The Tavern Cursed

© 2012, ANDREW WARWICK

1 – The Souk of the Crimson Mists

A puzzled look flashed across the broad and honest face of the young woman with the auburn hair that had been bound behind her head with a simple leather thong. Amongst the thronging evening crowds of the souk that jostled about, she seemed out of place, a wild animal on edge, untamed fury that boiled beneath the surface, barely restrained. Though the patrons of the souks came from a myriad of cultures and peoples, and were clad in an equally varied array of clothing, from fine robes of silk and linen togas, to rough wool, slave tunics and peasant rags, she stood out by the sheer nature of her elemental vitality that came from beyond civilisation, rough edges yet to be smoothed, as a lion stood out among jackals. It showed in her fierce amber eyes and in her clean cut, tanned limbs, as much as in the well worn armour of leather and mail that encased her form, and in the heavy broadsword sheathed across her back, the leather bound hilt worn smooth by use. Her carriage and movements were those of a tiger that had caught the scent of something not before encountered, leaving it wary and on edge, yet unafraid. Despite her confident demeanour she exuded, she remained young still, a youth much confused by the antics of the civilised men who lived in the great cities of the plains.

“Are you certain of this?” she asked of the man who stood at her side, her eyes reflecting her unease with the situation. Tall and lanky, the man had none of the hard edges that so marked the woman. His face, long and languid, was pale in colour, while dark hair capped his head. Elegantly dressed, his outfit had been cut from the finest of cloth and tailored by a master’s hand so it fitted him to perfection. Loose crimson trousers were tucked into boots of soft, black leather that reached to his knees, where they were folded over. He wore a baggy white shirt of silk imported from the distant lands of Xuan, replete with wide collars and cuffs, the both edged with lace. Over the shirt he wore a black vest into which were embroidered complex patterns of vines and leaves and flowers, in crimson and golden thread. Black too was the baldric that slashed across his chest, edged with further gold thread, from which was supported a slender rapier, the bucket hilt that emerged from the scabbard gilded.

“My dear Peregrine, It is tradition,” he replied in the tones of one who sounded but half awake, his part lidded eyes doing little to dissuade that view. “If you are to become accustomed to the ways and customs of the cities, then you must be prepared to surrender some of your notions and conceptions, to compromise in an effort to fit it.”

The young woman bristled at the suggestion, her face setting with a hard, dangerous expression while her eyes blazed like amber bale-fire. “An Aedring does not surrender, not to anyone or anything. Nor does an Aedring compromise. We are unyielding and unchanging.”

The tall man sighed languorously and gave an apologetic shrug to the object of their discussion, a short man with a face like that of a fierce hawk, his cheeks sunken, eyes piercing and with a sharp, curved nose like that of a beak. His head had been shaved smooth but for a single braid that hung from the right side of his head, and this had been dyed a deep red. He wore but a simple robe of pale blue, his hands tucked away into the voluminous sleeves that he folded across his chest. Around his neck hung a string of well worn wooden bears, alternating in colours of ebony and ivory. A monk of some order, of which one neither was exactly aware, for the great city of Qaiqala, the Jewel of the Swordlands, played host to a vast array of temples, beliefs and philosophies beyond measure, he fixed upon them an expectant, dark eyed gaze, one assured that he would get that which he expected. Few there were that could match Peregrine’s gaze when such a mood had descended upon her, and not recoil from it, yet he stood their unmoving and unflinching, those dark eyes locked to hers.

“I had heard yours were an obstinate people,” the tall man remarked, “Stiff necked and unyielding. I have known you but a week and already can see that the tales do not ring false. It is little wonder that none have conquered your people, for they would make most terrible subjects.”

“Many have tried in the past, Blade,” she responded, her gaze remaining fixed upon the monk. “None have succeeded. The lands of the high hills are a harsh place, and breed a hardy people, grown strong by the simple struggles to survive. You men of the city would not last half a day in Aedring lands, for you do not have those worries, and have grown soft and complacent as a result, concerned only with your luxuries and debaucheries. But that is neither here nor there. I repeat, why does this man demand coin from us in return for the warding off of his curses?”

