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Chapter 4: Calmorene Merchant
The inn smelled of dust, sweat, and particularly strong ale.
As all inns are apt to be, the Lion's Tavern was crowded, small worn tables crammed into a wide room with a crackling fire pit in the center. Harried serving fauns clattered from place to place, always bearing a tray overlade with food, ale, and dishes. But what completed the crowded, smoky atmosphere were the filthy farmers, workers, and soldiers that occupied the tables and all but concealed the wide bar counter and the sullen bartender behind it.
Osman Fayiz Sakhr was not impressed.
He had arrived in Arcennene one hour ago and already he was questioning the prudence of his decision.
The trouble had begun when he requested a room with a window. The barkeep had quickly informed him, in a drawling slur that caused Osman to suspect that this man had been sampling his liquor too often, that there weren't any rooms with a window available.
When Osman asked if there was merely a room, the barkeep grinned, showing the Calmorene merchant his gap-filled set of teeth, and proceeded to say that there was one room left but it was by the kitchen.
Osman, beginning to taste the bitterness of regret, had lifted his coin purse and purchased the little room for the night. He'd then asked for a table, one outside the cloud of smoke in the center of the room.
The barmaid had made a face at him before sauntering off towards a table in the corner of the room. She had stopped abruptly, pointed to the table, taken his order for a pot of hot water, and left grumbling.
And here he sat, alone and not at all ruing the fact. If the Lion's Tavern was a sampling of the town's occupants he'd rather be in solitude. To be entirely honest, he wasn't even sure if he wanted to stay within the town's boundaries a moment longer.
He was still weighing the downsides against the benefits when the barmaid returned, a tarnished tea kettle in hand. A loud 'thunk' rang in his ears as she placed the kettle on his table, grimly waiting for his approval.
"Your hot water, mister."
Osman eyed the discolored metal warily. In Azim Balda, his current city of residence, such a kettle would have been pronounced unworthy years ago. Yet, he supposed it was the only vessel able to hold boiling water to be found in such an establishment.
The barmaid's eyes narrowed as she caught onto his displeasure. "Arcennene's not exactly known for rivaling Cair Paravel, hun. Use it or I'll take it back to the kitchen. But don't think you're getting out of the bill." She reached to reclaim the kettle.
"No. Thank you." Osman's hand closed around the handle before the barmaid's fingers could snatch it away. "I will be fine with this."
She watched him warily for a moment and seemed satisfied when he turned to his satchel. The two copper coins were exchanged quickly and quietly and she moved away as soon as she had the currency in the center of her faun palm.
Osman gave a longsuffering sigh and rooted around a moment longer in the soft leather satchel to pull out a small silk bag. Already he could smell the tea's spicy fragrance.
A fragment of the disgust melted away as he placed several dried leaves into the steaming water, the scents filling the air about his face. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, glad to be free of the ale's acidic stench.
He was still breathing deeply of the aromatic air when the door to the Lion's Tavern creaked open. Osman would have paid the entrance no attention, the door had opened and closed constantly since his arrival as the men finished their work for the day and headed to the bar to fetch themselves a pint of ale, but the pair that entered where unlike any he'd seen in this town.
The first was dark-haired, not altogether uncommon, and a set of equally dark brown eyes. They were alert and roved the area in a quick sweep of approval before he motioned to the other behind him.
And it was the second that brought a flood of questions to Osman's head. This one had hair the color of fine golden silk. His eyes were not the dark brown of his companion but a brilliant blue, the color of the sea on a bright spring morning.
Both were tall, taller than most of the creatures crowding around the bar, and lanky. They wore not the rough wool of most of their forebears but smooth cotton. With the dark haired one in lead they moved towards the bar, stepping self-assuredly.
A slight break in the tables, chairs, and masses of the crowd left Osman with even more questions. The two newcomers did not walk with hoofed feet, or cloven feet, or paws, or anything of the kind.
They walked with legs. As though they were sons of Adam.
