The Improbable Adventures of Scar and Potbelly: Ice Terraces of Crystal Crag (2 page)

Another ale followed the first as they waited for Tork to arrive. A group of men threw daggers at a charcoal “X” drawn on the wall some fifteen feet away. The object was to have your dagger strike as close to where the two lines intersected as possible.

Daggers flew, one man laughed while the others cursed and paid him his winnings.

Potbelly eyed the game with interest. “How long do we have?”

A glance out the window showed the sun nearing the horizon. “Not long,” Scar replied. “Tork said he’d be here around sundown.”

Pulling out his knife, Potbelly got up and said, “Be right back.”

The men grew quiet as Potbelly arrived. He held up three coppers, one man nodded and motioned for him to take his place. Potbelly placed his foot within the charcoal circle drawn on the floor and readied his knife.

He paused, drew back his knife, and threw. Tumbling end over end but once, it embedded itself just a hair’s width above the junction of the two lines.

Four others threw but none came close. Potbelly took their coins and made to rejoin Scar, but the men insisted they have another throw. Potbelly agreed. When he moved to place his foot in the charcoal circle, one of the men held up his hand and shook his head.

With his foot, the man scraped away the charcoal circle. He then moved five paces farther back and drew another circle. With a grin, he motioned for Potbelly to take his position.

“As you wish,” Potbelly said. “This time for half a silver each?”

“Done.”

Placing his foot within the circle again, he raised his knife, focused on the target, and threw. This time it hit dead center. He turned to the man with a satisfied grin. “Beat that.”

Six men threw as well and though they came close, none matched Potbelly’s proficiency. Collecting the three silvers in winnings, he turned to head back to the table.

“Another throw,” the man said.

Potbelly saw trouble in the man’s gaze; he shook his head. “Two’s enough for me.”

The man’s knife came up. “I insist.”

“Now look,” Potbelly began, “I don’t want trouble. We had a fair test of skill and you lost. It would be best if you left it at that.” From the corner of his eye, he saw Scar get to his feet and slowly move their way.

“We think we’ve been cheated,” the man said. “Ain’t no way the gods are going to favor a man two times running on the ‘
toss
.”

“Cheated?” Potbelly asked. “How?”

The man failed to reply. Instead, he said, “We want our money back.”

“Not going to happen. You lost. Had I lost, I would have gladly handed over my coins. But I didn’t.” His hand moved to rest upon the hilt of his sword as he faced off with the man.

The five other men who had tossed against Potbelly drew their knives. Patrons of the
Teeth
backed away as conversations died throughout the common room. From back-corner whispers drifted the sound of men placing bets; whether on the odds of a fight breaking out or whether Potbelly would survive the coming clash of arms wasn’t clear.

As the six men maneuvered to encircle Potbelly, the hiss of a sword leaving its scabbard broke the silence.

“Is your life worth three bits of silver?” Scar asked as the tip of his sword pressed into the back of the man’s neck who had accused Potbelly of cheating.

The knifers froze.

Potbelly drew his sword.

“I believe I asked you a question,” Scar said, voice full of menace. “It won’t be repeated.”

In answer, the man’s knife fell to the floor. As Scar’s gaze roved over the others, their knives too were dropped to the floor.

“It was a fair
‘toss
, right?” Scar asked; he punctuated the word ‘right’ by pressing his blade into the man’s neck a little bit harder. A droplet of blood welled forth and dripped down through sweat and dirt.

Licking his lips, the man replied, “Yes.”

“All right then.”

He removed the sword from the man’s neck and slid it back into its scabbard.

“Nicely done.”

Turning toward the voice, Scar’s face lit up. “Tork!”

Five feet nothing, a patch over his left eye and stooped with age, Tork was hardly an impressive sight. In his right hand he leaned upon a cane.

“This him?” Potbelly asked.

“That he is,” Scar replied. He gestured to their table. “Shall we?”

Tork nodded and shuffled over and sat.

“Ale for our friend!” Scar hollered to the barmaid. Another round was shortly delivered.

“Thank you,” Tork said as he took a sip.

“Always thought it would be Jimbo coming to lay claim to the map.”

“He felt it best if we took care of it for him,” Scar lied. “He can’t get around like he used to.”

“Who can?” Tork took another sip.

Scar drained his ale, called for another and nearly emptied that mug as well. “Do you have it?”

“Not on me, no,” he explained. “One my age cannot go around with such things on my person.” He eyed Scar, then Potbelly. “I believe there was mention of some sort of remuneration?”

Scar produced a small coin purse and set it before the old man.

Tork hefted it, glanced at the gold within, nodded and then placed it within his shirt. “Come with me.”

He used his cane to get to his feet, wobbled there a moment, then started for the door.

Downing the rest of his ale, Scar followed with Potbelly right behind.

Outside, shadows had grown long; the sun had begun to dip below the horizon.

“We understand that there is yet a third piece of this map?” Potbelly asked.

“You are correct, young fellow,” Tork said. “It is in the keeping of another. Matlin’s his name. Likes to be alone; never was one for the company of others. Think he took to living by himself; but haven’t heard from him for many a year.”

“Old Jim said he lived just up the mountain from a town called Cara?”

The old man shrugged. “Possibly. Last I heard he was somewhere near there. But like I said, he isn’t one that enjoys being disturbed.”

He shuffled along at an agonizingly slow pace. From a side alley ahead, a man emerged and turned toward them. It was clear they were his destination.

Tork spied him, came to a stop and glanced over his shoulder. “You boys in trouble?”

Scar shook his head. “Not that we know of.”

“Never been here before,” Potbelly added. “Only been in town less than a day.”

