The Wandering God

45 Engraved In One's Heart And Carved On One's Bones 1/2

銘心刻骨
Míng xīn kè gǔ.
Engraved in one's heart and carved on one's bones.
To remember a benefactor as long as one lives.

*~*~*~*~*~*

The tavern was as sordid as they came.

Grease covered tables were packed tight into the dark space. Around them crowded low stools, slightly less greasy, probably cleaned by the sitting of patrons rather than a cleaning cloth. A bar ran along one side, behind which were stacked barrels of what appeared to be the same ale, judging by the repeating characters scrawled on each barrel's side.

Zakhar approached the bar, feeling the staring eyes of the patrons around him. They were an equally sordid lot. Out-of-work farmers drinking and waiting for spring. A few merchants and their rough looking bodyguards. And the profession of the rest of the patrons was questionable, if they even had a profession at all.

Almost all the patrons bore one or more of the following: an array of scars, nasty grins, or concealed weapons.

Suppose I fit in, Zakhar thought, idly stroking the scar that now ran down his right cheek.

All those in the bar were men, save for a tired looking girl in the corner sat on the lap of a man. The girls robe had just about fallen open at the front.

I can tell her profession well enough.

"I'll have a mug of whatever that is," Zakhar said pointing at the barrels behind the bar. He slid onto a stool, then slid off it again as he felt it stick to his trousers.

The barmaid winked and took the coin he slapped down on the bar, then turned to draw Zakhar his drink.

She set it before him with another wink. Zakhar looked dubiously at the frothy liquid. But who knew? Perhaps it was delicious. It was not good to judge by outer appearances.

The drink tasted like seaweed brewed with old shoes for a month.

At least the barmaid is pretty. That was probably the only reason people came. It certainly wasn't for the atmosphere or the drink. Zakhar gave another sip of the ale and grimaced.

Zakhar turned to lean against the bar, preferring to have his back to it then the questionable crowd around him. Most of the patrons had gone back to their business, losing interest in the giant blond foreigner, but Zakhar still sensed the eyes of three men watching him from the table in the corner.

Zakhar shifted his shoulders restlessly and took another gulp of his ale, hoping the burn of the alcohol would start to cloud his mind soon. He hated it. Hated being here. Hated the taste of the terrible ale, the low dark room, the disgusting furniture and the unsavory clientele.

You got used to the luxury of the valley.

"You should be careful, big man," the barmaid whispered behind him as she cleaned the bar. "Black Lord's men aren't welcome here."

Zakhar looked across the room and saw the three men in the corner were still watching him. More particularly watching his black-lined hand where it wrapped around his mug of ale.

Zakhar grunted his thanks and slapped another coin down on the bar. The barmaid made a noise like a mouse finding a crumb of cake and quickly frittered it away.

But Zakhar did not notice her go. The barmaid's use of the endearment 'big man' had suddenly brought a memory... Ao, in the snow, holding out a hand to him to lead him to the hot spring. 'Come on... Big Boy.' He could still feel the shape of her lips, the soft, cool texture of them, as they pressed so perfectly to his. The shape of her small, lithe body in the snow beneath him. The knowledge that she wanted this, wanted him-