The Proposition
D.D. Poey
Copyright 2014 by D.D Poey
Red light glistened and scattered through the frost covered trees. The last bleeding rays of the sun spilled over a rolling terrain, laden with crystallized fir trees and dense thickets of brush covered in snow. The hills were silent but for the gentle whistle of the wind through the snowflakes and the persistent stamp of a man’s boots.
Wayra adjusted his pack upon his shoulder with a grunt. His breath puffed in a thick cloud which hung on the frigid air. Snowflakes swirled about his head, landing upon his face and catching in his beard, but the feeling had long since left his nose and cheeks. The frozen air dug into his gloves and boots. It seeped through the layers of his coat and threatened him with icy fingers. His limbs were beginning to feel as though they were stone, and his lungs burned. Wayra knew that if he didn’t make shelter by nightfall, he would freeze for sure. So he kept his feet moving, step after heavy step, more aware of the looming darkness with each passing moment. The frigid air was deadly, killing you slowly and taking you peacefully, but there were plenty of creatures in the darkness that would not be so kind, and Wayra had no intention of dying tonight.
On he marched through the trees, over a path invisible beneath the snow. In his mind, Wayra was certain that the tavern must be close, but the cold was beginning to slow him both physically and mentally. He took in his surroundings on the move, afraid of stopping, and was rewarded with the soft glow of firelight in the distance.
Tiger’s Paw.
The trees concealed most of the buildings that made up the small waypoint, but the tavern stood alone and proud at the very edge of the village, in plain sight of everyone crossing from the pass. Wayra dragged his feet up to the door, following the sounds of loud talking and clattering cups as much as the glow of light and promise of warmth. He hooked a gloved hand in the handle and gave the door a sharp pull.
A rush of heat poured through the opening, washing over him and making the blood in his limbs prickle and dance. Wayra stepped inside, dripping with wet snow, and yanked the door closed behind him. He stood for a moment, head down and eyes closed, enjoying the heat of the fire. He let out a deep sigh, rattling the ice that was still clinging to his beard, and flexed his hands.
It was the silence he noticed first. When Wayra entered the tavern, he was so desperate to thaw that he hadn’t noticed everyone falling silent around him. When he opened his eyes, he found every was upon him, and no one seemed happy at his arrival.
“I don’t know who you are, lad,” said a rotund man behind the bar, “but I think it may be best if you turn ‘round and go back to where you’re from.”
Wayra’s eyes flicked from one man to the next. There were at least a dozen men seated at tables, half that at the bar, and all of them were armed.
“Now, now Yorner. That is no way to treat a stranger, is it?” asked a sallow man with the face of a ferret. He rotated in his chair and let his mouth gape.
The men sharing the ferret’s table narrowed their eyes at Wayra, and several others voiced quiet approbations.
Wayra lifted his right hand to his mouth, bit down on the fingers of his glove, and pulled his sword hand free.
“Now you listen here, lad,” the bartender warned. “You won’t be wantin’ to do that.”
A man at the bar stood and laid his hand upon the hilt at his side.
“What’s your name?” the bartender demanded.
Wayra studied him for a moment. Short. Round. Pale. His thin brown hair was a wild mess that fell to his shoulders and his beard was groomed short, with clear red hues. His eyes were shrewd but thoughtful.
Wayra decided that if it came to a fight, he would try to spare the barkeep.
Though when he looked away from the bartender and let his hazel eyes rake across the crowd, his confidence took a shot to the gut. On a good day, Wayra could take on a dozen drunks and thieves without a second thought. But tonight, fresh from the snow and still thawing, he looked about the room and had his doubts. Wayra tried to wiggle his toes and pain shot up his leg.
He was stiff, cold, and his feet felt as though they were blocks of ice. He wasn’t convinced that he could move, let alone defend himself against a group nearing twenty in number. The locals were building their courage and his chances were decreasing by the minute.
He placed a hand upon his sword and dared the men to come at him.
“You really think you can pull that and come out alive?” asked the ferret, who nodded to a massive man beside Wayra. The giant stepped behind Wayra and dropped the bar across the door.
