The Fate of Alisan
By James D. Swinney
There was an odd smell that hung in the bar that evening, like every evening. A mixture of dozens of different drinks, smoke from the fire pit, food of every sort, possibly even a bit of vomit and blood here and there. It was unlike anything John Alver had ever smelled anywhere else. But it seemed to always be there. It was comforting, in a way, to know that he could always count on that unique scent to be there to welcome him home to the tavern. In fact, that night it was the only thing keeping him from a total breakdown.
The taproom was filled as full as it could be, every chair occupied, every booth crammed in with as many people as possible. It seems many had had the same idea as he’d had, to escape the oncoming chill of autumn over a warm pint and some hot food. Old Garin, the barkeeper, was not one to let such a plan go unfinished, and so the aging man huffed his way about the bar, delivering food and taking his dues as he had so many other days.
John had purchased a bowl of thick, meaty stew for himself, one that gave off a fine odour that filled the nostrils and left the mouth watering. He’d taken several bites, but for the most part left the steaming dish untouched. It was enough to sate his meagre appetite, anyway, though he didn’t have much of one these days. Still, the steam it gave off warmed his face and that was pleasant enough.
The familiarity of it all was like a rock in the turbulent, rushing river that his life had recently turned into. As long as he could remember, this bar had been there for him, and now was no different. His wife could die; his children could abandon him and leave him broken and crying in the gutter. At least the Trickling Tap was still open and waiting for him to come and buy a drink.
Hearing a scuffle behind him, John quickly turned around to see two young, strong lads baring their arms and muttering cold words to each other. Both had pushed away their chairs, both had anger written plainly on their faces, and neither looked ready to back down first. Who would throw the first blow, well, that remained to be seen. All John knew was that two ox-headed lads were angrier than a poked bear, and he knew that there was some welcome distraction to come.
“I’m gonna get you for what you said, Arran,” the taller, if not as attractive of the pair said loudly. His face was filled with resentment for this man who John assumed had been his best friend mere moments ago. “You don’t never talk that way about my mum, no matter what!”
“You back the hell off, Beddir,” the other replied, a handsome lad barely out of his teens, by the look of him. His face hadn’t a scar on it, his unbroken nose a rarity in this bar of fighters and sailors. Though he had a lithe, graceful figure about him, John doubted that he could hold his own against the muscled brute that was his friend. It would be an interesting fight. “I can say what I want, and I don’t have to ask a lumbering moron like you.”
“Moron?” the man called Beddir said, but he did not wait to let his friend explain it any further. He thrust a meaty fist in front of him, in a direct line to Arran’s pretty face. John felt sure that it would connect, breaking that perfect little nose, but Arran was quicker than expected. The thin figure carefully dodged the blow, ducking his head briefly to the side before returning with a quick counterstroke, a slap to Beddir’s cheek. His hand met his friend’s face in a sharp crack, sending Beddir reeling.
The fight went quickly after that point. Beddir attempted to fight like the lumbering moron Arran had called him, throwing punch after failed punch, never actually so much as striking the other man. Meanwhile Arran leapt in at every failed attempt, smacking his friend so hard across the cheek that they were both red after a matter of seconds. It was rather funny, really, until the doors swung open and the whole scene was interrupted.
