Quentin smiled as the barmaid placed two mugs filled to the
brim with foamy brown beer on the worn wooden table in front of him.
“Lovely jugs,” he said with a wink. The barmaid, who was
indeed extremely well-endowed and wore the clothes to show it, giggled at the
goblin.
“Ooh, sir, you are a card,” she said, then sashayed away to
the next table, blowing a kiss to Quentin over her shoulder as she walked. The
goblin sat back in his chair with a self-satisfied sigh, picking up one of the
beers with one long-fingered hand.
Across from him, Scrote furrowed his brow slightly. Quentin
noticed this, and his sigh turned into one of exasperation. “It’s a figure of
speech, Scrote,” he said. Scrote’s face uncurled and he grinned as realisation
sunk in. Quentin shook his head and looked around at the other patrons of the
“Croak and Stagger” tavern.
It was the kind of bar that attracted people who, for one
reason or another, wanted to avoid the glittering lights, glamour and watchmen
of the rest of the town. It was a dim, gloomy affair, the kind of place where
it barely matters if the barman spits in your beer because it would probably
improve the taste. A pair of burly men sat at the bar, comparing tales of their
sexual exploits in loud voices, whilst next to them sat a pair of cat-headed
ladies who were merely comparing their tails. A group of hobbits fresh from
their holes occupied the table next to Scrote and Quentins’, bits of soil and
worms still stuck in their curly hair; their annoying squeaky voices could be
heard even above the dreadful piano music that filled the tavern.
Quentin’s eye was caught by a shadowy figure who sat alone
in the corner, half-concealed in the smoky gloom. He was a strange-looking man,
with a hood covering the top half of his face; what could be seen of him looked
weather-beaten, as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. He wore a dark green,
travel-stained cloak and sat with his feet up on the table, showing off muddy
boots of supple leather. In his hand he held a long-stemmed pipe which was
responsible for much of the smoke that floated around the room. The hilt of a
sword protruded from the level of his waist, its pommel plain and its handle
well-worn.
His demeanour and the
air of mystery surrounding him spoke of some hidden agony, some inner majesty,
some manifest destiny that would inexorably place him amongst the greatest
heroes ever known on Analgesia. Quentin was almost lost in the sense of legends
yet to unfold that radiated from the man; he flagged down the busty barmaid.
“That man,” said the goblin as she leant down close to him.
“Who is he?”
“’im? Rightly, sir, no-one really knows,” the barmaid
whispered, directing a swift and fearful glance at the man in the corner. “Some
say ‘e’s one of them woodland folk…”
“An elf?” Quentin said, eyebrows raised in shock and not a
little awe.
“No, no,” the barmaid said, “’e just lives on ‘is own in the
woods, like. ‘E comes to town quite often, though. ‘E’s a master of camouflage,
I ‘eard; ‘e can ‘ide in any bush and you wouldn’t be able to see ‘im ‘owever
‘ard you tried!”
“Wow,” said Quentin, avoiding the temptation to forcibly introduce
the barmaid to the letter “h”, “he sounds… amazing. What’s his name?”
“Well, sir, no-one knows ‘is real name. We do ‘ave a kind of
name for ‘im, though, round ‘ere, cos of ‘is night-time ‘abits…”
“Yes?” Quentin insisted. Both he and Scrote, who had been
listening in, leaned forward as the barmaid’s voice dropped another octave.
“”Well, round ‘ere,” she whispered, “all the women call ‘im
“stalker”.”
Scrote immediately burst out laughing. The barmaid sashayed
away again as Quentin turned bright red and took a long, steadying pull of his
pint.
On the table next to them, the group of hobbits were still
chatting incessantly, their heads just about protruding above the tabletop.
Usually Quentin tried to avoid hearing any aspects of a hobbit conversation,
due to their idiotic accents and their rabbit-like obsession with fornication;
but as in this instance it was either eavesdrop on the hobbits or listen to
Scrote repeat what had just happened in his usual tiresome way, Quentin chose
the lesser of two evils.
As is usually the case, the biggest and fattest hobbit
seemed to be leading the discussion, the rest of the group caught in his
gravitational pull. He seemed to be telling a funny story, judging by the
laughter emanating from his fellows. Quentin strained his ears to listen in.
“And then, right, then, this bloke, the one wiv the bad
‘alitosis, well blow me if ‘e dain’t throw up bloody everywhere!” More howls of
laughter; the fat one joined in this time, tears streaming down his
wart-covered face. They couldn’t be talking about… Quentin thought.
“What ‘appened then, Hobo?” asked one of the hobbits, whose
hair had been styled into spikes (Quentin shuddered to think what he’d used for
hair gel).
