Chapter 1:
The night was cold and the wind was unforgiving. The sign to the village pub held on for dear life and creaked on its steel hinges above a cast iron door. The flames of lanterns inside brightened the foot of the door and reflected in the eyes of the wild street dogs waiting outside.
Inside, the men of the mining city clinked their glasses against those of their co-workers. Spirits splashed on the dirty floors and across the backs of the heads of unconscious workers lying across the wooden tables.
Silence cloaked the tight right corner of the pub where a stranger watched the inhabitants wearily. His eyes were glossy, silver moons and his face stern and ambitious. His leather finger traced the rim of a glass of warm beer, still filled to the top. The shadows hid his identity as he watched and chuckled in spite of the drunken men falling over each other and slurring their primitive speech.
His eyes continuously returned to the two intoxicated men sitting at the bar.
One was tall and bellowing over the counter, the barstool heaving under his weight. His face was thick with dark, springy hair circling it.
The man's friend was short and stalky. His hair was long and his beard fell to his belt buckle. He seem very uninterested in what his friend had to say, continuously taking drinks from an empty mug.
"I tell ye Murry. I hear he nuttin then the devil himself I hear," the larger one roared.
"And who be saying dat?" the shorter one spat over his glass.
"Why Maxim. He be just down the street. Him told me he was, I swear!"
The second man wiped the spit from his friend from his face, "I don't believe such hogwash. Ain't no truth to dat and ye know it! Blimey Donald, why ye gotta be so stupid all the time?"
His friend quivered, dashing a quick glance over his enormous shoulders. "D-d-don't be daft Murry… that wander ain't like any other."
"Aye Donald, he ain't. He be da only one of dose scum who be foolin da idiots in dis world with tales a death. He should be treated just like dem dere others – like scum. We let the others rot he can too I say damn it," he finished,slamming his mug on the counter, spewing booze everywhere.
"You really should be ashamed Murry my friend," the broom-handle shaped bartender hissed. "Haven't you heard the stories?"
"Aye, I've heard em. All dem."
The bartender slurred the many spills on his counter into a colourful new stain. He cocked his thin eyes up to look at the men, "Then you know that every city he comes to, everyone is dead by morning?"
"Ye see! Ye see! He ain't nuttin but a devil Murry!"
"Aye shut up Don! Ain't no fiction of dat sort gonna shake me up!"
As soon as the final word left Murry's mouth, he caught a glimpse of the paled face of the bartender. The bartender was focused on something behind Murry, his bottom lip quivering.
"M-Murray… he's… he's behind you! It's the wanderer!"
"AYE!"
Murray leapt straight into the air. His booze splashed on the counter and across his lap. He came down and landed hard on the wood flooring. His meaty hands grabbed the bar stool and he swung it violently in front of himself with his eyes closed.
As the drunken chatter fell quiet, Murray opened his eyes. No one was there.
The pub rumbled with laughter, but none laughed as hard as the bartender and Don.
"Shut up ye! Ye all listen to me here! Ain't now silver haired punk with nuttin but a bad rap gonna scare me! I'd take him on! He be just another brat like da others! Scum I tell ye! Scum! Be gone with him, be gone with em all!"
The man in the corner froze his finger. His eyes shone brilliantly as he observed the ferocious Murray. His other hand began stroking the spiraling handle of his blade lying against the table.
Murray sat where his seat should have been, meeting the floor once again. "Blimey!" he yelled. The crowd laughed again, falling off their own chairs. Murray mumbled and reached for the chair beside him. He sat upon it and hunched over the counter.
"Another beer Dale…"
The stranger rose from his table and swung his sword across his back.
"Eh!" Donald exclaimed. "Ain't nuttin Murray. Is normal to be scared of 'im."
"I say I ain't scared and I ain't" Murray pouted.
"Strong words," a voice said accompanied by an unenthusiastic clap. "Didn't understand a word you just said but I'm sure it meant something to the other brainless folk here."
Donald went cold, the voice echoing from behind him. He turned around carefully, the ringing of the clapping lingering in his skull.
The man had a youthful stature and a round face. His face was yet distinguished and all innocence of youth was absent. His silver hair shone in the dull light of the pub. It lay level with his eyes and tangled wildly in the back to his chin. His eyes caught the flare of the lanterns glowing so dimly. The stare was adventurous and dangerous and chilled the two men at the counter. His hands were sealed in his pockets. He was covered from head to toe in poorly sewn clothing. He wore heavy leather gauntlets and thick boots. He was cloaked in a potato-sack material cape the hung lifelessly behind him and the collar covered his mouth. The sword on his back was magnificent – sleek, elegant with a blade larger then any sword the men had ever seen.
"Evenin' ladies."
"Can we help u sir?" Dale spat, his hands on his hips.
"Nah," he said, flipping his hair back with a lazy flick of his chin. "Just wanted to say, 'hi'."
Seeing the frozen, dead look on Murray's face, the man smiled and leaned towards him.
"Hi…" he whispered.
Murray howled and jumped backwards, kicking over and stepping on his new stool. Splinters flew in every direction.
A fist flew at the man's outstretched face. He leaned back instinctively and took a stride backwards – his hands still inside his pockets. He watched Donald's face turn red and smiled teasingly.
"Ye… ye monster!" he said trembling, his hands still in fists. "Murray be right! Ye're just a pup who needs trainin'! Someone outta knock ye around a bit like me dad did me. Turn ye into a man like me!"
"Hey! You boys can take that outside, do you hear me?" Dale shrieked.
"Well, as much as I want to be a drunken bastard when I grow up, I'm gonna have to pass. You might wanna let your father know too that he might wanna lay of the head shots next time so his next kid has some brain left to live with."
Donald grunted and bellowed a loud sound – lashing another fist at the boy.
At the last moment, the boy swung around Donald's fist - dragging his foot across the floor, underneath Donald, as he moved. The boot made contact with Donald's shin. Donald flew head first into the table across from him and it shattered upon impact. The men who had been at the table groaned beneath Donald's large form.
Dale dove behind the counter.
"The bigger they are…" The man chuckled.
"Ye'll pay for that one boy!" Murray roared, sprinting towards him.
"I doubt it."
The boy kicked off the ground, jumping over Murray's head. Murray looked up towards the boy. He was met, almost in slow motion, with the bottom of a boot. The boy stepped down Murray's back, and gave a push with his foot on the final step. Maury launched forward waving his hands in an attempt to gain balance.
Donald climbed to his feet rubbing his head. His friend came crashing into him. Both fell into the wreckage, crushing the innocent men at the table again. A combination of pain and alcohol claimed consciousness of the two men.
"I'm taking one of the rooms upstairs, don't bother me, got it?"
Dale whimpered and nodded.
"It's nice we understand each other," he said flashing a fake grin.
His hands still in his pockets, the man who will come to be known as Hayden, strolled up the stairs to his room.