Jence was ill. Not a particularly unusual occurrence- he'd led a rather 'eventful' life, and was teetering on the cusp of his sixth decade- but this time it was different. His latest in a string of partners had left, coming to the same conclusion as the ones before her; that he was a good-for-nothing old man with no more to offer than debts and a worn down tavern. And while both the sickness and deserting mistresses were fairly routine events, they rarely happened at the same time.
With nobody else around to do it, the running of the tavern had fallen to Lamb and, just like all the patrons, he hated it. He couldn't cook the meat without burning it or leaving it raw. He couldn't carry the drinks without spilling them on the way. He couldn't pass a gambling table without doing his futile utmost to join the game. Nobody held it against him- the customers knew well enough that he didn't want this any more than them- but it was hard not to get irritated at a boy who seemingly couldn't tie his own shoelaces without somebody to hold him steady.
Lamb had only been in charge of the Boar's Head for a few days, but he was already convinced he'd rather be anywhere else. Normally he was just here to break up fights and boot out those too drunk to leave, and that was fine and dandy. He'd have most of the day to himself; free to chat up girls, steal from the most inebriated patrons, and tell the god-awful jokes he had a reputation for- which, in his opinion, was exactly what a sixteen-year-old should be doing. But slaving away to actually run the place, for no thanks or payment, was his idea of a living hell.
Idly musing on the unfairness of the situation, he skipped over to a table where four men were playing at dice, dumping their ale unceremoniously on the scratched and beaten wood of the table. "There y'go, lads." A few muffle grunts greeted him in reply, but none bothered to look up from their game. He stood there for a few seconds, head cocked, before making up his mind, pulling up a chair, and setting himself down beside them. "Got room for another?"
One of the men snorted. "Don't you have a tavern to run?"
Lamb dismissed the question with a shake of the head, trying and failing to brush his mop of brown hair out of his eyes. "I do food an' drinks. The old man wants more, he can get stuffed."
"Charming," muttered another of the men, who Lamb ignored.
"So, you got a spot?"
The first man- a regular customer, but one Lamb had never bothered learning the name of- eyed him derisively up and down. "Come back when you can grow a beard."
The boy raised an eyebrow. "That's a beard? Looks like some kinda dead animal."
The first man rose to his feet, bristling with outrage as the other three stifled laughter. "You looking for a fight, kid?"
"Maybe I am," the five foot teenager squared up to him, "Arm wrestle. Me an' you. I win, I play a round."
"Don't be stupid," the man grunted, "there's not a man here who'd take you up on that offer."
"Why? You scared of a kid?"
"No. But I'm not an idiot. And you can't goad me into becoming one."
Everybody knew the story of Matthias Lamb. Nearly ten years ago Jence had got up one morning, opened the door to find two remarkable things. The first was a wooden statue of an armoured knight, nearly seven feet tall and carved from solid oak. The second was a little boy, snoring soundly and wrapped in a tattered woollen blanket. In an uncharacteristic act of charity he claimed to have regretted ever since, Jence took the child under his wing, giving him a food and a roof in exchange for help in the tavern. He named him Matthias Lamb after his own father, and the blanket the child had worn, and the boy became a regular in the tavern.
At first the boy seemed useless, and Jence had despaired of ever finding some way he might prove helpful. But then one day, a year after he had taken him in, Jence once again awoke and went downstairs to the tavern to find, to his surprise, the statue that had since that day stood guard outside the entrance had suddenly appeared beside the inside doorway. When asked about it Lamb claimed he had moved it himself, which Jence refused to believe; until he watched- with his own eyes- the little boy pick it up as though it weighed nothing at all.
Lamb, it transpired, was as far as they could tell stronger than any man alive. It was clearly a strength that originated from magic, but nobody knew how or why. The boy never recovered his memories of before he was taken in, and none of the so-called 'mages' that occasionally stopped by were able to discern the source, so eventually everyone gave up thinking about it. Lamb was Lamb, and that was that. His role became that of a peacekeeper, breaking up fights and getting rid of troublesome customers, and it didn't take long for people to start taking the child seriously. Even at ten years old he had a grip that could break an arm, and could take on a grown man with both hands behind his back. Hence, none of the regulars was keen on challenging him to a contest of strength.
Luckily for him, they weren't all regulars.
The second man stood, grinning to himself. "What's the problem, Carle? I knew you were weak, but this is just sad."
"Shut up," the first man snapped through gritted teeth, "you don't know crap. It's not like you'd do any better."
"Oh, really?" The second man stepped forward, rolling up the sleeve on his right arm. "Carle's always been a coward. You still want to go, kid?"
Lamb smiled. "Course."
At a gesture, the gambling table was swept clear, and the two sat opposite each other, locking hands and resting their elbows on the battered surface. The man looked across at him. "You've got spirit. I like that."
Lamb cockily locked gazes with him. "You too."
A lot of the patrons walked over, crowding round to watch the contest, but none of the regulars bothered getting up. It was an ant against a giant- a labourer, tall and burly, against a short and clumsy teenager. Lamb's arm was well honed, certainly not weak, but the man's was a veritable mountain of muscle. It was easy for those who didn't know better to think the boy didn't have a hope.
Then the word went through the small crowd. Three. Two. One. Now!
Their opposing faces hardened. The man's arm bulged, swelling ogrishly as the muscles beneath ground into action, and Lamb's set, hard as iron, muscles rippling as they fought. Neither moved. The labourer's eyes widened in surprise. Lamb's narrowed in challenge. A second passed. Two. At first it seemed neither would budge an inch, but ever so slowly, Lamb began to slip. It was only a hair's breadth to begin with, but soon that grew into five, ten, and then his arm was halfway to the table.
