Marches Western

         The Western Marches tavern was low-roofed  and dim. Two windows let the day’s harsh light in from the road, but the patrons squeezed away from the islands of heat they created, taking shelter in the shade and darkness. They nursed mugs of spirits and played trumps while a two-bit minstrel strummed nameless, wordless tunes in the background, creating a false sense of cheer with his music. These men were farmers and herdsmen, drawn to the Western Marches by the promise of free land and the life that came with its ownership. They were serfs seeking the life of a freeman, but instead of their dreams, most had found only long days scratching out a crop in tireless spite of the sun and orcish raiders.

         A northman swaggered in, one frontier invading another with the sound of booted feet on the floorboards and the slamming of the door. All faces turned to look at him, and both music and conversation stopped. All eyes followed him, wild red hair and exposed, sunburned skin, as he stepped to the bar and sat down heavily. With one hand resting casually on the hilt of a sword, one of many weapons slung about his body, and the other arm leaned on the polished bar, he spoke. His dialect was thick and guttural as he ordered his drink, and only after the tender had poured and served it did the northman turn to see what all the silence was about. Hard, staring eyes met his. Some turned from his gaze, suddenly reminded of unfinished card games or drinks in need of attention, but one group remained to stare at the stranger. He returned to his drink, but the group still bore a hole in his head with their eyes, until finally one of their number rose to approach the stranger.

         Once again, the northman looked over his shoulder, hearing the man approach him. The local was of middle age, and grizzled appearance, big and stout as a bear. The bear stopped just short of the northman, arms akimbo, and growled.
         “We don’t like yer type around here.” And with those words, he spat. His aim was good, landing a shot squarely on the northman’s booted feet. The northman looked down, then turned away to drain his cup. The bear grabbed him by the shoulder.
         “I said!…” But the northman drank the last of his drink in one quaff, and rose before the bear could finish, then he turned, brushing off the hand on his shoulder and facing his confronter. The northman stood half a head taller than the bear, but the other was broader and had more stock. They eyed each other, and the taller man held his cup in hand experimentally, as if testing its heft.
         “Wait! No!” The cry came from the bartender, a sharp-witted man, he saw a brawl in the way the cup was held, and he rushed to the two men. “Don’t you be starting anything in my bar, I can’t take the damages. Take this outside if you’ve got to fight, like civilized folk.”
         “Civilized folk,” The bear sneered at the northman, “don’t expect nothin’ like that from this’n.”
         The northman looked then at the tender, regarding him as if gauging his worth, then he tossed the cup once, then caught it and placed it lightly back on the bar.
         “Thanks for the drink. You, outside.” The room took note of his words, and chairs scraped on the floor as all arose. Some looked nervous, the bear looked surprised, the tender relieved, the northman expectant.

         Outside, it was midday, and the sun beat down mercilessly upon the town. The duelers walked out of the tavern into the heat, passing the row of horses tied at the porch to stand in the dusty Western Marches road. The space around them cleared as they squared off, then waited. Two men ran off into the town, the bear’s friends. One returned with a bearded axe, a steel weapon, not a tool. The second returned with a man bearing the badge of a royal constable. The drew his weapons, a sword in one hand and, after a brief moment of thought, a light hammer to compliment it. Both men looked to the constable to confirm his presence, then returned attention to each other.
         “To first blood.” Declared the northman.
         “No,” returned the bear, “to death.” And he turned to grin at his friends, who cheered back at him. The constable sighed, the northman shrugged.
         The bear knew how to swing an axe, and with both hands behind it, there was no chance of blocking his blows. He swung, and the northman was forced to step back. The bear kept his rhythm up, keeping his footing and keeping his opponent at reach. Then, the northman’s sword caught the axe behind the head at the end of its swing, just before momentum could be put behind a backswing, and he sprang forward. The hammer moved in a swift, shallow arc, and caught the bear on the shoulder. Then the bear heaved at his axed, and the northman was forced to step in and turn his back to his opponent. Yet he was still under the arc of the axe, and as the bear stepped back for his next swing, the beaked back of the hammer was swung backhanded into his armpit, piercing his flesh and letting his blood. The bear stumbled, the northman turned, his bloody hammer held out to ward off another blow. To his credit, the bear held his axe and did not end right there, but weakened as he was, the fight was over. There was no relent in the northman, no call for the constable to call the fight over. The bear had called for death, and death he received. The northman feinted with his sword, the bear moved away. A swing with the hammer was parried with the axe. Then the hammer head was hooked behind the axehead and pulled. The bear stumbled forward onto the northman’s sword.

         The victor stepped back, and all waited. The defeated man’s friends rushed to his side and cried out for aid, for the herbalist or the surgeon or a priest, but death had been called for and was given. None moved until the constable came forward to kneel by the corpse and declare it dead, then all went quietly to their previous business. The dead man’s friends picked him up to carry home, and left cursing the northman, promising his swift demise in vengeance. The stranger was left alone in the road, cleaning his weapons.

         It was thus alone that he met the boy, riding into town on a farm mare, with a soot stained and tear stained face. The boy galloped into town, and barely stopped before running the northman over. Then he fell from the saddle and lay for a moment before suddenly scrambling to his feet.
“Orcs!” he cried. The northman’s attention was caught by the word, as would the attention of any man at such coming from the mouth of a distraught boy riding in from afar. “Orcs,” the boy continued, “at the southern farmland!” he did not say more, there was no more to say. Any man with half a brain would know all else that could be said. The northman held up one hand, asking the boy to wait, then went to the row of horses at the tavern, and mounted one. When the townsfolk came out again into the street, the man from the north was gone.