Another day, another snowdrift. Or thousand.
"Éowyn… Éofric…" said Eothain. "Told you. Rhymes with prick. Even if it doesn't, it should."
"I know I ought to remind you she's the king's sister," said Elfhelm, sounding depressed, "But I think I'm past caring."
They nearly caught her in the last village before the Rammas Echor.
They rode up the main street towards the hostelry. Its sign – The Pipe Major – hung forlornly, covered in icicles. As they got closer, they could hear shouting and banging from within, and, incongruously, music. Suddenly, with a massive crash, a body sailed through the window, fragments of glass and wooden window frame scattering across the snow.
The body sat up, rubbed its head a couple of times, then passed out and flopped back into the snowdrift.
"Éowyn?" asked Elfhelm.
Éothain didn't bother to answer. He reckoned it was a rhetorical question.
They dismounted then, cautiously, Elfhelm pushed open the door to the bar.
It was chaos. Roundhouse punches, chairs flying through the air, a barmaid astride the back of a man on all fours, belting him on the head with a tin tray, two men wrestling in the spreading pool of beer from a barrel which had had its tap knocked off, and in one corner, playing for all the world as though nothing was happening, a group of pipers.
"What do we do?" Éothain asked.
"Pick our way through the mess, get a couple of shots of whisky at the bar, then sit and wait it out. Bar fights are like thunderstorms – the heavier they are, the shorter they last."
Armed with a small horn cup each, filled with a measure of rotgut, the two riders propped themselves against the bar and watched the spectacle.
"Oof," said Éothain, in a noise that was part empathy, part appreciation. A dark haired man had just rifled off a peach of a right jab into his opponent's solar plexus; the recipient was now doubled up on the floorboards gasping for breath like a freshly landed salmon.
"Bugger me," he added, involuntarily crossing his legs, as a dancing girl raised her frilly knicker clad knee and brought it sharply into contact with a red haired man's crotch.
"Well," observed Elfhelm, "After being on the receiving end of that, you'd hardly be in a state to be the one doing the buggering."
More blows landed.
"Now that," said Elfhelm, watching a classic jab and cross combination, "Is sheer quality."
A giant of a man in a farmer's smock seized a smaller one by the collar and seat of the pants, whirled him round like a hammer-thrower at the harvest games, and projected him out of the already-broken window. Meanwhile, a ferrety runt of a man picked up a skittle from the set in the corner, and whacked the giant over the back of the head. The giant went down like the ninepin he'd been hit with.
"Unsporting."
Then the barmaid stepped up and belted the runt in his turn with the tray she was wielding with all the vigour and enthusiasm of a dwarven war hammer.
"Also unsporting."
"But probably deserved."
Elfhelm poured out another couple of shots of whisky. The fight was starting to show signs of winding down. For every blow that landed, two or three haymakers were flailing through the air, missing men's jaws and heads by first hairsbreadths, then inches, then finally by handspans as the fighters dealing them were left off balance and whirling like Haradrim dervishes. The merry jig played by the pipers gradually became more audible as the noise of the fight started to die away. Out of the corner of his eye, Elfhelm spotted a man at the other end of the bar, clearly also biding his time. When he reckoned the fight had reached its final embers, the man picked up a large bucket and threw an arc of icy water over the three or four fighters still going through the motions.
"OUT, THE LOT OF YOU," he bellowed. "AND YOU, GWINDOR, YOU'RE PAYING FOR THAT BLASTED WINDOW WHEN YOU SOBER UP." He stomped back to the bar, apparently to retrieve a sweeping brush. As an afterthought, he shouted to the dancing girl "And you, Lalaith, leave that bloke alone and help me clear up."
Lalaith paused from bashing the red haired man's head on the floor in time to the pipers' reel, and then let go of his hair, allowing him to flop to the floorboards. The pipers continued despite the loss of their percussion section.
Elfhelm reached into his purse and slid a couple of coins down the bar.
"For the whisky."
He slid another two in their wake.
"And to tell us what happened."
The pub landlord looked at them suspiciously.
"And you want to know because…"
"Because we're tracking a deserter."
"Hmm. How about you just buy the bottle of whisky and I'll tell you."
Elfhelm slapped more coins on the bar. The barman perched himself upon a stool and poured a generous measure into a cup of his own.
"Him…" He gestured to the ferrety runt on the floor. "That's Daeron. He's our resident card shark. Locals know better than to play against him, but he regularly duns passing travellers if I'm not around to kick him out. Ivorwen…" Here, he pointed to the barmaid who'd been so expertly riding the donkey of a man round the floor when they walked in, "Ivorwen there, she was minding the bar when he set up a game. He'd got a couple of blokes on their way to Minas Tirith just where he wanted them, had lost small amounts on the first few hands, then won a modest amount, then a bigger amount, threw a couple of hands just to lure them back in, then won a large pot, then he had them. They were so intent on chasing their losses they'd lost all ability to think straight."
"I've seen that trick played before," said Éothain.
"You mean you've lost to that trick before," said Elfhelm.
"Anyway, there was this skinny blond rider who was also passing through – really young lad. He pulls up a chair and asks to be dealt in. Few hands go by – the lad loses small amounts, but not too much. Has enough nous to know when to fold. But then he starts winning. And Daeron starts getting suspicious. You've got to remember Daeron's been at this for years. Never kid a kidder.
"Suddenly he reaches out, grabs the lad's wrist. Like an adder striking. Catches him in the act. Dealing out of the middle of the deck."
Éothain's mouth dropped open. "Where the fuck did Éo… fric learn to do that?"
"His…other half taught him." Elfhelm's voice was matter of fact. "Last summer. When they were recovering from their wounds."
"The Stew… the stupid fucker he's seeing knows how to do that?" Éothain was even more shocked. To think he'd thought the man the most boring man on earth.
"Apparently, he learned it from his father."
Éothain's mouth was now so wide open he looked like a carp in a pond.
"Well, where-ever he learned it, it all kicked off from there. That's what started this ruckus. Half the bar took Daeron's side, wanted the Rohir lad taken to the magistrate. The other half had lost money to Daeron in the past and took the rider's side, thought turn and turn about was only fair."
"And the rider?"
"Dunno, ain't he on the floor somewhere Lalaith?"
"Can't see him," said the dancing girl.
"He slipped out the door behind the pipers just as the ruckus started," said the barmaid.
"Oh bugger," said Éothain.
~o~O~o~
AN: Dealing from the middle is a little Christmas cracker filler for Altariel. See her marvellous story "Trick" (over on AO3) - it's a lovely tale, not least because it features "Decent Dad (TM)" Denethor before the Palantir drives him mad.
Thanks for the review, Earthdragon. Yes, the Blues Brothers reference came about because Wheelrider and I have been joking over on AO3. She reckons this is a Middle Earth version of the classic 70's road movie. So of course I came up with "… and we would especially like to welcome all the representatives of Illinois law enforcement community who have chosen to join us here in the Palace Hotel Ball Room…" The link in the last chapter was to a brass ensemble playing the Peter Gunn theme by Henry Mancini.