The Dervish's Tale
Chapter 6
The thick squares of glass had let only a glow of golden light fall onto the mudded ground in front of it, so when the Dervish pushed bodily into the door, he was surprised when it opened into a tavern filled with people drinking. He stumbled forward and fell. The gashes of the claws of the lion opened again.
Thinking back, he did not believe he actually passed out. The first clear memory would be of a woman in a red dress and cream blouse vigorously wiping at his mouth with a cloth.
'Careful – he's not a sack of spuds.' The burley man, stood behind, pursed his lips and short moustache.
The woman lifted a vessel of water to his lips. He felt metal on his teeth, and watched her place the tankard on the floor. 'Can you hear me?'
'Yes.'
She held up a finger. After a short while, she said again 'Can you hear me?'
'Yes.'
'We're going to get you to a bed.'
'Yes.'
When he opened his eyes again, there was a slant of light on a wooden wall. He lay on a bed. He looked right. Dust motes hovered in a sunbeam falling from a window. He felt dreadful, but a little better. His eyes closed again. When he awoke, light was still in the room. There was a cob of bread on a crate by the birth, and a chunk of cheese. He reached over with his arm and brought them up to his mouth, gnawing on them. Then he slept again.
When he woke, the room had darkened. A glow of moonlight came from the window – it would be overhead. He rose from the bed slowly. At the foot of the creaking stairs, two doors faced each other. He opened the left.
Two men were up against each other in the shadow of the building, under a plain awning. An elbow pulled back methodically, and the pudgy arm plunged forward. With each stroke, a voice grunted breathlessly.
The Dervish stepped forward, his hand on the door-frame, then the wall. The punching man grabbed the other and looked round. His bulbous nose and sneer were visible beneath his wide straw hat. He took in the Dervish, dropped the other man and backed away, palms out. After a yard or so he ran. 'No bloody wizard.'
The other man groaned, in shadow. The Dervish made a small movement his way, then turned back around and through to the other door.
The Tavern Maid and her landlord looked towards him, and the other patrons turned. 'He's …' The Dervish leaned to the door-frame, and took a breath, and exhaled slowly. Then he did this again.
The Barmaid came forward. She put down the stein she was drying only when rounding the bar. The Dervish, for some reason, noted a bearded caricature curved round it. 'Here, sir, stay there,' she said quickly. She was almost too him when he turned to point to the other door. His arm went back. He wobbled. His legs tangled and he slumped down to his arse on the stairs, hand still holding the door-frame. With his free hand he slapped at the other portal purposefully. The Barmaid stuck her head out.
'Egbert! Come quick, there's another one out here!'
The landlord's shoulders hunched 'That bloody Sandy! He can keep his sodding turnips if he thinks he has licence to bray up my custom! Come on Horace!'
The big man at the bar put down his wooden flask.
The sun lit the room again. The Dervish turned his face from the wall. A second body lay on the floor, sacking underneath it. He raised up on his elbow, looked, then settled down again.
'Ooooooooooo!' The voice rose from the floor. A short while later, it quietly spoke 'Is anyone else here?'
'A fellow traveller.'
'I hope you're feeling better than I am. Some dirty farmer...'
'What did you say to him?'
'He … he was being a patronising old git. Calling me Little Man Soft-Hands. I asked was he the farmer with the enraged Bull that went rogue? He said yes. Probably expected sympathy. I said I'm not surprised it ran off having to look at him all day, 'cos he looked like a troll did it with a goblin nun.'
'And was that all you did, Little Man?'
'Eh? Wha...!' The Thief leaned back from where he had started up. 'Bollocks – you're that Dish lad, aren't yer? Who I had two gold off of.'
'Dervish.'
'I thought that accent sounded put on. Listen, I'm sorry I robbed off yer. I can get your gold back. That'd be fair then, wouldn't it? I never realised your were The Vish. I never would have done it if I had – I swear!'