The fat one, Hobo, wiped his face with his hand, adding an
extra layer of dirt to his already grotty visage.
“Then, right, they grab the
little smelly one and cover ‘im in feathers, right, and they chase ‘im and ‘is
stupid mate right out of the bloody village!” Again, gales of laughter; on the
next table Quentin clenched his jaw, as steam began to trickle out of his ears
again. He picked up his beer mug with a white-knuckled fist and drained it to
the dregs.
Gradually, the hobbits’ laughter died down, although the
occasional chuckle still sporadically escaped.
The fat one leant
back in his chair and inserted a stubby finger into his excessively hairy
nostrils, wiggling it around thoughtfully as he spoke his next words.
“They’re lucky they dain’t try that in the next village
over,” he said. “There’s a witch terrorisin’ that village, they say, and she
don’ like people musclin’ in on ‘er act.” Having found what he wanted, the
hobbit withdrew his finger and flicked the enormous bogey he’d extracted into
the air, where, in accordance with the dual principles of gravity and comedy,
it described a beautiful parabolic arc and landed, unnoticed, in Scrote’s beer.
“Terrified of ‘er, they are. Do anything to get rid of ‘er, I’ve ‘eard say.”
Quentin stopped listening, and turned excitedly to a still
chuckling Scrote. “Did you hear that?” he said.
“Yeah, I did! “Stalker”!” Scrote broke off into another fit
of laughter. Quentin put his hand over his eyes, and spoke through gritted
teeth.
“No, you idiot, not that. What the hobbit said, about the
witch in the next village.”
“A witch?” Scrote’s eyes were suddenly wide, the laugh dying
in his throat. “Those poor people!”
“No, Scrote,” Quentin said, “not poor, stupid. Witch indeed!
There’s no such thing. Probably just some old woman who lives in the woods that
they all blame for their crops failing ‘cos she mumbles a lot and owns a mangy
cat.”
“Oh,” said Scrote. His brow furrowed, as it usually did when
he was pondering a large problem, like which direction was “left”. “But, what
does that have to do with us?”
Quentin turned his eyes up to the ceiling and took a deep
breath. “Seriously, Scrote, that fall from the ugly tree really messed up your
brain as well as your face, didn’t it?” Scrote gave him a blank smile. “What it
has to do with us...is that it’s our ticket to being able to drink and sleep in
a better place than this dung-heap, for starters.”
“Ooooh,” said Scrote, leaning forward. “Does this mean you
have an idea, Quents?”
“Don’t ever call me that again, idiot,” said Quentin. “And
yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“Is it a particularly clever and guileful idea, Quen...tin?”
“It is indeed a most devious scheme, Scrote.”
“Could you perhaps describe it as a cunning plan, then?”
Quentin frowned at him. “You need to stop reading those
stupid parchments,” he said. “Nobody speaks like that. ““Cunning plan”, who’d
ever call it that? Now, listen, because I’m only going to say this once.”
“Why?” said Scrote.
Quentin was saved from having to answer as the door to the
tavern burst open. Every head in the bar turned to see it, some patrons even
moving their chairs so they could get a better view. The wind outside howled,
the rain driving against the cobblestones and forcing its way over the
threshold. There was a flash of lightning and a tremendous peal of thunder; the
barman peered out of the small window above the bar that let some light in on
its customers, a puzzled frown upon his superbly moustachioed face.
“It was sunny a second ago,” he said, but his customers’
attention was elsewhere. A large and impressively bearded figure had filled the
door, silhouetted by the sudden lightning. Its wide cloak billowed in the
doorway, as if its wearer was gathering the shadows around itself; in its hand
it carried a long wooden staff carved with strange and eldritch sigils that twisted
and writhed as the awestruck crowd looked on. Something about it looked
familiar to Quentin, but he couldn’t quite place it.
The figure stepped into the pub, the door swinging shut of
its own accord behind him. The wide brim of its large pointed hat cast a shadow
over its face, obscuring the detail; the staff made an impressive booming noise
as the figure grounded it on the floor. After taking four paces forward, the
figure halted, and threw its arms wide.
The penny dropped for Quentin. “Oh, not again...” he said.
“Good mowwow to all in this place!” said an annoyingly nasal
voice. Quentin looked down into his mug and shook his head sadly as around him
the entire pub burst into laughter. The figure’s face fell; it reached up a
scabby hand and adjusted its hat, which was in danger of slipping over its
eyes.
“Godwin!” cried Scrote, beaming happily. Quentin swiftly
grabbed him and forced his head down under the table, hoping that the wizard
had not noticed them; but it was too late. Godwin’s smile reappeared, and he
strode over to the table; Quentin noticed his staff had stopped making the
booming noise. Entertainment seemingly over, the rest of the tavern’s customers
turned back to their drinks, although the occasional smirk was aimed in their
direction throughout the conversation that followed.
