘complimentary’ breakfast.     As the man disappeared around the corner, Mr. Vole turned his attention to his youngest grandson.

            “Jerith, perhaps you would like to explain exactly what happened to our pudgy little friend’s donkey, or perchance, how you are going to replace the coins I spent on the man’s replacement?”  Mr. Vole spoke harshly but not threateningly to the squirming young man.  “Well, Jerith?  Speak up, boy!”

            Jerith stood quietly, trying to think of how he could adequately speak in his defence.  He was neither very tall nor stout for his age, but his muscles were well-developed from his many hours of work at the inn, and his general features were well-proportioned to his height.  He had a handsome, if somewhat unique, face with kind hazel eyes framed under a mop of thick black hair, a stark contrast to his overly pale skin. He was dressed in old, faded brown leather pants and a soft green tunic that fit a few sizes too large.  For the most part, he was a very easygoing and straightforward young man, but he had an independent nature and a questioning mindset.  These later qualities often seemed to get him into a great deal of trouble. He was generally happy to have a home at the inn with his grandfather, as it was the only home he remembered, but many a night he spent looking out his window at the stars, wondering what his parents had been like.  Torin, his older brother by a few years, had told him stories of a magical place where they had all once lived, a place Torin himself barely remembered. Torin was never very clear with the details he gave, as he had been only four or five years of age when the boy’s parents had been taken from them, and his memories of those days were spotty at best. Those tended to be long nights for the Jerith when his thoughts were on his parents, and the day following would see him in a more sombre, sullen mood. These down days were infrequent, and on most others, he found the world to be a happy and fascinating place. The inn’s guests were an ideal source of distraction with fantastical tales about the broader world he had yet to experience.  Jerith naturally seemed to love and respect people and animals and strove to make everyone he met happy and safe. Most significantly, animals and how they were treated held a fond and prominent spot in his heart, which is why they found themselves in their current predicament.

            While still kicking at the dirt with his left foot, he brushed his thick black hair from his eyes and cleared his throat to speak his defence.

            “I didn’t like how that man treated her grandfather, Sir.  You see, he had her so overloaded with… and with that lame leg bothering… then the whip marks on her hind… well, she wouldn’t have lasted much longer, especially as underfed as she was… Sir.”  The young man obviously had some deep-felt convictions about the ill-treatment of this poor animal and felt his actions were more than justified.

            Mr Vole looked at his grandson with knowing eyes. He was equally angry and proud of him. “Oh, stop with all this ‘Sir’ nonsense, and stop looking at me like that. ‘Sad eyes’ have not worked on me for a long time now. I am trying to run a business here, and that donkey simply did not belong to us.  You cannot just up and let someone else’s property go free, especially if they are staying at our inn, regardless of what we might think of them. It is just not done.  You have to learn to have more respect for others’ belongings.  It was his donkey, even if he was inhumane to it.  It is not our place to interfere, do you understand?”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “No more ‘Sirs’!  I have not been a Sir anything for years.”  He sighed softly while glancing up at the sky, letting the warm sun caress his face, and took a breath of the fresh morning air before returning his attention to Jerith.  “Now, where is that brother of yours?  What sort of trouble is he getting himself into this morning?” He asked, half afraid and not really wanting to know the answer.

            “I think he’s inside helping clean the rooms.  What makes you think he’s doing something that would get him into trouble?”

            “Because, in the past fifteen or so years since your mother and father passed, there has not been a day gone by that the two of you did not do something to get yourselves into trouble with someone, somehow, in some way.  Since you got off to such an early start today, I figured your brother might do the same.” He shook his head in mock disgust and gave his youngest grandson a wry little smile, “Anyway, put this behind us and let us go inside and see if we can maybe make back some of the profits that you just lost, shall we?”

            “You’re not really angry with me, are you, grandfather?” Jerith asked, searching for some sign that what he did was not really wrong.

