Plight of an Empire

Chapter Twenty Seven- part 1: Runa

Sparton, Hermuna

His name was Rickon Wyer.  He was a shop owner in the little farming hamlet of Sparton, a village just a few days north of Thebis.  In his little shop, he sold a variety of wares from fruits and meats to axes and swords.  The axes were more for chopping wood than chopping heads and the swords were dull and spotted with rust, but he was a successful man nonetheless.  He visited the local tavern, The Battered Shield, for a few drinks every other night with his acquaintances.  He didn’t have any friends, this Rickon Wyer, only acquaintances.  But he always shared a few drinks with these acquaintances while sitting in the same seat at the same table served by the same barmaid.  The man was nothing if not predictable.

He was an old man, nothing special about his appearance.  Grey hair.  A bit of grey stubble.  Brown eyes.  Hook nose. Thin lips.  The only defining feature he had was a long, thin scar than ran from his brow to his left cheek.  He said that he got it from some highwayman during his youth.  But Runa knew that was a lie.

The truth about Rickon Wyer was a far more nefarious one than the story he had fabricated when he moved into this nice, little town near twenty years ago.  Rickon Wyer wasn’t even his real name.  In truth, he was the infamous bandit chief, the Bloody Bastard.  In his youth, he had ruled the forests and roads of eastern Didaan and northern Lytus with blood and fear.  His exploits had been so notorious that High King Nikolai Pellinor had put out a bounty on his head for a hundred thousand golden eagles and a lordship for whoever brought it to him.  Of course, no one was able to cash that in.  Not to say no one tried.  Even his own men turned on him for that reward.  So he fled.  He only stopped running when he reached the safe little town of Sparton.  Here he set up his shop and retired from the life of infamous outlaw.  Unfortunately for him, he had made a lot of enemies as the Bloody Bastard.  One so much that he tracked him down so he could kill him.  But of course he couldn’t do it.  So that is where the Cult came in.

Runa sat at her table in the corner of The Battered Shield and watched, watched as she had been doing for days.  She took a sip of her wine and nearly spat it back out.  The cheap red was sour, but drinking it helped her blend into the background of the tavern.  So she took another sip.

Rickon Wyer sat at his table listening to a man called Tallman, even though he is a very short man, drone on about the injustices done to him by his wife.  “The bitch says I drink too much.  Do you thinks I drink too much?”  By the slurring of his words, Runa thought she would have to agree with his wife.

“Naw, Tallman.  Ain’t a thing as drinking too much,” Rickon Wyer said with a thump on the back.  “Me thinks she drinks too little.  Now there’s a problem right there!”

The barmaid, a wench who called herself Beauty, though she was far from it, returned with a flagon of ale for the two.  Rickon Wyer thanked her with a smack on the arse.  She giggled, throwing them a wink, and pranced off to another table.  Runa sat pondering why they would touch her in such a way.  The wench was homely with her bulbous nose and thin, cracked lips.  Her skin was scarred from acne and her hair a mess of brown curls that looked like hadn’t been brushed since last spring.  And she had a girth that could match the King of Didaan’s.  But she was the only woman who worked in the tavern.  That was a good enough reason as anyway, she supposed.

“Aye, Rickon,” Tallman slurred.  He picked up the fresh flagon of ale and thrust it into the air.  “She should listen to ya.  I should listen to ya.”  He chugged his flagon and slammed the empty cup on the table, belching loudly.  “Say, I should go talk to my wife right now.  Tell her about ya and how ya said she be needin’ more ale.”  He slapped Rickon clumsily on the back, nearly knocking his ale out of his hand.  “Ya be a good man, Rickon.  A real good man.”