“It is tradition, Peregrine,” Blade tried to explain again.

The one called Peregrine grunted irritably, clearly set on edge by events, her patience fraying to a razor’s edge. “The Aedring do not take kindly to threats, nor to those who would call dooms down upon others through mummery and the supernatural.”

Blade slowly shook his head, both amused and bemused by his new companion, yet already he knew better than to display such emotions openly to her. From beneath his vest he removed a small leather pouch. “You have much to learn,” he told her as he started to draw open the strings of the pouch. The monk’s hand emerged from the concealment of his sleeve and he held it open. Blade poured the contents of the pouch into it, a collection of small copper coins worn smooth through much use and handling, and a pair of silver coins as well, in size no larger than the coppers. The hand disappeared back into the sleeve and, without a word spoken, the monk turned and walked away, merging in with the varied crowd that thronged about the souk, there to sample the many shops and stalls, taverns and establishments that lined it, whether of a legal nature or not.

“Does no one do aught about this blatant extortion?” Peregrine demanded of Blade, a deep scowl etching the features of her young face.

“Extortion? No, you misunderstand the nature of the transaction. Come, let us have a drink and I will try and explain the matter to you.”

He looked around the souk, known to all by the name of the Crimson Mists, a market place beneath a bright cloth that stretched out across it to provide shade, into which narrow passageways led between tight clustered buildings, and his eye came to rest upon a tavern across the way. A wooden sign swung above its old wooden door, bearing the curious image of a goat leaning on a shovel, illuminated by the torches that lit the evening markets. “That one,” he said, pointing across the crowds to the tavern. He could not explain the reasoning behind choosing that particular one over any other, beyond, perhaps, that the sign in some matter piqued his interest, but at some fundamental level, buried away so that it barely registered even on a subconscious level, it felt the right choice to make, as if the pieces of some vast, utterly distant puzzle had come together.

*****

The tavern for the most sat empty, the few present filling it with a sombre silence. A portly, red faced man sat at a crude wooden table of uncertain balance, bleary eyes surveying the handful of sullen patrons hunched in their seats, nursing small mugs of ale. A few torches flickered in their sconces, casting dull light through the dingy room, smoke from them curling up around stained support beams. Old rushes were strewn across the uneven pavers of the floor, while the furnishings were makeshift at best. The room smelled of rotten rushes and smoke, of sour ale and stale sweat.

Bakanon sighed at the state of it, wondering just what curse rested on the establishment that the previous owner had neglected to mention. He should have known all did not sit right, not given the price asked, but at the time his eyes had been blinded by greed at what seemed a bargain too good to pass up.

There had been other risks that he had been aware of, for it was located in notorious Souk of the Crimson Mists, an abode of cut-throats, of thieves, sell-swords, mercenaries and the rest of their ilk, and by those that preyed upon them, a place that no sensible man went. Dreams could be bought for cheap in the Souk; and lives even cheaper. Everything had a price, and in Qaiqala one went to the Crimson Mists to find it. A thriving market for his wares swirled around outside his doors, and yet, against all probability, they did not come in. Those few that did were mean with their coin, nursing small drinks in sullen silence. Worse still were the strings of accidents that seemed to befall him and the tavern, of food spoiling and ale going off, of rats too cunning for even the most skilled of ratters to bring to ground, of breakages and a score of other calamities that cropped up. He scratched at his thinning scalp with pudgy fingers, pondering the need to bring in a priest skilled in counter-curses, or some mage, a master of the Mysteries, to cleanse the building, and just how he would cover the exorbitant fees they would no doubt charge for their services.

The door banged open on its hinges, interrupting his ruminations and causing him to jump at the start. Those at the tables barely registered to the arrival of newcomers, more intent on their drinks. Bakanon’s eyes lit up at the prospect of new customers entering his tavern, hoping for a change in fortunes. Rising from his seat, he waddled across to the door, putting on a bright-eyed welcoming façade.

“Welcome, welcome friends,” he beamed, spreading his stout arms wide. “I am Bakanon, humble master of this establishment. How may I be of service?”