            “Humph, I suppose not.  It is my own fault for raising you with such a kind heart for animals. I guess my superb child-rearing skills make me partially to blame for that. Plus, that man was more of a jackass than his donkey was. I had it in mind myself to do something for the poor animal.” He laughed, put his arm reassuringly over the youth’s shoulder, guiding him out of the dusty alley that led down the side of the inn toward the stables.  They rounded the corner into a busy street and sped over to the inn’s main entrance.  Above the door hung a sign that read ‘Vole’s Inn: All welcome,’ swinging gently on creaking hinges in the sturdy breeze.  Pictured under the script was a representation of a bed and a loaf of bread for the convenience of those in the general populace who could not read. Vole’s Inn was a respectable, if unspectacular, business located a stone’s throw from the city’s busy market sector.  You could almost, on a clear day and, if you were tall enough, catch glimpses of the peaks of the Royal Palace’s tall turrets from the top-floor windows of the inn. The inn’s ground floor was a popular watering hole for the less affluent citizens of the city or for road-weary travellers who preferred to keep well off the beaten path. At the heart of the tavern was a large, warm fire that often spent time roasting some sort of animal or stew for the inn’s patrons.

            Just as they were about to reach the door and enter the inn, a very large man flew out of the doorway and collapsed, ungracefully, in a heap in the middle of the busy street, narrowly avoiding a large pile of donkey droppings.  Following him out the door was an even larger man who had to bend slightly to avoid banging his head on the frame. This giant of a man wore a sleeveless dark red tunic, revealing his massive forearms. Dark brown leather pants seemed under heavy strain as they barely completed the task of holding in the thick muscles of his legs.  His blond hair was tied in a tight lock behind his head. He wore a short, neatly trimmed beard dusted ever so slightly with a tinge of grey.  The big man was wringing his hands together and sternly chastising the inanimate fellow lying face down in a shallow puddle.

            “I told you once, fella, that we wouldn’t stand for that sort of behaviour around these parts.  You should have listened to me the first time. As a rule, I don’t usually give warnings. So don’t let me catch you in here again, or you’ll end up worse than lying in the middle of the street. You’ll be lying six feet under!”  The big man’s deep, serious voice, coupled with his immense size, established an unequivocal warning for the vagrant to never come near this particular inn again. With his job done, the huge man strode back inside the tavern, leaving the other poor sod groaning in the street as people casually walked by or over him.

            Mr. Vole sighed, “Can Bivitar not go through one day without throwing someone out of the inn?” he asked of no one in particular, rolling his eyes to the sky above. “We are going to run out of patrons at this rate.” He and Jerith entered the inn’s main floor, where the tavern and tables for the guests to eat at were located, pausing momentarily as they entered the dimly lit, smoke-filled main room. Mr. Vole looked critically at his simple place. As his vision adjusted to the change in light from the bright morning sun to that of the poorly lit tavern, he could make out the long bar directly to his left and the stairs at the far end of the bar that led up to the guest rooms on the second and third floors.  He peered over to his right to where a large fire pit was roasting this morning’s pork and vegetable broth breakfast. Flames flickered up the sides of the enormous, black cauldron, like ancient, powerful fingers, casting dancing shadows on the room’s walls.  He shifted his examination to the tables, which were a complete disgrace and barely clean enough to eat off of. Not that his customers ever really noticed most of them being littered with spilled ale and greasy scraps of food, an abundance of which also ended up on the floor.  He inspected his various patrons just as critically.  Most were nearly blind from drink, even as early in the morning as it was. In comparison, his now one happy customer was tucked away in a corner partaking of his ‘free’ breakfast.  With another sigh, Mr. Vole walked across the room to stand beside his brawny bouncer.

            “Bivitar, why was I just nearly knocked over by a flying customer?” he asked the big man.

            “Sorry, Sir. Like you always said, this is a respectable place. We don’t want riffraff dilly-dallying around.  That lad was getting a little too fresh with some of the ladies here.” He pointed to two blushing young maidens standing and giggling at the foot of the stairs.  “So, as you said, I asked that fellow to leave, that’s all. Sir.”

            “What is it with all the Sirs today?” Mr. Vole muttered under his breath. “And have you ever tried actually asking people to leave rather than tossing them out?  We are going to get a reputation.”

