(Note: This is a prelude to the novella, CLEAVE, which can be purchased on Amazon and the Stratum Press store.)
by SARJ
Muddrose was a dirtball of a town. No one went there with any virtuous intent. The local watering hole—affectionately named ‘the Wellspring’—attracted ne’er-do-wells, degenerates, godless heathens and drunken malcontents like moths to a deathless flame. The ale flowed into bottomless chalices, fists flew and voices swirled into cacophonous inanity. Torches sheathed in sconces mounted to the numerous support beams illuminated the grounds in wavy torchlight.
Funnily enough, amidst the mindless carnage and empty chatter, measured whispers from serious men were also uttered. The ears of serious men heard those whispers. In dens of hedonism like the Wellspring were where schemers schemed their machinations. These quiet, reserved criminal architects were easily parsed from the ebullient imbeciles.
Through the thickness of the chattering and jabber-jawing, a fight was taking place in a fighting pit set into a slight recess into the dirt foundation in the center of the bar. A groak—a large, bulb-eyed frog humanoid—trundled around the pit, standing across from a drunken, bearded man, circling in predatory postures. The groak was eight feet of gangly, slimy terror. Patrons pumped their fists in the air, sloshing ale out of their mugs and onto the filthy wooden floor planks as they cheered on the pending chaos.
The bearded drunk fighter—urged on by liquid courage—lunged forward and threw a clumsy haymaker that glanced off the groak’s slimy block of a head and thudded softly into its shoulder. The groak’s walleyed gaze revealed nothing of its thoughts. It merely croaked, inflating the air bladders under its neck. The drunk looked confused until the groak suddenly loosed a vicious slap with its webbed hand. The creature was deceptively strong, even with its odd form and massive proportions. The drunk was thrown to the side of the pit and fell to the ground. The blow didn’t even seem thrown with malicious intent but more annoyed confusion. The groak stalked ahead, its shoulders slumped forward and its head bobbing in concert with the pulsating flex of its goiter. The drunkard crawled back to his feet to the cheers of the mob.
The tavern door flung inward to a thudding stop, flooding the tavern with the sounds of a coming storm. A hush fell over the patrons for a drawn moment as a towering, broad silhouette filled the doorway. They watched as it breached the threshold into the warmth of torchlight and revealed itself as a fire-haired man in a thick pelt draped over his broad back and shoulders.
The fire-haired pillar was carried along by thick, muscled legs capped by leather boots lined with fur trim at the top. Chiseled, vein-wrapped tubes of muscle jutted from his barrel chest; leather bracers hugged his wrists. His scarred fists were like bulbous, knobby hammerheads; his knuckles bulged as bony knots.
The barbarian appeared as if carved from wood. Every crease, crevice, and winding contour implied he’d been chiseled from petrified timber. The patrons carefully returned to their drinks and conversation, wearing measured, self-aware smiles—a bit less enthusiastic than before the barbarian had entered.
Little did these folk know they were in the presence of Cleave of the Red Stone Clan. His people traveled quietly but their footfalls still left an impression wherever they went. He was no exception.
Cleave sidled up to the bar, his shoulders framed stiff and flat opposite the bartender. He was there on business.
“What can I get you, friend?” the bartender casually asked as he toweled off the bar. He didn’t seem particularly intimidated by the scowling mass of muscle crowned in fire. Serving liquor in Muddrose exposed him to a great many marvels and horrors; little surprised him.
“Ale,” was all Cleave said.
The man dutifully nodded and went off to get a mug. Kneeling behind the bar, he avoided the smaller mugs and went for the largest one he had. It had collected dust. None as hefty as Cleave had crossed the threshold into the Wellspring. The bartender quickly wiped it down before holding it under a cask of ale and unplugging it to let the liquor flow. When it kissed the rim, he replaced the plug and walked over to Cleave to present him his drink. Proportionally, it seemed like an average-sized mug when nothing could be further from the truth.
The barbarian kicked back a heavy swig before setting the mug on the bar.
“You don’t look like you’re here for that, friend. Here for business or pleasure?”