The two who had entered were an unlikely a looking pair as had ever dared cross over into Bakanon’s tavern before, or that he had laid eyes on beyond it. One, a tall man, an overdressed dandy by the looks of his garb and accoutrements, raised a hand to his face, covering his nose. His shorter, stockier companion, a wild woman, and one of the fiery Aedring barbarians if Bakanon was not mistaken, cast her intense amber gaze around the tavern. Neither looked as if they were much out of their youths, yet they had an air of experience about them, having seen things that few others had.

Never before had the pair entered the tavern. If they had, Bakanon was certain that he would have recalled them, no matter how deep in his cups he had been at the time. All types came to Qaiqala though, and most especially to the Souk of Crimson Mists. Some were bound to enter the tavern as a result.

“Ale,” the woman ordered of him, her eyes boring though him, “And not any of that water you lowlanders call ale. I want a drink with bite to it. And bring something to eat while you are at it to; meat preferably.”

Bakanon licked his dry lips nervously and rubbed his hands together, taken back by the forceful nature in which the woman had spoken. The women of the cities, for the most, were of a subservient nature, but not this woman, being forthright and outspoken. But all knew that the Aedring were barbarians, and their women just as much so.

“I do have something that might do the trick,” he assured her, trying to calm his nerves. “A Butanian brew. No one who has tasted it will touch it again, I must warn you.”

“I will give it a go,” the woman replied, pulling out a bench, setting her heavy broadsword down upon the table and taking a seat.

“The same for you?” Bakanon asked of the tall man.

The hand came away from the face, allowing Bakanon to see a handkerchief held in it, and catch a waft of scent. The look on the tall man’s languid face showed he found something distasteful, whether the concept of ale or the aroma of the tavern, though there was no way to tell which. “I will have wine, if you have any.”

“There is not much call for wine here,” Bakanon apologised, holding his hands out before him. “I do have a few bottles stashed away, inherited from the previous owner of the establishment.” He had no idea as to the quality of them, nor did he possess the palate to appreciate them, but he was not about to tell the dandy that. Ale and beer were what the visitors to the Souk bought, leaving wine for the rich who lived upon the island wards, far away from the sprawling masses. “Take a seat and I will bring it to you.”

*****

A clatter of bowls and mugs were set down on the surface of the rough table the pair had taken seats at. Many cuts and scrapes marred the table. The pair had their swords on the table, kept close at hand. The food Bakanon served was typical of what was on offer, being comprised of coarse, dark bread, only a few days old, alongside a watery stew. It contained a mix of withered root vegetables brought out of storage, kept there for who knew how long, and a few strips of a hard, dried meat. The butcher who had sold it to Bakanon had sworn that it was beef, though he had doubts about that and had not tried it personally. The tall man took one look at the bowl set before him and gently pushed it aside, a pained look appearing on his face. The woman took to the bowl with gusto, in marked comparison to her companion, tearing off chunks of the bread to dip into the bowl to scoop up the stew with. Between mouthfuls of the food, she threw back great gulps of her ale, slamming the mug back down on the table.

“Adequate,” she announced. “The food is good though. Bring more.”

Her companion slowly sipped at the wine he had been given, swirling it about in his mouth as he tested the taste of it. “Bring the rest of the bottle,” he instructed Bakanon. “Your predecessor had remarkably good taste.”

Bakanon scurried away to comply, his mind churning over. Most of his customers drank cheap beer and ale, and little enough of it at that. This pair together, with their appetites and tastes, would no doubt earn him as much tonight as the rest of his customers combined, so keeping them happy was a must.

When he returned from the kitchens, with another bowl of stew and the rest of the bottle of wine, the woman was cleaning out her bowl with scraps of bread, having demolished its contents already.

“I am curious as to the sign out front, and of its meaning,” the man said as Bakanon laid out what he had brought with him.

“I am much afraid that I do not know of it, and nor did my predecessor,” Bakanon replied apologetically. “Even old timers have never been able to explain it.”

The man slowly nodded his head before shrugging his shoulders indolently. “A pity. It is a most curious one. How is this place called?”

Bakanon scratched at the back of his head. “Doesn’t rightly have a name as such,” he admitted. “Some call it the Goat and Shovel, for obvious reasons, as well as other names beside. I just call it Bakanon’s, after myself.”