            “Well. I did ‘ask’ him, and he spat in my face, so I asked him this way instead.”

            “That temper of yours… Bivitar, did it possibly occur to you that the way in which you ask our customers to leave may not be very conducive to repeat business?  If you keep up at this rate, you will have thrown everyone in the city out of my door at one time or another.  Soon, visitors to the city will be afraid to stay here and then what would we do?”

            “Sorry, Sir,” he said, eliciting another wince from his employer. “I was just trying to do what I thought best.”

            “I know, as you always do.  That is what makes you so interesting to have around. I suppose.  Oh, and while we are at it, please try to stop with all of this ‘Sir’ nonsense.  I have heard that word all too frequently today; you are all making me feel very old.”  Mr. Vole looked into his ever-shrinking coin pouch. Also, very poor, he thought to himself, “Between you and Jerith, I am amazed that I can afford to keep the doors open. I think it is high time to do something about that. Do you not agree?” he said, jingling the nearly empty coin pouch that he always kept hanging at his side. “How do you feel today, Bivitar? Strong, I hope. Could you rustle up a little extra coin out of this… crowd?”  Mr. Vole eyed Bivitar’s overly large arm and tossed him what remained of his pouch of coins.

            Bivitar scanned the group of surly ruffians lounging around the various booths and tables and turned back to answer his long-time employer’s question, sporting a sly grin, “I believe that I do feel good today. Very good. If there be any fools here today, they’ll leave with fewer gold and silver coins than they had planned.” His broad grin flashed even wider across the big man’s face.  Bivitar turned and addressed the inn’s patrons in a loud, clear voice: “Listen up,” he boomed, as every head turned his way. “I’ve got fifty gold coins in this here pouch that says I can beat any man here in a contest of strength. If anyone thinks he’s brave enough to, or if you just don’t want your coins weighing you down on your daily journey, speak up now, or you’ll miss your chance!”

            The room was quiet momentarily; most of the men were painfully aware of Bivitar’s strength. Then, a small, pompous-looking Tolvirany Baron with beady little eyes and a nose that resembled an owl’s beak, sitting in one of the back booths, stood up and answered Bivitar’s challenge.

            “I would like to put my porter against your arm, my friend.  He doesn’t have any wealth of his own, but I’ll back his bets.”

            The Tolvirany were, as a whole, generally not reputed for their great size and were infamous for their lack of physical exertion and their love of the finer things in life. As such, the other men in the tavern began to wager heavily on Bivitar’s winning of this contest.  That is, until the Baron’s porter emerged from the shadows of the booth from which he was hidden.

            “My mother’s as...” Bivitar was at a loss for words.

            “... that’s the biggest damned Tolviran I’ve ever seen!” finished one of the men standing beside Bivitar as he switched his bet to ride on the enormous new porter. Consequently, all the other men also switched their bets to back the very, very large Tolviran.

            Bivitar blinked twice to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing, “I didn’t think Tolvirad grew them that big,” he remarked in utter amazement. 

            One of the inn’s regulars called out smugly, “Who’s going to cover all these bets, Bivitar? Have you got the loot or not?” he was eager to see the big man get his comeuppance for a change.

            Mr. Vole spoke up, addressing the crowd in an overly confident manner: “I will cover my man,” he said, feigning confidence, “He can best any man… or woman, for that matter,” he added, darting a sideways glance at a hulking woman who regularly frequented the inn and had tested her strength against Bivitar’s arm on more than one occasion. “It takes more than sheer size to win. You need to have the heart to win as well.”

            Jerith sidled up beside his grandfather, eyeing up the porter, “From the looks of that monster grandfather, I’d say he’s got a pretty big heart,” Jerith interjected quietly.

            “Hush, boy!  You can beat him, right, Bivitar?” Mr. Vole quietly questioned his old friend, his voice considerably less assured than when speaking to the crowd.

            “I’ve never lost a contest in my life,” Bivitar stated proudly.

            Jerith raised a hand, “Well, remember… There was that one time...”

            “I did not lose that one!”  Bivitar snapped quickly.