Across the bar came the sound of laughter, cutting through the tension with obscene efficiency. Wayra scanned the faces until he halted at the ferret. Thin man, perched next to him, grinning from ear to ear and looking straight at Wayra. He was better dressed than most, with a ill look at his face and that signature grin. “I’ll be damned!” he cried out spitting. “I didn't think I'll see this day!” The skinny man stood laughing and stepped around Wayra, while sea of angry faces looked on. “No more holes in Bylanth to crawl into, eh Wayra?”
At the mention of his name, the room drew a slow collective breath. The big man balked and huffed disbelievingly, but his companions seemed convinced enough. Men sat holding food in their mouths, afraid to make any sudden movements. The only person in the building that seemed to have any energy was the thin man, who faced Wayra and slapped him upon the arm.
“You look terrible,” he announced, taking a position at Wayra’s side and laying an arm over the man’s shoulders.
“So do you, Cy,” Wayra replied.
“What do you want with us?” the bartender asked in an unsteady voice.
“I have business in the village, but first I'll have some ale an’ a bite to eat.”
The barkeep studied Wayra, trying to read if the business meant good or ill for the tavern.
“Ah, Yorner!” Cy cried out. “Just give this man what he wants! The first is on me.”
“You already owe me fifteen pieces,” Yorner reminded the skinny man.
“And what is two more?” Cy replied, then turned to Wayra and lowered his voice, “Oh they are going to write songs about this night. We’ll find some trouble yet, I think.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Wayra reminded him.
“I doubt you’ll have much of a choice from the look of things,” ferret muttered with a smile.
Cy led Wayra back to a table and sat across from him. As he moved, Wayra tried to hide the difficulty he was experiencing in simply walking across the space. His name was the only thing keeping him safe, but even that wouldn’t be enough if one of these men guessed him weak and picked a fight. He avoided the stares of the other occupants, and instead focused on the back of Cy’s head.
The room all kept wary eyes on him as he sat, glancing at Wayra from behind their cups and talking in low voices. Yorner walked over and dropped a tin plate heaped with roasted ribs upon the heavy oaken table, which clattered noisily. With a thud he set a full mug of golden ale beside the plate. Wayra nodded and gave his thanks to Yorner, who grunted and stomped back to the bar.
“Nice guy,” Wayra commented, picking up a piece of blackened meat and tearing off a bite with his teeth.
“He’s an ass,” Cy assured him, “and he’ll hand you over the first chance he gets. He knows who runs this town, and he has plenty of friends.”
Wayra took a long pull of his ale and gazed about the room. From face to face, he found a pattern developing. Thieves.Criminals.Murderers.Turncoats and deserters.Sellswords and pirates.The filth of humanity and the dirty underbelly. Wayra chuffed and took another drink. “So why haven't yo
u killed me yet?"
“Ha!” Cy blurted, banging a fist against the table. “We're more alike than you might think. And I only kill men for business or pleasure, as of now you're neither. ”
“And which one I might become?” Wayra quipped.
“Both,” the man chuckled, “we'll know soon enough.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Wayra replied with a crude smile. He let his eyes continued to scan the room, looking from face to face. Yorner was eyeing him angrily. In the opposite corner, a group of men sat in shadow, and Wayra recognized them as the Smoks. They were a vicious family who ran the local gangs. From the petty crook to the hardened killer, if you wanted to live on the other side of the law then you answered to the Smoks.
More accurately, you answered to Kilroy or his second in command, Cy.
Wayra bit off another piece of meat and nodded at Kilroy, smiled and toasted his mug in reply.
“You aren’t wasting any time, then?” Cy asked.
“Don’t see why I should,” Wayra answered, tipping the last of the ale down his throat. He tore another bite of ribs from the bone sucked in the fat. His hands were coming alive, and his feet were starting to tingle with sharp pricks from the heat of the room thawing his boots. “The sooner I get this done the better.”
“Yeah,” Cy agreed. “That’s what I always say. Never wait. Don’t think about it. Just rush in and make a hasty