The man nodded again, watching Bakanon through eyes lidded half shut. His companion continued to eat, not looking up, devouring the food with a ravenous hunger. “I am called Carse of the Red Blade, but to most am known simply as Blade. My voracious friend here is Fianna, or Peregrine if you prefer, that being the meaning of her name in the Aedring tongue I am led to believe.”

“You are both most welcome here,” said Bakanon exuberantly.

Blade slowly gazed about the interior of the tavern, taking in its dingy nature, and its few customers. “You seem to be somewhat lacking in clientele, friend Bakanon,” he pointed out.

Bakanaon sighed disconsolately and took a seat at the table with them. Absently he rubbed at a spillage with a much stained cloth he carried. “Sadly it is as you say. I had presumed when I took possession to the tavern that, given the locale, there would be a roaring trade, for there are potential customers aplenty, yet, alas, they seem to avoid my establishment. I work hard, yet no matter what I do or attempt, I seem to remain invisible, beating my head against a wall that lies raised between them and me. I am much afeared that there lies a curse upon this place.”

Blade’s long and languorous face quirked, in part, more awake, his eyes becoming alert and a look of interest showing. “A curse you say?”

Bakanon admonished himself silently for having allowed the word to slip out. He had paying customers before him, and talks of curses would only dissuade them from staying, or, more importantly, returning. “Do not mind my mindless blathering.” He quickly said. “There is nothing to it, I am sure.”

Blade waved aside the objections with a languid flourish of his long fingered hand. “Perhaps I can be of some assistance. I have some small understanding of the workings of the Mysteries, and an experience of curses, at least enough to ascertain the validity of your theory.”

Bakanon sat up straight, brightening at the prospect. “It can not hurt to know at the least,” he admitted, “And I would very much be in your debt.”

Peregrine looked up from her bowl of stew, reacting for the first time to Bakanon’s presence, eyes narrowing with a cagey uncertainty. “You had best know what you are doing,” she said. “Curses are not to be meddled with.”

“I am not totally ignorant of the processes or theory,” Blade assured her. “It would be best, however, that there were no others about while I attempted this. It does take some concentration and, as my companion pointed out, it never hurts to be too careful. We do not wish for any to blame you for any accident that may occur, as unlikely as that is.”

Bakanon dashed to his feet, clapping his hands together to gather the attention of the other patrons present. “Closing time,” he boomed. “Come back tomorrow.” Bleary eyed men muttered barely coherent objections and protestations as they stumbled to their feet and staggered unsteadily towards the door. A couple needed assistance to make it to the door, where they were then unceremoniously dumped. Once the last had left, Bakanon shut the door behind them and barred it so that none could get in.

“It would be best to stand aside,” Blade warned, looking about the tavern’s interior. “And make no sound,” he added. “A distraction could have dire consequences.”

Peregrine jumped up to take a seat on the crude bar, comprised of little more than some heavy planking that had been nailed down to some barrels. She drew her sword and sat the naked blade across her lap, watching her companion at work. Bakanon scurried his hefty frame to stand behind the bar, out of the way.

Blade began to work, clearing a space at the centre of the room, dragging benches and tables aside and sweeping away the rushes on the floor. Bakanon licked his lips nervously, twisting his tattered cleaning cloth in his hands. Second thoughts as to the sensibility of taking up the offer began to plague his mind.

“He does know what he is doing?” he asked of Peregrine in a whisper.

“I have known him but a week,” Peregrine responded, “So I can not judge that. If you were to ask me, this dabbling in curses and magic is best left not done. Better a sturdy blade in hand, and foes of flesh and blood to cleave, than meddling in things not meant for man.”

Her words hardly inspired a sense of confidence in Bakanon. Grabbing a mug, he poured himself a drink to try and settle nerves already stretched tighter than a bowstring.

