Joric - 1

1

            Like most evenings The Pale Rat was packed full of patrons. There was little else for entertainment in the small, rundown village of Hespa. Here the farmers and miners could drink away their meager earnings as well as their sorrows. Life had always been hard in the remote areas of the empire and Hespa was no different. The local, filthy peasants mingled with traders passing through on the way to Liscus, Barva or even as far north as Goran, the imperial capital. A sweltering fire popped and fizzled, driving the cold from the little inn. The heat was almost oppressive in the crowded place. The air was thick with smoke and smelled of sweat and spilled alcohol. Near the hearth, an elf merchant was bartering with a handful of traders.

            “Finest weapons and armor this side of the Torin River,” he was saying.

            “Still, at that price I could buy my own damn smithy!” One trader exclaimed.

            “Aye,” another nodded in agreement. “Hell I could buy an elf slave to go with 'em and make the bleedin' arms!”

            There was a roar of laughter from a crowd in the back of the bar, drowning out the squabbling merchants. Despite the harshness of their lives, the crowded tavern swelled with high spirits. A bard lead the rowdier (and drunker) patrons in bawdy drinking songs. Wine, ale and mead flowed, songs were sung and for a night the villagers enjoyed some respite from their wretched, short existence. Even the traders, stuck in this shit hole of a town by the last of the winter snows were enjoying themselves. For a single night, fleeting and rare as it was, the townspeople were happy.

            Except for one slouched figure at the bar.

            Joric was finishing his sixth drink of the evening. Or was it his seventh? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered to Joric except procuring his next flagon of ale.

            “'Keep,” he slurred, “another!”

            “Wine, sir?” the barkeep asked. He was a fat man with a ruddy face and a bushy, brown beard greying at the edges.

            “None of that pansy, elven swill. Ale! Mead!”

            “Well, which it'll be?” He was quickly growing tired of this man at the bar. The man had refused to hand over his sword and had been a depressing lump all night, casting a pall over the jovial atmosphere inside the tavern.

            He also had yet to pay for a single one of his drinks.

            “Whichever is strongest and cheapest. In that order, 'keep.” Joric finished his sentence with a resounding belch.

            Summoning his paltry courage, the barkeep made his stand.

            “Pardon, sire, but ye haven't even paid fer one drink, let alone the last si—”

            Joric looked up from his tankard, eyes glinting and dangerous.

            “Look, wretch, I'm not going to pay you to wag your tongue. I'll pay when I've had my goddamn fill, you understand? You'll do as you're told if you want to keep your tongue in that fat mouth of yours,” he spoke in a moment of surprising sobriety.

            The barkeep simply stared for a moment, mouth flopping open and closed like a gasping fish.

            “Get on with it!” barked Joric.

            Jumping into action, the pudgy man scurried off through a door behind the bar.

            Joric swilled the last of his ale around before draining the remnants in one long gulp. Wiping the froth away from his mouth he turned back to the traders. They were gone though, probably having retired for the night. Although the ground was still powdered in snow, spring was hot on the heels of winter and the roads, though uncomfortable, were open. Tomorrow the merchants would flock out of this town like stampeding cows, each trying to make it to market before the other. With their carts they would also take the excitement and money that had livened up the pathetic, desolate village.

            Along with Joric's only hope.

            A hushed silence came through the tavern as the bard begin a new song. Unlike the other songs he had played this night, this one begin plaintive and soft. As the bard's voice filled the quiet bar, Joric couldn't help but hear the words. This one wasn't about some knight trying to “sheath his sword” in a maiden, or a foolish nobleman outsmarted by a commoner. The lyrics described a king who was just and kind. A man that defended his people and kept them well fed. A man that made trade flourish, cities prosper and help heal a war-torn land.

            A man named Emperor Sigismund II.

            Joric snorted derisively. Sigismund II was an incompetent fop as far as he was concerned. A bumbling fool who had tanked trade, failed to ease famine, done nothing to stop the plague spreading through the east and who had waged an unnecessary, unjustified war. The war against Thilia had been much longer than the Emperor had intended. Fighting had raged for six long years before Thilia's king bent the knee and assimilated into the empire. Sigismund had claimed the war was a result of border raids by the Thilians after their emissary had been dismissed from the imperial court for, presumably, breaking a trade agreement.

            Joric thought that unlikely. What was likely was that Sigismund had squandered the royal treasury on his own lavish lifestyle and idiotic ventures. Rumor was the throne was in debt to Thilia and a war would kill two birds with one stone. Like a bloated predator the empire had descended on Thilia, hungry for its gold, crops and raw materials. The kicker was, Joric laughed darkly to himself, that the war wasn't even the worst of it.