'What about the Farmer?'
'Wha … look I'm telling the truth, I had nothing off him! I was just pushing my luck with him – I knew he had a temper. Just pisses me off, you know. I got soft hands as I use a special oil to keep 'em smooth. You need soft hands if you're going to be light with 'em. Don't tell them I'm into thieving – they'll chuck me down the trapdoor! Probably get doubled teamed by that straw-hatted dunce's parents, then slimed to death!'
The Dervish considered a moment. 'You are probably right. You are going to get me my gold back. Either that, or a sword. I was going to use the money on a sword.'
'Err, don't you have a sword?'
'I. am. trained. to use. two.'
'Oh. That's a shame you've only had on...'
'Indeed!'
Here there was a pause. 'I'll get you your gold. Once I'm well.'
'Once we are both well, you will get me my gold, or a sword.'
The Dervish and the Thief sat at the table. Opposite them, the man with the peaked cap clinked his tower of coins.
'Care to gamble again boys? Care to gamble again?' he whispered, his eye on his prize.
'No, looks like we're all out. In fact, we had better be …'
'Yes, we shall.'
'Eh...'
'Splendid.'
'And this time, you're playing against me.'
'Whatever you wish sir. I'm sure you are as wily a combatant as your friend here.'
'Oh, I play in a different way.'
'A new challenge. I like, I like!' The long, preternaturally grey hair of the stranger covered the board. When it rose, the little toad pieces had been replaced.
'Well, I guess you have your gold back now.'
The Dervish patted the bag of coins into the air an inch, and caught them.
'I did basically have to win these back for myself.'
'It's often all luck that game. I was just on a bad streak. And you never would have known about it if I hadn't spotted the case that guy was carrying.'
'This is true – and I wouldn't have known how to win if I hadn't watched you lose multiple times. Anyway - I concur, it is time for us to part.'
The two men walked to the door. The sunlight draped the hills in the late afternoon – the tower of the Ruins black against it. In the distance, a figure and a horse could be seen. The mane of the animal seemed to pick up the sunlight and flicker like a fire. It reared, and the figure was cast down. The horse ran over and over the spot.
The Thief wetted a bit of his lips from a dry mouth. 'Err, so it's quite a dangerous place out here. Now everything's settled between us, I was thinking – how's about a team up?'
'A double team?'
'Err … kind of?'
The Dervish stared at where the fight had been. The animal had run off into the sunset. Nothing else could be seen. 'I would like that, in actual fact. But it is not possible. You see – I am, it seems, bound for the Crown.'
'Bloody hell...'
'And you will know that those who seek the crown themselves cannot share it.'
'Couldn't I just … tag along?'
The Dervish considered this. Some intuition struck him.
'I think that may be fine – but not between you and me. For some reason, I think fate has something else in store for you yourself as well.'
'I know.' The Thief sat then, in the mud. He fingered his long sideburns – the same chestnut as his hair. 'Somehow, I know that's where I need to go as well. There just isn't anywhere else in this world for me. Either I'm in charge of the whole lot, or I'm worm-food. Most others in my line of trade don't get it, you see. There's never going to be a place for me unless I make one. I've gotta be it, or I'll be … Ey, where you going?'
The Dervish, skirts in hand, was picking his way through the mud. He shouted 'You truly have my best wishes. I'm going now before you try to steal my gold again. Good luck!'
'How did you kno...!? Oh well – yeah, good luck, I suppose.' He looked towards the hills. The distant horse was now pounding the spot it had been running over with it's front hooves, it's mane aflame. The thief's mouth wrinkled sourly. He turned and walked around to the back of the Tavern, picked up a shovel he had seen earlier in the yard from the window, smoothly slung it into his bag, and walked West.
At the door, unseen, the Tavern Maid polished the Dwarven-visaged stein. For a brief second, she looked back into the bar. From the pocket in her skirts she produced three small potion bottles, and studied them.