The man's face reddened, sweat beginning to gather, beads of it rolling down his cheeks. He grunted wordlessly, subconsciously, and Lamb did the same. They carried on in their contest, Lamb losing more and more ground, but at a slower and slower pace. His arm continued to fall, but not by quite as much. After what seemed like an age his clenched fist reached a few inches off the table; but it got no further.
The man opposite him gasped in pain and disbelief. He'd gotten so far- this should be the easiest bit, the final stretch- but now he couldn't make the slightest bit of headway. It was as though the boy's arm was made of steel. Sweat ran freely down his beetroot face, and his arm began to twitch. Only a little, but a little was all that was needed. The tiniest hint of a smile twitched on Lamb's set face. Five seconds passed. The labourer's arm started quivering, beginning to give under the strain. Ten seconds and it was shaking freely, oxygen-starved muscles tearing under the force. Then, all of a sudden, his arm went limp. Lamb grinned triumphantly, and without a second's thought brought it back to the top of its arc, slamming it down hard against the other side of the table
The boy leaped clear of his chair, shaking the stress out of his arm, wiping imaginary sweat off his brow as the exhausted worker slumped defeated in his seat. A moment's stunned silence, and then the room broke into exhilarated cheering. Nearly a minute had passed since the contest began, the tensest and most extraordinary they'd ever seen. And at the end of the day, everybody loved an underdog.
Lamb walked over to the man, who watched him approach with both respect and a little fear, then stopped, looking him straight in the eyes. Only the two of them knew what had really happened- right when he had been about to lose, Lamb had seemingly doubled in strength, stopping the other man in his tracks with pathetic ease and choosing to bring about a stalemate when he could just easily have won there and then. With his monstrous strength, he could have finished the contest the instant it began, but had opted to prolong it for the crowd. But then, as spontaneously as it had come about, the moments was broken. He held out his hand, the beaten man shook it, and the two reached an unspoken agreement never to mention what had gone on.
"Now," Lamb said, turning to Carle, "you owe a game."
"Fine," he muttered, having already predicted the inevitable outcome of the bout, "five dice, call a number, closest wins. You've got one round."
The four men sat around the table, and Lamb joined them. Carle rolled the dice around in his hand, while the other four threw coppers into the centre, before beginning the calls.
"Twenty-one."
"Eighteen."
"Seventeen."
Lamb paused, the corners of his mouth twitching. "Two ones, a three, a five an' a six."
Carle stopped. His eyes narrowed, but he didn't comment on it. "Sixteen, then." He chucked the dice onto the table where they bounced across the surface, time seeming to stop as they came gradually as a halt.
Time stopped altogether, and four pairs of eyes widened as one.
Bursting into spontaneous laughter, Lamb snatched the coins with practised ease, racing away through the tavern and exercising an uncharacteristic level of agility as he vaulted to safety behind the bar.
Behind him came outraged spluttering. "You cheated! You cheated, you son of a-"
"Can't prove nothing," Lamb called back, "I mighta just been lucky."
"Lucky my arse," Carle snapped viciously as he strode over to the bar, "you cheated. I don't know how but you cheated, you little brat."
The boy set his arms down on the counter top, casually resting his chin on them. "That's a nasty accusation. I run this place, an' you say I'm cheating?"
"Just try it," the bigger man reached for his belt and pulled out an enormous gutting knife, "Just bloody try playing innocent. We want our money back."
Lamb whistled nonchalantly, looking the blade over. "Compensating?"
The man swore, swinging at his head, and Lamb caught him at the wrist, all traces of humour gone in an instant. He tightened his grip, enough to make the other man cry out, and when he spoke again he sounded much more like the peacekeeper he was hired to be. "I'm gonna say your arm slipped. Cus' you know what I've got t'do to anyone starting fights." He tightened his grip again and Carle's face crumpled, the blade falling from his hand. "Am I right?"
"Fine! Yes!" Carle snarled resentfully through gritted teeth. "I slipped! That's all!"
"Great," Lamb let him free, "glad t'hear it."
The big man spat on the floor, turning his back and stalking angrily out of the tavern, friends following in his footsteps. Lamb sighed to himself, sinking dejectedly back against the wall as talk in the tense room gradually began to rise once more. He'd gone too far, again. Carle wouldn't be coming back. That was the second regular in the past week he'd managed to lose. But it was just so boring here- he always ended up doing stupid stuff like that, and every now and again it went a little too far. He really wasn't cut out for this job.
He pulled one of the copper pieces out of his pocket, rubbing it idly between his finger and thumb, then flipping it up in the air, catching it, flipping it again. This just felt cheap. It wasn't really like he needed the money anyway. He spent most of his life shut in here, had no friends to spend it with, and had never really cared about possessions anyway. He'd just had a desire to outwit somebody, but now that he had he felt rotten. What an idiot he was.
Busy trying not to imagine what Jence would say when he found out, it took him a long time to pick up on the atmosphere. In the time he'd spent thinking, the room had gone completely, deadly, silent. Instantly on edge and prepared for the worst, he picked up on a silhouette in the doorway, upon which everyone's attention was fixed. Praying to god it wasn't the men he'd sent off, back with friends to start something, he slowly turned to look at the figure.
And found himself gazing into the visor of a plate-armoured Warden.