Surely not…in this town? Nay, this must be a taller line of dwarven descent.
Now wholly curious, he watched as the two 'dwarves' pushed their way to the bar and ordered, from what came sliding down the rail, two ales.
Here Osman's attention waned. His tea was prepared and he had no desire to watch two young 'dwarves' get themselves intoxicated. Osman did indulge in a glass of mulled wine occasionally but he'd been to enough banquets to see people drink their way to a frenzy of drunkenness. That alone stayed much of his desire to consume ale, or anything of the kind.
He devoted his attention to his tea instead. The dark leaves had spread out in the water's warm caress and the water itself had become a rich auburn. Carefully dipping his spoon into the water, he neatly retrieved the leaves and disposed of them.
Then, he poured himself a cup and sat back to block out the noises of the tavern and instead focus on relaxing. His eyes drifted shut as the fragments of annoyance drifted away. He could almost imagine that he was drinking his tea by the bazaar back home…
A thundering crash shattered any hope of mentally returning home.
His eyes snapped open and he found that the dark-haired 'dwarf' was on his rump by the bar, four burly wolves snarling down at him. The crowds around them had instantly gone quiet, watching the confrontation with wide eyes and baited breath.
"Watch it, young one. I've killed creatures twice your size." The wolf in front growled.
The 'dwarf' pushed himself back up to his feet, brushed off the knees of his breeches, and took his seat again, calmly overlooking the threat.
It seemed a harder task for his companion. Beneath his golden head, his brows knotted and his mouth was twisted into a glowering scowl, looking very much like he wanted to break a few chairs over the wolf's head.
The dark-haired 'dwarf' merely grasped his friend by the wrist and yanked down hard, giving the other no choice but to sit back down.
The four wolves did not seem to appreciate the 'dwarf's' attempt to remain free of conflict and the one in lead spoke again, each word dripping with contempt. "Are you afraid, little one?"
The 'dwarf' pointedly ignored him and reached for his mug of ale.
The wolf lunged, his paw knocking the ale from the table. "I said, are you afraid?"
The 'dwarf' watched with a mixture of disappointment and frustration as the ale disappeared through chinks in the wooden flooring.
But his golden haired friend rose to his feet. "Look, here, my brother and I are just trying to-"
"Do I look like I care what you were trying to do?"
Here, the dark haired 'dwarf's' temper flared. "If you could see past your own nose, you might care about a lot of things!"
The wolf's shoulders tensed and his teeth appeared in the tavern's torch-lit space. "I would be careful what I said, if I were you."
"Why? Because you have killed creatures twice my size?"
The sharp teeth reappeared and the crowd unconsciously shrank back. "You're asking for a fight, tiny."
The golden haired 'dwarf' spoke first this time, and there was fire in his voice. "And you're goading for one."
"Oi! You!" The overweight, near-toothless bartender faun clomped over. "If you're going rough house, take it outside!" Even the wolves couldn't help backing away sullenly as he continued, "Fighting's not something civilized people do. I suggest you get your ale and go back to your tables."
The head wolf slunk towards the other side of the room, his long tail missing the golden-headed 'dwarf's' ale by an inch. "You're not worth my time anyway."
The blond 'dwarf' looked murderous but the dark-haired 'dwarf' placed a hand on his shoulder and stayed the wrath. "No, I'm not."
The quiet sentence reached the wolf's sharp ears and the brothers were only given a yellow eyed glare before the agile creature lunged at them, knocking over the table and sending ale flying.
Osman set his tea back on the table and stared in utter amazement as the room was rapidly torn apart. The conflict between the wolves and the 'dwarves' ignited a series of other fights, sending the room into havoc within moments.
In the first moments of the frenzy, Osman assumed the wolves would easily beat the 'dwarves' into submission and trot out, a gaping, cowering mob in their wake. But to his astonishment, the brothers held their own, deflecting blows and dodging others. Then, moving almost as a unit, they each drew a long deadly blade and moved forward, sending the crowds squealing as the wolves were driven back.
