Those Who Were Left Behind
The Thirsty Boar lay mostly vacant after the holiday season. The decorations were taken down by the staff and the tree, once magnificent to behold, now lay upon the ground outside. The vast majority of The Black Steel were called away to distant lands, serving their roles as protectors of the people. In the corner of the main hall, sat beside the hearth, was Durlston Peveril. His time with The Steel had been brief, for he encountered them on the East Road leading through the Lone Lands. He knew, as he was told, that should he ever find himself in Hamglen, that he should seek out the Inn in times of trouble. Such a time had come, and as much as he’d like to deny it, aid was needed.
The brigands within the Chetwood has become more brazen than ever before. It was common place to find corpses of innocents littering the frostbitten paths leading through the woodland. Durlston had dug more graves than he’d care to count, it was the least he could do for those whom he had failed to protect. For this was a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, there was no doubt about that. Constantly holding himself accountable for the ills of his homeland, ever seeking to fill the hole of his previous mistakes. No matter how many brigands he slew, no matter how many plots he managed to foil, it was never enough.
“Fancy a top up?” asked Bill, approaching Durlston with a bottle of wine. Durlston often drank wine in the colder seasons. Nothing better to warm you up when traversing the wilds.
“Please” said Durlston, gruffly.
“Slow night eh?” said Bill, in a vain attempt to make conversation with the man. Bill was no fool, he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Nevertheless, he would try all the same.
Durlston remained silent, simply nodding as the wine was poured. Bill eventually left him to his thoughts and he continued to sip his wine, when suddenly the front door swung open, slamming against the wall causing several of the antler decorations to fall from their pegs. One could easily be forgiven for thinking that this was caused by the wind, however, the truth of the matter was much more severe.
“Oi, barkeep!” shouted a man, leading a group of surly looking individuals into the common room. “Bring out the ale, we’re parched!”
Durlston did not turn or seem to acknowledge the newcomers, but instead continued to gaze into the fire.
“Now, barkeep! Be quick about it!”
“You will sit and wait to be served” said Durlston, taking a calm sip of wine.
“What was that? Did you say something old man?” The leader of the gang turned to his fellows and nodded in Durlston’s direction. They laughed as they approached him, surrounding his chair and even putting a foot up upon the adjacent table. “I said, did you have something to say?”
“I heard you perfectly fine” said Durlston, placing his glass down beside the foot, turning to face its owner. “And I said, take a seat and wait to be served”.
The leader spat and kicked Durlston’s glass onto the ground. He had seen many brigands in his time, one could say he had developed an eye for such things.
“Now we’ll have none of that!” shouted Bill, rushing over to the commotion. “I’m sure he meant nothing by it, just keeping the peace and all”.
“Oh aye? Keeping the peace is it? I’ll be keeping the peace tanning his arse with my sword!” The brigand drew his weapon. It was crude, but dangerous all the same. He held it up for Durlston to see. “You fancy that?”
Durlston raised a finger and placed it upon the steel. He loosely guided it away from his face and rose from his chair. He was taller, by far. But he was outnumbered. The brigand adjusted his grip upon the sword and aimed the point of the blade at Durlston’s chest.
“Perhaps we should better discuss this outside?” said Durlston.
“Is that a challenge?” asked the brigand.
“It’s an invitation and a courtesy to the proprietor” replied Durlston. He moved his way through the gathering and went towards the cloakroom. There, he took the handle of his hammer and rested it upon his shoulder as he opened the door and stepped out into the night.
As the brigands emerged from the Inn they found Durlston already standing in the grounds. He stood, motionless, his cloak blowing limply in the cold breeze. The head of his hammer was planted firmly on the ground and he rested his palms upon the pommel of the handle.
“This won’t take long” said the leader of the brigands, turning to his comrades gesturing them to fan out around him. “We’ll be taking your coin and all for making us come out here, old man.”
Durlston met the leaders gaze with a vacant expression upon his face. He did not care for this man, and would express his opinion by other means than words.
“Get him!” shouted the leader, pointing his weapon towards Durlston. Two of the brigands wasted no time to charge, raising both axe and club to strike. Durlston evaded the club and raised his hammer to knock the axe aside. Somewhat surprised by this, as he seemed much more agile than his appearance would suggest, the leader joined the fray but thrusting his sword at Durlston’s midriff. Durlston adjusted his footing, avoiding the thrust and aimed the handle of his hammer at his enemy’s chest. He struck the brigand hard in the ribs with the pommel, causing the breath to be driven from him. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees. It was not a fatal blow, for Durlston had no intention to kill, but hard enough to incapacitate his opponent. As the leader fell, his comrades began to reconsider their position. One however, who remained bold, hit Durlston hard in the shoulder with his club. Due to a prior injury this effected Durlston greatly. He cried out in pain and whirled his hammer around in an enraged vigour to strike the assailant in the leg. He heard a loud crack, the bone had surely broken. The brigand in question fell to the ground nursing his ruined leg.
“Let’s get out of here!” shouted one of the lackeys feebly assisting his winded leader to his feet. Durlston did not press his attack, for he wanted them to flee. The further away from the Boar, the better it was for everyone. One by one the brigands began to move at a brisk pace down the pathway away from the Inn. Durlston rested upon his hammer, placing a hand to his injured shoulder. Behind him, the door to the Inn opened and a man stepped out onto the porch.
“I suppose you think you’re a hero?” he said. The man must have been in his elder years, greying and hunched slightly. He cast a disapproving look upon Durlston who turned.
“Nothing of the sort” he replied.
“You think beating these buggers bloody will do any good? Why, they’ll only return and in greater numbers. All you’re doing is making matters worse!”
Durlston considered this for a moment. Surely gratitude was in order for his efforts. Why was this man chastising him in such a manner? “The further away these brigands are from Hamglen, the better.”
“Oh? Is that a fact?” the elderly man descended the stairs to stand before Durlston. “Throw a stone at the wasps nest and they will attack. Best to leave things be and manage the situation as best you can. We’ve managed before and we can continue to do so without you causing a brawl in our streets!”
Was he in the wrong? He began to doubt himself, for certain. Was it because of his intervention that the Chetwood had become more dangerous? Was it he, Durlston, who was responsible for the brigands growing more bold? All he had done, all he ever sought was to rid the land of danger so that people could live in harmony unmolested. But who was he doing this for? The people? Himself? Or in a vain attempt to regain his honour?
The old man shook his head and returned to the steps, climbing them slowly as he approached the door. “Go home” he said, opening the door. “You’re not wanted!” With that, he slammed the door shut leaving a solitary Durlston out in the cold.