“Aside from the ale, what pleasure is to be had here?” Cleave muttered with his gravelly Red Stone accent.
“Much pleasure to be had. Any of our barmaidens would be happy to quicken you... for a fair price. Behind closed doors, of course. We haven’t abandoned all civility.”
“Whores, no,” he dismissed with clear disinterest.
The barkeep squinted knowingly. “I’d pick up that accent anywhere. A Northman. You’re far from home.”
“Yes.”
“Must be here on business, then.”
“Hmph,” Cleave said before swigging again.
“I might be able to help. A man in my position hears many things.”
“The Sun-Slayers. You know them?”
The bartender looked away, diving into his foggy memory before he seemed to recall something of significance. “They some kind of mad cult, yeah? Dragon worshipers?”
“They’re in this part of the country. I want to know where.”
“You want to join them?” the bartender chuckled heartily.
The grave look that Cleave gave in retort pacified the bartender, wiping away his smile. The barbarian was all business.
The barkeep composed himself. “All right. Tell you what. Why don’t we put on a show? Never seen a man of your stature walk in that door. Closest thing is that groak in the pit there,” he said, gesturing to the beast that was smothering his human opponent with his giant, webbed hands. “Apparently some pirates back east kept it as a pet, but they dumped it. Said something about it being a bad luck charm. Slavers sold ‘im to me. The groak hasn’t lost a fight yet. What say you step into the pit and throw hands with it. See if you can break the streak. Word gets around and I’ll have people from the four corners of Estara wanting to get drunk in this piss pot. Maybe it’ll pay back my investment in this place and him.”
“Hmm,” Cleave said as he eyed the monstrous anuran that threw its defeated opponent away. “Are weapons allowed?”
“Those smashing machines on the ends of your wrists seem all the weapons you need.”
“Aye,” Cleave grumbled in surly, subdued agreement as he tipped the mug back and fed the ale down his gullet.
“You fight until one of you can no longer continue. Them’s the rules; the only rules.”
Patrons carried the unconscious loser from the fighting pit to a raucous cacophony as the groak stood awkwardly, his goiter expanding and contracting with each rapid breath he drew.
Cleave unslung his pelt and scabbard, bundling it all in his muscled paws and laying the package on the bar. The proportions of the sheathed sword alone hoarded most of the bare space, forcing several patrons at the bar to lift their drinks.
Cleave marched past the spectators, stamping the ground with authority with each footfall. The groak’s inhuman, hunched stance shifted when the barbarian drew nearer. The walleyed anuran suddenly turned its head to lock onto its new opponent.
The barbarian had muted out the waves of mindless nonsense hitting him from all sides. The bar patrons, however, made it clear that they were expecting a savage trading of fists. Thankfully for them, Cleave could hold his liquor better than the last man.
The opponents squared up against each other. The groak suddenly lunged forward, opening its mouth and launching its tongue. Cleave brought up his bent arm and the viscous, sinewy dart wrapped around his wrist. The barbarian tugged back, but the slimy appendage stretched in response.
Flustered, Cleave leapt forward and hammered the anuran in the head with a thundering punch from his free hand. The groak recoiled back. The crowd cheered.
The groak settled back into a firm stance, shaking its head to regain its composure. Cleave tightened his fist. The anuran began to utter a deep and throaty guttural sound at such volume that many spectators had to cover their ears; Cleave resisted with a pitiless sneer.
Cleave cranked back to throw a titanic punch, but the groak ducked with slippery agility and snatched him up off of his feet, slamming him into the pit floor. Again, the audience cheered with ale-soaked enthusiasm. The anuran stood over Cleave and slapped its webbed hands around the barbarian’s head, dragging him to his feet before lifting him clear off the ground. Cleave was a mountain of a man, but the groak stood a head or two above him.
The anuran stood erect, arms outstretched and hands clasped around its fire-haired opponent’s head. Cleave’s feet dangled inches from the ground.
The groak’s power surprised even Cleave, but the Red Stone man would not be denied. He brought his arms down in hammering arcs, slamming into the groak’s arms, breaking the grip and forcing it to drop him to the ground. The barbarian laid into the groak’s ribs with a series of punches that would’ve liquefied a normal man, but this humanoid was in no way normal. It wrenched back in agony but remained still in one piece.