The barkeep's voice was garbled amongst the racket. "Get out…fiends! Ruining…reputation!"
The wolves seemed taken aback by the swords held by hands that undoubtedly knew to use them well, for the white fire that consumed the 'dwarves' eyes was that of a fierce warrior.
Perhaps the ale, perhaps the smoke, perhaps pride, but more likely a mixture of all three sent the wolves flying to attack, darting just out of the metal's unforgiving reach.
The odds were finally what kept the two 'dwarves' from ending the fight then and there. The door was burst through as the golden haired 'dwarf' was thrown against it. He reappeared a short moment later, dusty, no doubt bruised and, most importantly, livid.
The dark haired dwarf was filling the hole his brother had left, brows knotted and shoulders tense. "Pete!" The cry was harsh and immediately brought the golden haired 'dwarf' to his side.
They remained at their current place of defense before the wolves forced them back a step, and then another, and then another. Slowly, the door, sagging on its hinges from the 'dwarven battering ram' that had collided with it only moments before, was at their heels.
Three quick lunges and a blow to the dark haired 'dwarf's' left arm sent the brothers tumbling out and into the darkened street. The wolves did not let it end there and scrambled out in pursuit, a chorus of eerie howls echoing through the tavern.
Osman had no doubt that if anything could be seen the whole tavern would be cramming around the windows and doors to catch a glimpse of the fight. As it was only half the patrons vacated their seats and pushed their way to find a good view of the proceedings.
Sighing, he returned to his tea, taking a cautious sip only to groan in bitter remorse. During the conflict, the water had cooled. He shoved back the kettle and the cup, reaching for his satchel and the small store of dried dates packed inside.
He'd popped the first oval fruit in his mouth when the sounds from outside went still. Deathly still.
The door creaked. The crowd skittered away.
And, to a round of low murmurings, the 'dwarves' returned, swords sheathed.
They walked to their table, found their mugs among the rubbish, and reseated themselves. The dark haired 'dwarf' lifted the wooden mug and turned it over, watching mournfully as the last amber drop rolled off the rim.
"Well, it's not like he's run out of ale, Ed." The golden haired one quipped and shoved back his chair to approach the bar.
He was in the midst of ordering another round when the door was yet again opened. Both brothers' shoulders tensed and their hands flew to the sword's hilts, altogether prepared for a second round with the wolves.
But it was most certainly not a wolf that towered in the doorway. It was a massive, scowling centaur. His dark eyes were narrow slits as they darted over the masses and, if possible, became mere lines when he saw the two 'dwarves'.
"Peter?" the dark haired 'dwarf' gulped. "I think that might be all the ale we get."
"I think you might be correct." 'Peter' did not look too pleased with the situation either and Osman couldn't help wondering what these 'dwarves' had done to have so many enemies.
The centaur had a white knuckled grip on a wide broadsword. "King Peter, King Edmund, your escort awaits your presence outside."
Osman straightened, his earlier suspicions awakening. Two kings, one dark and one golden. The tale of their conquests had been told across all the lands to every child able to walk on this side of the sea.
Strong and brave and noble, they represented the best of Narnia.
And the best of Narnia was currently sitting in the midst of the remains of what had once been a peaceful, if not unkempt, tavern.
"Excellent, Oreius. I'll just get this ale and we'll be on our way." The golden one, Peter, smiled affably.
"Your majesty. Your escort awaits you." If the words would have been steel, they still would have been ground to bits under the centaur's teeth.
"Right…" Peter placed some coins on the bar top and walked over to his brother.
"I suppose its fate then. No ale?" Edmund questioned, accepting the hand the other son of Adam offered and standing.
"No ale." The centaur stepped aside to open the pathway and pointed a thick arm to the night air.
Peter only shrugged and said, "You heard the centaur."
The trio thumped out and the tavern was reigned by silence, all present trying to absorb what had just happened.
It was the barmaid that had delivered Osman's kettle who spoke first. "Who's King Edmund and King Peter?"
Fin