Valiant

Chapter 11: Where Am I?

After the torrent in my nose stops running, I make my way cautiously to the huge, polished oak door in the corner, so I can escape the drafty gales that howl through crevices in the stone and the huge, open windows. Steely, grey clouds had rumbled across the horizon, bringing the promise of a cold rain that I didn't want to get caught up in.

My muscles shake with pain as I open the door , and I step through to a narrow, winding staircase of stone that is illuminated in the bright, flickering light of torches suspended along the wall. I make my way down, one step at a time, focusing on not falling on the smooth granite. At the bottom, there are a few barrels that stand robustly at waist height, and bristle with the heady scent of alcohol. A suspicion forms in my head as I go toward the door , and are all but confirmed when the rowdy noises of celebratory revels hammer my eardrums.

No, I must be mistaken, I attempt to reassure myself. But, with a dawning sense of dread that refuses to be swallowed, I open the door and step into the bar.

It looks like you'd expect a bar to look like, with a low, wooden ceiling, numerous red-faced men raucously guzzling at tankards and laughing, while a lilting, upbeat tune is played by a musician in the corner. Colorful shields display coats of arms across the walls. A huge, ruddy-faced man with a bristly beard slaps a passing waitress on the behind, triggering a round of laughter from the joyously drunk people at his side. The waitress just smiles and hikes up her red serving blouse to deliver a peck on the man's cheek.

A few girls sip on glasses and giggle uncontrollably in the corner, slopping red onto their bosoms and laps, but they seem not to notice. I hear a crash, and turn to the left, to see that two men have knocked over a table and begun to quarrel, stumbling around and swinging their fists like apes, to the roar of some gathered spectators.

The scent hits me like a cannon blast. Sweat, burnt food, and lust mingle with an overpowering scent of booze that sticks on the back of my throat like bile that refuses to go down. My vision goes blurry as my eyes throw up a protective sheen of tear water to shield themselves from the unhealthy scents in the air. After recovering and adjusting, I sidle nervously along the wall. The heat makes my injuries tingle with remembrance, but not as bad. The fighting men seem to be getting out of hand, ripping things off of tables and smashing tankards over each other's heads, still too drunk to do anything but make a fuss. The spectators are getting into it, though, taking bets and shoving each other to get into the spirit. Soon, it would escalate into a full-blown brawl.

I nervously fondle the hilt of my practice sword, ready to draw it from my burnt, leather belt. Suddenly, the incomprehensible roars increase in volume, prompting me to rush over to see what's is happening. I storm through a maze of staggering drunks and spilled drink to reach the crowd, and use my small height to squeeze into the wall of bodies. The smell of alcohol is making me retch, but I swallow with effort, and push through some more. I step into a small clearing in the bodies, and return to my full height, to be met by a soft thump on my head. I had head-butted a woman's breasts. She hardly even notices though, for when I step back to apologize, I see that she is thoroughly intoxicated.

"Kill 'em, Edwin! Cut 'is bloody head off!" she screams vehemently, eyes transfixed on something ahead. Excitement and trepidation pouring through my veins, I dive back into the bodies. After I squeeze through some more people, I am thrust into a small ring, about 4 paces in diameter and rimmed with a drunken hoard of spectators. The two drunk men have drawn short, poorly-made blades with stains and chips from use, and are attempting hilariously to hack each other to pieces.

I laugh as the tall, middle-aged, bowl-cut blonde one trips over his own feet, smacking his face on a table. Shaking his head like a dog, he rises to face his enemy, whose bushy, brown eyebrows are furrowed like caterpillars as he tries to dislodge his sword from a beam.

Suddenly, a burly, red-faced ox of a man with a glorious, ginger beard steps into the ring, bellowing threats and curses at the two quarrelers.

"PUT DOWN YER' SEAUX'S, YAH BUMBLING BASTARDS!" he plucks the seaux's from each of the grown men like you would from a mere child, and tosses them out the door. Roaring complaints cycle through the crowd as the two men are left weaponless, swinging at each other still with unwieldy fists. "I'LL NOT HAVE IT IN MY BAR!" he yells at the two men.

Then, he whips back a fist the size of my head and cracks it across the blonde one's skull with enough force to topple a cart horse. The man goes instantaneously limp, and flies into the crowd with a trail of blood oozing out his nose.
The other man begins kicking and flailing with his arms to keep the giant at a distance, but the beast of a man literally picks the poor drunkard off the ground, carries him over his head, and throws him out the door from a solid six paces away. Then, he wades through the crowd and picks up the fallen man. Throws him out the door as well.
My knees go wobbly as I see the sheer strength the man possesses.
The man claps his enormous paws across each other, as if to shake dust from them, and screams at the crowd, "SHUT UP AND SET'LE DOWN, LESS YEH' WANT THE SAME FER YERSELVES!"
One of the crowd members yells something extremely base, followed by the term ,"- you, Orik!" But the crowd begins to disperse, and the excitement has been settled.
Then, the enormous man trains his beady, brown eyes on me and yells, "OI! WEE ONE! WHAT ARE YEH' DOING IN 'ERE?"
And then makes his way toward me in earth-shattering steps. Quaking, I stare upward to the face of the unhappy giant of a man.