When at last Blade had finished clearing a space to his satisfaction, he took from his belt a small pouch. Fingers dipped in, removing not coins, as Bakanon expected, but a small amount of powdered dust. This he began to slowly sprinkle upon the floor, tracing out some form of twisting, eldritch pattern. More dust followed, elaborating upon the designs started, and as the pattern grew in size and complexity, it resulted in an eye watering effect, twisting vision around it of any who gazed too long upon it. The air and floor appeared to warp and waver, stretched taut by forces unseen. Peregrine grunted at it, her fingers curling around the hilt of her sword, as clearly unnerved by the effect as Bakanon. He took a long swig of his drink, trying to avoid looking towards it, yet even out of the corner of his eye it drew the eye into it.

Finally Blade finished the long and delicate procedure to his satisfaction and he sat back and studied his work. A touch of sweat beaded across his brow, while his face had come fully awake, all sense of indolence now a memory. “I do hope I have the right of this,” he stated.

Bakanon gulped hurriedly. “You have not done this before?”

Blade smiled lazily and waved a long hand in a dismissive gesture. “I have seen it done, and am certain that I have followed the steps correctly. There is only one way to test the theory.” From his side, he drew his rapier, the silvered blade whispering from its scabbard. “A precaution,” he smiled. “One can not be too careful.”

He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then slowly exhaled. What came forth was not merely breath, but a trilling song as well, rising up into the air, a sweet sound that rung like gentle chimes, and whispered among the heavy wooden beams that supported the roof. For Bakanon, it was as if the dingy air of the tavern lightened and the scent that pervaded the place became less pungent. As the song continued to ripple outwards, Bakanon felt his concerns begin to ease and his step lighten.

The dust on the floor began to shift about, as if stirred by a wind that touched it alone. From it a glow emerged, a pale sapphire light, edged with hints of emerald, flowing along the patterns traced upon the ground. It rose upwards like curtains that shimmered and swayed, rippling towards the roof and bathing the tavern in its soft glow.

Blade ceased his tune and stood for a while, still and silent, merely observing the results of his endeavours and considering them. “Almost there,” he announced.

Once more he began to issue forth a tune, yet one at variance with his previous one, for this held a lower tone, and slower, tinged with a sombre refrain. The shimmering glow reacted to it and flared brighter yet. From the glow emerged tendrils of light, weaving outwards, probing at the air. Some latched onto furnishing and beams, crawling sightless across them. One squeezed beneath the door that led to the kitchens, while another came gliding across the floor towards where Bakanon cowered behind the bar. It paused before him then rose up like a hooded cobra, swaying back and forward. Though it possessed no tongue, Bakanon had the sense that it scented at the air. He made to brush it aside with his hands but they passed through it as if it was nothing more than cold, intangible smoke.

Then one of the questing tendrils that had latched onto a beam that supported the roof began to pulse dark, the sapphire of its hues dimming through indigo, and deeper yet, through intense amethyst so dark that it became almost black. The pulses rippled back through the tendril and into the lights of the patterns, corrupting them in turn so that the glow began to draw light into it rather than giving it out, plunging the whole of the tavern into a stygian gloom.

“Is it meant to do that?” Peregrine asked. She jumped down from the bar lightly, her sword in hand. Her posture had changed too, now one of wary readiness, uncertain as to the form of the danger, but prepared to meet it with the fierce, unyielding resolve of her Aedring heritage. Her motions were fluid as she moved about, those of some great stalking cat on the hunt.

“No, I do not think so,” Blade replied. Not only did the worry permeate his voice, but his face likewise reflected it, a deep frown cutting across his brow. “It has found the curse, but it seems to be feeding on it as well, and the darkness has been taken into it.”

The dark tendril, now swollen in size well beyond that which it had started at, radiating an air of pure malevolence, detached from the beam where it had anchored. It floated down through the air, swaying about like a drunkard, before arrowing straight for the door that led out of the tavern. Solid planks or not, the door shattered under the impact as if constructed of mere twigs. As the tendril vanished out into the Souk, it dragged the rest of the corrupted light after it, engorging it further.

As the first screams echoed from without, Peregrine and Blade exchanged glances and then made a dash for the doorway, weapons at the ready. Sighing bitterly and regretting his inquisitive nature even as he started to waddle along, Bakanon followed them out.

On to Chapter Two – The Kurushu Warrior