            Mr. Vole added, “Only because you had arranged for one of the maidens in the crowd to lift the hem of her dress to distract your opponent if things were not going well.”

            “I still won… and that’s what counts, lad,” Bivitar protested, his pride somewhat injured.

            The crowd grew restless, “Let’s get on with it!” Barked a man eager to collect the winnings he felt most assured of.

            Bivitar sat down opposite the hulking Tolviran. The two giant men loudly clasped hands, set their elbows on the table, and stared with immense concentration into one another’s eyes.  Mr. Vole counted up to three and then signalled for them to begin. Bivitar’s arm appeared to almost double in size as his muscles tensed under the strain of his opponent’s equally impressive arm. Veins carrying heavy loads of adrenaline pulsed on Bivitar’s forearm, and his breath came and went in quick, short gasps. Beads of sweat gathered on his forehead and trickled down his face to his thick neck. His arm began to falter under the strain and inch slowly down toward the table’s greasy surface. His opponent was equally affected by the strain of the contest, but he had a new look of reassurance when Bivitar’s arm began to fall. The crowd of cheering wagers intensified their encouragement of the large Tolviran.

            Jerith saw his friend losing hope, “You can’t lose Bivitar!” Jerith said, his plea coated with anxiety, to the weakening man. Bivitar grunted abruptly as if to say he was doing his best, but it may not be good enough. He finally met a man he could not outmuscle, and his arm sank another inch. The crowd cheered as Bivitar’s arm was nearly all the way down.

            Mr. Vole quickly knelt beside Bivitar and quietly whispered into his ear, “Bivitar, do you remember that magnificent young creature, the one with the long golden hair and heaving chest that you took such an interest in last week?” Mr. Vole had to think and speak fast, “Did you ever figure out why she refused to come near you when you tried to talk to her? Well, you see, I may have told her that you were suffering from a serious mental ailment and that we had to keep you chained up at night for our and your safety.  She seemed to be not very interested after hearing that… I suppose.”

            “What! You old dog! I’ll crush your skull for that!” Bivitar’s traditional quick-to-anger response reached down deep within him, retrieving a strength he did not know existed.  His sudden burst of energy caught the Tolviran by surprise, and there was little he could do to compensate quickly enough before Bivitar slammed his fist down to the opposite side of the sturdy oak tabletop.

            Bivitar rose quickly and turned toward Mr. Vole, a glint of deadly venom in his eyes. “Now it’s your turn!” he said, between clenched teeth, as Mr. Vole took a cautious step back.

            Jerith saw the danger unfolding, “You did it, Bivitar, you won!” he yelled, stepping between the large, angry man and his grandfather. He clasped the big fellow on the forearm to get his attention as he raised it triumphantly in the air, “You’re the winner!”

            “I did. Didn’t I?  I am. Aren’t I!” he said excitedly as his come-from-behind victory now dawned on him, “I got just a little worried there for a while, only a little, mind you, lad. As I said, I’ve never lost a contest in my life.” Bivitar completely forgot his anger toward Mr. Vole when he realized that the older man had helped him win the contest and retain his unbeaten record, which had seemed in serious jeopardy.

            All the men who had bet on the Tolvirany porter reluctantly handed over their gold or silver coins to Mr. Vole. At the same time, they eyed the big Tolvirany’s employer with stern, irritated, and altogether wickedly mischievous scowls. All save the large woman, who, from past experience, knew better than to bet against Bivitar, who smiled as she collected her share of the winnings.

            Mr. Vole quietly walked over to whisper in the Baron’s ear, “I would consider leaving soon if I were you, good friend. These lads here… well, they do not like to lose their hard-earned assets. It means they cannot afford to keep up their ale intake. Without the ale to numb the senses, they quickly realize the current state of affairs that their lives are in, and that does not go over very well… if you know what I mean. Perhaps if you know what is good for you and what little is left in your purse, you should leave before they try to recoup some of their lost funds.”  The Baron swallowed hard and nodded in agreement.  His face blanched slightly as a small bead of perspiration trickled down his forehead and dripped off the end of his owlish nose.  He motioned quickly to his porter and walked hastily out of the inn.  A few of the more ambitious losers waited an altogether too brief moment and followed them out into the morning light with maniacal grins on their faces.