Cleave did not relent. His warrior’s instincts took over. He had to know where the accursed Sun-Slayers were laying down their camp. Lives depended on it. The consequences were grave.
The groak propelled its lashing tongue once again, but this time Cleave snatched it out of the air with his right hand, wrapping it around his wrist. He deftly swept under the anuran and hoisted it up on his shoulders. The patrons gasped, and even the barkeep’s eyes stretched in surprise.
Cleave seemed to hold the groak aloft for an eternity when it was only a prolonged moment before he twisted at the waist and drove the creature into the dirt. It belched an audible gurgle upon impact.
The driven barbarian gloated over the anuran beast. “I’m not going to kill you, creature. I don’t even pity you, but sometimes the flesh must suffer. I must know where the Sun-Slayers are, and therefore you must lose. Stay down and accept my mercy.”
With a slippery and deceptively agile movement, the groak slapped Cleave’s legs out from under him, knocking him to the ground. Before the groak could leap in for another attack, Cleave delivered a hard kick up into the beast’s face, stunning it. In a moment, the barbarian was back on his feet.
As the groak staggered back, trying to regain its frame, Cleave cocked back with a battering-ram of a punch. The stunned beast’s rotund belly was completely exposed. The patrons fell momentarily silent. Cleave leveled the groak’s belly with a thunderous blow that echoed through the tavern.
Another gasp from the mob as Cleave stood back to admire his handiwork. At first, the groak seemed shocked at the force of the blow, its bulging eyes and alien features exposing no emotion. But then a wet and gassy sound gurgled in its belly. The barbarian took a step back, fists still raised, as the groak folded forward and opened its wide maw.
The watery gurgle grew louder as the groak expelled a torrent of vomit onto the pit floor. The mob groaned in disgust as many rose from their seats and backed away from the filth. Cleave stood strong, watching the anuran expel the contents of its innards. As the barkeep watched in goggle-eyed awe at the sight, he noticed something in the spewed muck glimmering in the dim torchlight.
The barkeep excitedly ran around the bar counter, through the mass of patrons, and into the pit. Resting within the putrid, viscous mass were piles of golden coins.
“Praise be!” the barkeep gasped, eyes wide. Some of the patrons came to the same realization as the barkeep and seemed primed to rush the pile. “Stay where you stand, wretches! Or you’ll face the groak’s fury!” the man barked.
The gold-hungry patrons took a moment to consider the risk and realized the folly it represented. They stood down.
“Drinks are on the house!” the barkeep yelled, eyes still fixed to the gold. Every soul in the tavern cheered and the momentary tension broke.
The groak was now in a full squat, its tongue rolling around its face as it groomed himself.
“He seems to be in better spirits,” Cleave observed. “All of that gold in his belly couldn’t have felt good.”
“Aye,” the barkeep muttered.
“I’ve done my part,” Cleave reminded.
The honorable man bobbed his head in kind. “Verdecourt. That’s what I heard. They were moving through to Verdecourt. I’d say three hours’ ride east from here.”
Cleave nodded, imbued with a renewed purpose. The barkeep gathered the barmaidens around and began to giddily toss each of them slime-coated coins. The girls were simultaneously excited and disgusted as they caught them.
“Best of luck to ye, barbarian,” the barkeep wished. “That lot, the Sun-Slayers, they’re mad.”
“They’ll think I’m mad,” Cleave uttered ominously as he turned away.
Cleave went to the bar and collected his things. After he threw his pelt on and adjusted the scabbard on his back, he made for the door. Waiting by the tie stall was a large, saddled cat crouched down in rest. Upon seeing Cleave, the cat immediately stood in a display of obedient discipline.
Cleave mounted the saddle and patted the cat on her side. “Rikka, we go to Verdecourt. We’ve got Sun-Slayers to burn down.”
Rikka growled, and the pair bounded off into the forest.
(Note: this short story is a prelude to the novella, CLEAVE, which is currently available on both Amazon and the Stratum Press store (stratumpress.store))