Sam Barone: Rogue Warriors 2

Eskkar and Bracca rode into the small village before the late afternoon sun touched the horizon. To Eskkar’s eyes, this handful of crumbling and sagging mud huts clustered about a rock-walled well didn’t even deserve to be called a village. In fact, the central well appeared to be the sturdiest structure within miles, and the only one not likely to fall down before morning.

He glanced around, always alert to the possibility of some villager taking offense at the sight of a barbarian from the steppes, even an outcast. He’d been the target of stones, sticks, dirt clods, and even dung before. Once a wide-eyed farmer shot an arrow at him, before turning and taking to his heels. At least Eskkar thought he’d been the target. The shaft flew so far overhead he couldn’t be sure.

Today, however, everything appeared peaceful enough. He spotted the crude carving, a raised hand holding a mug, on the wall of the largest hut. That marked it as a tavern. Or just as likely, Eskkar knew, the home of some lazy farmer who happened to have a skin of ale that he’d brewed himself, using only the gods knew what ingredients.

None of that mattered to the two companions. Each rode a good horse, which had allowed them to enjoy a leisurely journey on a pleasant spring day. Equally important, each man had a good supply of copper coins in his pouch. That would enable them to enjoy a few cups of the local spirits. If the two travelers could obtain something decent to eat along with their ale, their mood would improve even further. With a little luck, the tavern might even possess a table and a bench or two, eliminating the need to squat on the dirt floor.

Perhaps one or two of the local women might be willing to sell something of a more personal nature. If two suitably inclined and reasonably priced womenfolk were available, Eskkar and Bracca might not have to share their delights this time.

“Looks friendly enough.” Bracca’s gaze took in the little village. The usual handful of idlers stared at the two visitors, but with curiosity, not distrust. “At least no one is screaming in fear at the sight of a ferocious barbarian.”

Eskkar ignored the jibe, even though it held more than a hint of the truth. The scar across his cheek added to his usually grim countenance. He forced himself to smile. No sense in frightening any nervous inhabitants, or stopping the cows from giving milk.

They dismounted in front of the tavern. The innkeeper, alerted to their arrival by one of the village boys hanging about, stepped outside to examine the potential customers. Strangers, especially those without coins to spend, would not be welcome. From the owner’s perspective, it made good business sense to keep those too poor to pay or with nothing to trade from entering his establishment, rather than force them to leave once inside.

“Welcome, travelers. My name is Hitha, and I own this tavern.” Hitha spoke in a loud voice, no doubt intended to alert his friends inside that some prospective customers had arrived. His gaze first rested on Eskkar, of course. Barbarian outcasts remained rare enough in the Land Between the Rivers.

Eskkar paid no heed to the stare. Tall and muscular, he had dark brown hair that touched his broad shoulders. He was accustomed to being the center of attention. And although he wore the same type of clothing as his friend Bracca, nothing could disguise the fact that Eskkar had been born into one of the steppes tribes of nomadic horse warriors. The sword jutting up from behind his right shoulder reinforced his barbarian ancestry. Not many villagers or farmers possessed swords, and those who did, like Bracca, usually carried them on their belts.

Bracca, too, received a hard scrutiny. In these northern lands, his darker skin and Sumerian heritage made him almost as much an oddity as Eskkar. While even tame barbarians incited fear and hatred because of the clans’ brutal raids that plundered the countryside, Sumerians were perceived as thieves and murderers, not to be trusted.

None of that mattered at present, Eskkar knew. The innkeeper would want to wring as much profit as he could from the strangers, and it was up to Eskkar and Bracca to keep the prices reasonable. Fortunately, Bracca had far more skill in that area than any rustic tavern owner.

“Greetings, innkeeper.” Bracca flashed a smile and initiated the bargaining. “A fine village you have here. My friend and I require food and ale, and maybe a place to spend the night.” He reached inside his tunic and withdrew a small pouch that hung from his neck. “Perhaps a copper coin for the both of us.”

The innkeeper chuckled, revealing wide teeth yellowed with age. “Well, stranger, I see you enjoy a good laugh. If both of you want to eat and drink, it will be two copper coins for each of you. I should charge more for your friend. He looks like he could eat a haunch of lamb all by himself.”

An outrageous sum, Eskkar knew. For a few more coins, they could probably buy the whole tavern.

Bracca broadened his smile. “Let’s talk inside, where I can see what quality ale you serve.”

The haggling would continue, off and on, for the rest of the night. Eskkar had heard it all before, so he led the two horses around to the side of the tavern. He didn’t mind settling in their mounts for the night, and the horses were far more important than any meal or cup of ale.

The crude corral, anchored against the tavern’s mud wall, looked more suited to hold a few sheep than horses. But at least the ground wasn’t covered with droppings, and the flimsy rails appeared strong enough to last one more night.

Eskkar removed the halters and slung them over his shoulder. If anyone were going to steal the animals, they would have to bring their own ropes. He made sure the horses had a good supply of fresh hay and water. Then he used a scrap of rope draped over the rail to fasten the gate securely.

Satisfied that the horses were ready for the night, Eskkar made his way to the tavern entrance, ducked beneath the low lintel, and stepped inside. He saw a single room, less than fifteen paces from front to back, and about the same distance from side to side. Eskkar’s head nearly brushed the low ceiling, that sagged a bit in the chamber’s center. The rank smell of unwashed men, urine, stale ale, and burning meat assailed his nostrils, the usual village stink. Even so, Eskkar knew he would soon grow accustomed to it.

Bracca and Hitha were facing each other across a plank table in the back, their heads nearly touching. By now they’d had become old friends, each ready to cheat the other to the best of his ability.

“Horses are in the corral,” Eskkar said.

“I should charge you extra for the horses.” Hitha directed his words to Bracca. No sense wasting talk on a lowly barbarian.

Bracca laughed at the suggestion. “Hay and water! You don’t even pay for that.”

“Warn him about the horses,” Eskkar said, leaning on the plank and inserting himself into the discussion.

“Oh, yes.” Bracca shook his head from side to side, as if remembering something vaguely unpleasant. “The last innkeeper had some friends who thought they might steal our horses. In the middle of the night, they led them off to one of the nearby farms. My friend here,” Bracca jabbed his thumb toward Eskkar, “cut off the innkeeper’s right hand. After that, the horses were returned to us fast enough. The innkeeper even got to keep his left hand, though he did insist on giving back all the coins we paid him as a gesture of good faith.”

The smile faded from Hitha’s face during the tale. “Nothing like that will happen here, I assure you. I run an honest tavern.” He glanced at Eskkar, who met his eyes.