Scar eyed the old man. “Why?”

The question had barely left his lips before he noticed the man coming their way. The set of his jaw, the steel of his gaze and the fact that his left hand clutched a dagger said this was the trouble to which the old man referred.

“Let me deal with him,” Tork said.

“Gladly,” Potbelly replied.

“Who is he?”

Scar’s question remained unanswered as the man drew near.

“Out of the way, Tork,” the man demanded.

Raising his cane, Tork placed the end against the man’s chest. “What business do you have here, Verin?”

Verin pointed to Potbelly. “This man sullied my Adele.” Grabbing the cane, he made to thrust it aside but the length of wood flashed brightly and knocked his hand away. A second flash forced him back a step.

“Lay not your hands upon me or mine!”

“Beware, Old Man.”

“No,
you
beware. Your quarrel is with him, not me. Keep that in mind lest you rue this night.”

Verin looked on the point of splitting the old man with his knife right then and there. But something in Tork’s gaze made him take a step back and to the side.

Tork turned back to Scar and Potbelly. “If you survive, come to my hut.”

“Where can we find it?” Scar asked, never once taking his eyes off Verin.

Pointing along the street ahead of them, he said, “Out past the edge of town.”

He turned back to Verin, grunted and muttered under his breath about the dregs of society, the old man then continued up the street.

Scar and Potbelly made to follow but Verin barred their way. His knife blade was pointed at Potbelly.

“You have an accounting, dog.”

“I’m sure I have no idea about what it is you seem dead set to get killed over,” Potbelly said. “I don’t know any Adele.”

Verin’s face turned red. “This afternoon, at the
Keg and Bottle
….”

“Oh.”

Scar turned to his friend. “Oh?”

Potbelly glanced to Verin. “The barmaid?”

“
My Betrothed
!”

“Took her for a tumble did you?” asked Scar.

“I did not know she was your betrothed,” argued Potbelly. “She definitely never mentioned you, only the coin she required.”

“You lie!” spat Verin. “Adele is as pure as the falling snow.”

“Man, you don’t know her very well if you think that,” Potbelly countered. “She did things that would make…”

Verin screeched an inarticulate sound and shot forward, knife thrusting for Potbelly’s midsection.

Scar danced out of the way while Potbelly stepped to the side, narrowly avoiding the blade. When the man slashed sideways, Potbelly blocked the attack with his forearm then knocked him backward with a kick in the stomach.

Verin stumbled, nearly hit the ground but recovered quickly. Upon righting himself, he found Potbelly with sword and dagger in hand.

“Need any help?” offered Scar.

“Hardly think so,” Potbelly replied. Then to Verin, “Sir, I apologize to you and your betrothed. I truly did not know she belonged to you.”

Verin ignored his attempt at reconciliation. He stepped forward with an overhand hack.

Potbelly easily deflected the downward thrust with his sword. Managed to turn Verin nearly ninety degrees and for an added insult, kicked him in the seat of his pants causing him to lose his balance and sprawl face first into the dirt.

“Now,” he began, “I do not wish to kill you. You can’t win; why don’t you just accept my apology and live another day?”

“Yes,” agreed Scar. “I’m sure your Adele would much prefer you alive.” He glanced to Potbelly then noticed the altercation had drawn the attention of some of the townsfolk. One ran off toward
The Gnashing Teeth.

Verin got back to his feet.

“You cannot defile my betrothed and live,” he cried. Rushing forward, he again tried to stab Potbelly. This time, Potbelly met the attack with his dagger; caught Verin’s blade between his blade and the crossguard, and twisted. Verin’s knife fell to the ground.

The man stepped back with Potbelly’s sword pressing into his abdomen. “I’ve had enough of this. Either accept my apology…or die.”

“Watch out!” came Scar’s warning, but too late.

A man ran from the crowd, dove, and crashed into Potbelly. Both men tumbled to the ground.

The sound of Scar’s twin swords leaving their scabbards came a split-second before the crash of metal on metal. Another from the crowd had rushed Scar with a short sword.

Scar knocked it aside once, twice and then on the man’s third lightning quick attack, followed with a thrust of his second sword taking him in the right shoulder. Not a killing blow but one that left his sword arm useless and the man’s short sword in the dirt.

Potbelly had regained his feet and the two friends stood back to back in an ever growing ring of opponents. Sword, maces, knives, more than a dozen men encircled them.

“Killers!”

“Murderers!”

“
Thieves
!”

Two women had come to the man’s aid and were even now tearing his shirt and seeing to the wound.

Verin had by this time reclaimed his knife and was whipping the others up into a killing frenzy.

“They soiled my Adele!” he shouted. Cries of outrage followed.

“Her honor must be avenged!”

“Kill them both!” a man shouted.

Scar faced a man towering over a foot taller than himself. The giant of a man bore a mace as long as his long swords and having a head the size of a pumpkin dotted with three inch spikes. He swung it with an ease belying its obvious weight.

“Come on,” Scar said, beckoning with a sword taunting him. “You wish to be the first to die this night?”

With a cry, the giant of a man leapt forward. Using both hands, he swung a powerful strike at Scar’s midsection.

Stepping back and to the side he waited for the massive weapon to pass through where he had just stood, then shot forward. One sword took the man’s arm just below the wrist, severing flesh and nerves. Fingers grew slack and the mace fell. As the man cried out, Scar’s second sword came in from the side to rake across his chest; opening up shirt and flesh. The tip scrapped across ribs and blood flowed free.

The crowd stood stunned as Scar twisted and knocked the giant back on his butt with a roundhouse kick to the chest. For a moment, silence reigned supreme. Then with a roar, the armed men rushed forward en masse.