Feats of Heroism

“You can hold your ale, sir dwarf.” Iantha bowed her head at the gruff, liquor-covered dwarf across from her.

“Aye, this pint-drinking is a respected sport among my kin – none can out-drink the sons of stone!”

“But have you still got enough composure to overpower a warrior?” The men and women of Farstead whistled and cheered as Iantha fixed her elbow on the tabletop, her hand extended in a challenging gesture.

“Human confidence!” scoffed the dwarf. “Only once have I lost an arm wrestle, and that was with a boulder strapped to my back and having been without food for weeks!” The dwarf leaned forward but couldn’t quite reach his opponent’s hand, and the room roared in hilarity.

“Someone fetch Glorin a taller seat!” Iantha called, and one of the townsfolk quickly brought a high stool to Glorin, who grumbled through his mahogany beard.

“All right, all right, tease as you will, but this dwarf’s strength is unmatched!”

“Come on, give me your grip,” said Iantha, meeting palms with Glorin and settling into her chair. The crowd began stomping their boots into the wooden floors and the hall hummed with happy, rhythmic anticipation. The barkeep, Borg, stepped up and clasped his hands around the meaty paws of the two well-built contenders.

“On my order,” Borg dictated. “Steady… go!”

The dwarvish growl and burgeoning chants that followed were enough to mask the entrance of the traveler. He sat slowly at the far end of the bar, away from the clamorous center of the room. There he sat unnoticed, patiently awaiting the reception of his drink order – typically mead, for the trace of honey was so potent as to soothe a troubled spirit.

The balance of the arm wrestle was swaying in favor of Iantha, who had Glorin’s resilient hand mere centimeters from defeat, but at the crucial moment she turned away to see a very stern and loud intruder barge into the inn, sword drawn and eyes thinned grimly. He was fitted in stalwart chainmail armor, over which fell a blue cloth, emblazoned with the military crest of Salfall, the small kingdom in the plains to the west.

Glorin overcame Iantha’s burly arm and slammed her knuckles down onto the table, leaping to his feet and declaring victory as everyone else hushed down at the arrival of the officer.

“You see! A dwarf is not so easily silenced!”

“Enough, dwarf-master,” said the newcomer, his forest-brown hair jostling as he monitored the room with his eagle-eyes. Glorin sheepishly retreated to his chair as the soldier took charge. Behind the bewildered patrons, the traveler perked his head up and shifted to the edge of his seat. “I am Captain Regulus Amius, and I am searching for a cloaked man who was seen walking into this inn two minute ago. My men and I have come for his arrest.”

“I’m afraid we’ve seen no such man, Cap’n,” Borg assured the officer. “Save for little Glorin here, we’re all residents of Farstead!” He snickered and smacked Glorin on the back.

“I’ll throw you out your own window, barkeep!” Glorin blustered with a grin shining through his beard. The tavern again erupted into festive noise. Regulus glared in disgust, and in doing so spotted the cloaked traveler sitting suspiciously at the bar. Regulus marched through the rowdy townsfolk and aimed his sword at the man, proclaiming:

“This murderer is wanted for the killing of seven innocents and sixteen Salfall soldiers!” The charges stole the focus of all in the room, and the traveler slid his hand onto the hilt of a blade stashed just on the inside of his linen shroud. “He will be leaving with my guardsmen and I at once, to be hanged at Salfall.”

Iantha stood, seeing that the accused was prepared to defend himself. She would allow no bloodshed in her hometown taphouse. Her fists were clenched and she was ready to restrain the combatants as needed, until the sudden sound of shrieking, horse and human, rang from just outside the tavern’s door.

Regulus spun about as he realized that the screams were none other than those of his two men.

The door flung open. Regulus crashed out into the rain that had at last poured from the heavens, forming puddles and small streams that whirled with the blood of two dead soldiers in front of Farstead’s Oaktree Lodge.