“Well, hello again,” the wizard said, in his annoying, nasal
voice. Quentin straightened up to greet the weary traveller.
“Sod off,” he said.
This time the smile on Godwin’s face did not disappear.
Instead, completely ignoring Scrote, he insinuated himself onto the seat
opposite Quentin; Scrote was pressed up against the wall by the wizard’s bulk.
“Can I at least buy you a dwink?” he said.
Quentin looked at his empty mug, and bit his lip. “Alright,
then,” he said. “You get five minutes, then you can sod off.”
The wizard clapped his hands. “Barmaid, bring some dwinks
for my fwiends!” Beside him, Scrote smiled, despite his uncomfortable position;
Quentin rolled his eyes. The barmaid
looked coolly at the wizard for a moment, then pulled three pints into stained
mugs and bought them over. Godwin took his and quaffed it with every sign of
enjoyment; a good quantity of it slopped down his fake beard, which at least
washed off some of the remaining residues of bird droppings. Quentin sipped his
own drink more decorously, whilst Scrote at least managed to avoid spilling his
down his filthy shirt. Godwin set his now empty mug and smacked his lips.
“Well?” Quentin said.
Godwin steepled his fingers and gazed over them at Quentin.
Evidently, he felt that it gave him some gravity, but to Quentin it looked like
the wizard was about to blow his nose. “I have a... pwoposition for you, my
fwiend,” the wizard said.
Quentin pressed his back against his chair, his eyes
widening. “No,” he said. “Look, no offence, I have nothing against...you know,
what you like or whatever, but I don’t swing that way.”
Godwin looked puzzled for a moment. “No, no, you don’t
understand-I mean a business pwoposition,” he said, and Quentin’s suddenly
tense shoulders relaxed a little.
“Oh... well, go on then,” he said. He may as well hear
Godwin, he thought, at least until he’d finished his own drink; the idiot
hadn’t paid for them yet.
Godwin cleared his throat, and leant forward. “What if I
told you that I was here on diwect orders fwom the King of Analgesia?” he
whispered.
Quentin gave a gasp of barely concealed awe, his eyes wide.
He leaned in close, taking a conspirational glance around, and placed his mouth
next to Godwin’s ear. “I’d say you were a lunatic,” he said.
The wizard pulled back, his bushy eyebrows drawn together.
“Look, are you going to take this sewiously or not?” he asked.
Quentin just smiled. The wizard adjusted the hang of his
false beard, peering suspiciously at the goblin. Satisfied that his carefully
rehearsed speech was not going to be further interrupted by anyone other than
himself, he continued.
“I am here on the diwect orders of His Majesty, and I have
chosen you to aid me on my noble and dangewous quest to save the wealm from destwuction,”
he said. “Our land faces gwave and tewwible thweats, even here, deep within its
borders, and it is my sworn duty to oppose them in any way I can. And, having
heard about your talents, Mr Quentin, I want your help. I feel there is more to
you than meets the eye. What do you say?”
Quentin looked deep into Godwin’s eyes. Solemnly, he placed
both of his hands flat on the table before him; when he spoke, it was in the
deep and earnest tones of a goblin ready to face up to his patriotic duty.
“Would this mean I would travel with you far and wide,
risking death on a daily basis for king and country, with you always close by
my side?”
“Well, er, if you want to put it that way, then, yes,” said
Godwin, smiling.
“Oh. Then, no.” said Quentin. “The day I aid you is the day
pigs start flying.”
The wizard’s eyebrows shot sharply upwards, and his false
beard slipped from one of his ears and ended up hanging loosely from his face,
exposing rose-tinted cheeks. “You would turn down a chance to save your
country... to save the world?” he asked.
“Pretty much, yeah,” Quentin said. “Scrote, show him the door, will you?”
Scrote, with some difficulty given the squashing proximity
of the wizard, turned around and pointed towards the door to the tavern
(Quentin rolled his eyes again). Godwin stood up, false beard swinging wildly.
He extended an ominous finger towards Quentin.
“Mark my words, goblin,” he said. “You will wue your
flippancy!”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Quentin. “Now you’ve had your five
minutes, so get lost.”
With a snort of rage, Godwin turned on his heel and stormed
off towards the exit. As he passed the last table, the swarthy man sitting
there called out “’Ey, mate, you’ve got bird doin’s all down yer cloak!”, and
the tavern burst into laughter again. As the door slammed shut behind the irate
wizard, Quentin turned to Scrote again.
“Now, where were we... Oh right, this “witch” thing. Well,
Scrote, here’s what we’re going to do...”
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