            Bivitar shrugged, “Wouldn’t want to be that man, not for all the gold in the King’s treasury,” he stated sympathetically.

            “Ahem!” A voice from behind the bar interrupted the three men’s victory celebration, “If you small boys are done playing your little games, you could actually do some work around here and clean off those filthy tables. This place isn’t much, but at least we can keep it clean!”  The voice belonged to Rheal, the inn’s cook, bartender, and all-around manager. She was a strikingly attractive woman by all accounts. The ravishing barkeep appeared to be in her late twenties or possibly rumoured to be in her early thirtieth or so of celebrations, although she would never confirm that rumour. She was arguably one of the most beautiful women in the city and, in large part, one of the reasons why Vole’s Inn had a hearty supply of men lounging around the bar regularly and at all hours of the day. She wore her flaxen hair tied back in a loose, curly tail that cascaded to the small of her back with twisting bangs gently spiralling down and framing her high cheekbones. She often mesmerized her patrons with her crystal blue eyes. Eyes that pierced the soul and softened the resolve of even the most hardened of souls. Her somewhat tight white blouse was tied strategically at the front, just below her ribs, exposing her bare, thin waist, while framing her form in a most inviting manner. Her attire added a sensual touch to her already striking appearance. Rheal knew what enticed their customer to spend more time at the bar, and it was not just the drinks.

            She was wiping down the bar and appeared to be in a foul mood. Not at all impressed by the incredible display of strength and heart that had just taken place, “... and you, Jerith, could go upstairs and help your brother finish cleaning the rooms. We have been unusually busy the last few days, and they won’t clean themselves!” There was a commanding, if somewhat harsh, quality about her when she spoke, a quality that contrasted harshly with that of her beauty. She was, in no uncertain terms, in charge of the inn’s daily affairs. Including the ones Mr. Vole did not have the time or inclination to do anymore, proving her help as invaluable to the aging owner.  She also served as the governess to Mr. Vole’s grandsons, as she was much more suited to have more of a mother’s influence over the growing young men than old Mr. Vole would be able to impart.

            “All right, Rheal,” Jerith replied unenthusiastically as he headed for the rickety stairway leading upstairs.

            Rheal returned her attention to the rather drunken slob leering at her from the other side of the bar.

            “Ya know wa’ would be better than this ‘er drink, lassie? Those two treasures you keeps a covered up there!” he said, waving a dirt-smeared finger at Rheal’s chest. “Was a fella gots to pay to get a servin’ of ‘em?”

            “You’re so sweet,” she smiled tenderly. “Well, if by some chance you managed to kill all of the King’s men and then kill the King himself and acquire all the wealth of this great kingdom… it would still not be enough,” she smiled warmly again at the drunken man. “Besides which, I would not want to tire you out for your poor little wifey. I am sure she looks forward to those glorious two minutes of ecstasy with you as the highlight of her day.”

            “Bah…” he snorted at her, “just gimme ‘nother drink, ya uppity wench.”

            “Of course, my dear.” Rheal turned and reached under the bar, spilling the contents of four partially finished drinks into one clean glass. “Here you go… one of our finest blends.” She set the half-full glass down in front of the swaying man. “That’s a silver from you, sweety, and don’t forget to tip.”

            “Tip my ass…” he was about to turn away when a meaty hand rested down upon him, covering his whole shoulder.

            Bivitar gave the drunk patron’s shoulder a gentle squeeze, “I believe the lady said not to forget the tip, my friend.”

            “Oh, ahh… Bivitar, didn’t see ya come ova. ‘Course, the lady getsss a tip.” He reached into his pocket, dumped what little coin he had left on the bar, and then slunk his way over to a corner booth to finish drinking himself into a stupor.

            Jerith smiled at the big man, “smart fellow. Always an adventure here at Vole’s Inn.” Jerith and Bivitar shared a laugh, and then the young man made his way up the creaking wooden stairs toward the third-floor guest rooms in search of his older brother and their endless supply of mind-numbing chores.