            While the war was killing all the men, the farms went unheeded. More died from famine in the winter after war was declared than in two years of battle. Sigismund had done nothing to stop it. He refused to disband his armies for winter, instead insisting on bloodier and riskier campaigns that did little more than grind both nations down. In the end, tens of thousands alone had died for the Emperor. And for what? A patch of land? To cover the debts of the incompetent monarch? The peasants had certainly lost much and gained nothing. No coin or compensation was handed out in the streets. Not even the nobles had gained much, unless the loss of sons and war debts counted. And who did the aristocracy turn to stuff their own coffers after the war? The peasants!

            Despite his bitter criticism for the crown, Joric had no sympathy for the commoners.  He was almost sickened by how the crowd was swooning as the bard finished his dirge. The peasants didn't fight, didn't stand up for themselves, they accepted their position as the nature of things. They were as passive as sheep, letting their masters spend them frivolously. And like sheep they walked willingly to the slaughter, oblivious and cowardly.

            The bard had finished his song now and spoke to the crowd, “That is the tale of the great, and alas late, Emperor Sigismund II. Gods above show mercy to a man of such greatness, as we may never see the likeness of him again.”

            It took a few moments for the bard's words to cut through Joric's drunkenness. Dead. The emperor was dead. That didn't change his plan, only encouraged it. For the first time in far too long, Joric felt hope swell up inside of him. Between now and dawn he had to find a way to Goran. Maybe he could find one of those merchants he had overheard...

            The barkeep returned with another foaming mug and set it down none-too-gently in front of the gloomy man, shaking Joric from his musings.

            “There. Now pay up,” the man demanded.

            His anger with the barkeep completely forgotten, Joric didn't even argue. Several pockets worth of searching resulted in a pitiful mound of copper coins appearing on the bar top. The barkeep let out a long sigh.

            "Not nearly enough for three drinks, let alone all damn seven o' yours."

            "Take it or leave it. I have nothing else," Joric responded simply.

            The keep eyed Joric for a long moment. He was a man of average height and weight, with shaggy, dark brown hair and pale green eyes. An old and battered chain mail hauberk covered his travel worn breeches and tunic. A dented wooden shield, a frayed and filthy tabard and a gleaming sword strapped across his back completed Joric's ensemble.

            "The sword," the fat man said with a gleam in his eye.

            "What?"

            "The sword," he repeated. "Should cover all o' your debts and make sure you don't leave a cripple."

            It was at that moment Joric became aware of the men standing over him. A quick glance told him they were three local farmhands turned bouncers. Tall and strong, armed with knives and farm tools. He let out a bark of a laugh as he turned back to his drink. With a flick of his eyes, the barkeep ordered his men to take the sword. Confident, a young farmer extend a hand towards the hilt. Three against one drunken sod, they were sure any confrontation would be quick and easy. One of the men reached out to grab the hilt while the others mocked Joric.

        “Coward!” one shouted. “He won't e'en stand and face us!”
“Drunken cunt. Look at 'em boys, this one is more full o' ale than courage!” Another chimed in.
Joric's first punch left the man on the ground clutching a broken nose. For a drunk he moved fast, batting aside a clumsy thrust from one of the remaining men and shoving him over the bar. The last man merely stood in place, a pitchfork aimed directly at Joric's stomach. A slowly spreading smile revealed the farmer's brown teeth. 
Joric's taunt never left his lips as the man with the broken nose grabbed Joric's arms from behind. As the last man climbed back over the bar, Joric now found himself helpless and surrounded.
“Oh we're gonna take so much more than the sword now,” the one with the pitchfork cackled.
“Fuck you,” Joric emphasized with a lob of spit.
As the rusty pitchfork closed in, Joric made one desperate attempt at escape. His boot came down hard on the man holding him. As his grip loosened, Joric followed with an elbow to the eye. With a scream, the other man plunged his pitchfork straight at Joric only to stop a foot away, face scrunched up confused. 
With a twist Joric removed his sword from the man's chest and let him fall to the ground. He gasped, shuddered and lay still.
The last farmer standing simply dropped his knife and held his hands up, backing away slowly from the crazed drunk and the quickly spreading pool of crimson.
It was then Joric realized how quiet the tavern had become. The bard had stopped playing and the singing had died out. Merchants and locals alike stared wide-eyed as Joric cleaned his blade on the dead man. 
The inn keeper didn't so much as make a sound when Joric strode out of the building into the night.