– Get up, you heap of shite – the man growled, his voice as coarse as a hangman's whetstone. – You're scaring off the pigs. Even they have standards, and you smell worse than the sickest sow in this sty.
Another kick, this time to the hip, sent him rolling beside a massive sow that barely bothered to move out of the way. The smell of the nearby inn – peat smoke, sour ale, and burnt mutton fat – mingled with the acrid stench of the pigpen, creating a haze that clung to the throat.
– The night wasn't free, master vagabond – the innkeeper continued, wiping a greasy hand on his stained tunic. – You drank my wine, you slept under my roof, even if it was this roof of thatch and mud. I want my silver now! Or I swear by the gods I'll cut off what's left of that dignity of yours and feed it to the beasts. They don't care for the taste of a deadbeat's flesh.
Alistair's world was a blur of greys and browns until Bjorn's boot brought him back to reality with the force of a flail. Inside his skull, a thousand smiths seemed to be hammering anvils in unison; a throbbing, rhythmic pain that made his eyes sting with every heartbeat.
He spat out a mouthful of black, viscous mud, wiping his mouth with the back of a trembling hand. The taste was of earth and something sourer, but his spirit, though worn, had not yet been entirely crushed by the muck.
– I've always... – Alistair began, his voice failing him at the first effort before turning into a hoarse whisper laden with irony. – I've always desired a wake-up call with the fresh aroma of the earth and such... personality, Bjorn. Where did you learn to give your good mornings? In the dungeons of a fortress or the foulest brothels in Aureliana?
With a groan that seemed to tear at his vitals, Alistair began to rise. His joints cracked like dry branches under the weight of snow. He grabbed onto a rotting wooden beam of the enclosure, his fingers digging into the damp wood to keep from tumbling again. Mud dripped from his tattered clothes, heavy and cold, but he kept his gaze fixed on the innkeeper, a pale and insolent smirk dancing on his cracked lips. He was standing, at last, though dignity was little more than an abstract concept amidst such filth.
Alistair looked down at his own body, where the coarse linen tunic – one of the only possessions he had left besides his own skin – was now a tapestry of wine stains, pig grease, and fresh mud. Without a lord's steel or a mercenary's boiled leather to protect him, he felt the morning chill pierce the frayed, grimy fabric, clinging to his thin ribs like a shroud. With a theatrical delicacy that bordered on the absurd, he ran his fingers over a particularly thick crust of filth on his shoulder, as if evaluating a silk brocade.
– You know, Bjorn, your instincts as a host are lamentable – Alistair declared, lifting his chin with a dignity that his deplorable state belied. – I vehemently disagree with your assessment. This aroma of fermented manure... it has certain earthy notes that enhance the sparkle in my eyes. It's a matter of aesthetics, something a man who spends his life serving watered-down ale would hardly understand.
He wiped a smear of mud from his cheek and faced the giant before him, arching an eyebrow despite the throbbing in his chest where Bjorn's boot had sunk in.
– However, a question remains: is that kick to my ribs included in the price of the stay, or should I consider it a gesture of courtesy, a free house extra for the more illustrious guests?
Bjorn did not share his sense of humour. The innkeeper let out a guttural grunt, a sound reminiscent of shifting stones in a canyon. His face, scarred by smallpox and years of ill-will, contorted with fury. To Bjorn, Alistair was just another vagrant peasant, a bag of bones and insolence not worth the breath he wasted.
– You can save your silver tongue for the flies, they're the only ones who can still stand your breath – Bjorn spat, taking a step forward that sent mud splashing against Alistair's shins. – Your stench and that arse-face of yours still owe me a debt. You ate my stew, you drained my mugs, and you requested a corner to sleep... and so far, the only thing you've given me is trouble. I want the silver you owe me, and I want it before the sun rises another inch, or the next thing you feel won't be a kick, but a skinning knife collecting what's owed.
Alistair wiped the rest of the mud from his mouth and spread his arms, ignoring the sharp pain shooting through his ribs.
– Debt? What a vulgar term, Bjorn – he said, his voice tinged with a confidence his peasant clothes belied. – It's not that I haven't paid; look at it rather as a sponsorship. I am conducting a prolonged and rigorous study on the patience of a renowned innkeeper. I must say, so far, the results are fascinating, if a bit... aggressive.
Bjorn took a step forward, slow and deliberate like the advance of a black tide. His fists, the size of cured hams, clenched, and Alistair saw the fury in the man's small, bloodshot eyes. Realising that the study on patience was about to end in a bloodbath, Alistair began to back away, the words pouring from his mouth like water from a burst dam.
– Wait! If silver is scarce, we can consider more... creative forms of compensation. I can clean this sty until it shines like the Sun Cathedral of Aureliana!
– Don't even think about it – Bjorn growled, the voice coming from deep within his gut. – With your skill, you'd probably manage to get shite on the ceiling.
– Well, how about entertainment then? I can tell a tale so hilarious in your tavern that your beard will shake with laughter!
– It would be tedious, or inappropriate for my customers – the innkeeper retorted, closing the distance. – They want ale and silence, not your vagabond prattle.
Alistair felt the wall of the sty approaching his back and played his last card. He straightened his body, ignoring the rags he wore, and gestured to himself with almost feverish enthusiasm.
– Then look at this, Bjorn! The Pig-Man! The missing link between beast and man! We charge a copper piece to every curious peasant and we'll be rich before nightfall! – He began to give little hops in the mud, laughing at his own misfortune. – Behold the creature!
Bjorn stopped. The silence that followed was only interrupted by the snorting of the swine. The innkeeper sighed, a sound laden with a boredom so deep it seemed to weigh more than the mud itself.
– Enough – Bjorn said, pointing to a wagon that had just pulled up at the tavern entrance, carrying heavy bundles. – See those sacks of wheat? You're going to unload them all and carry them to the barn one by one. If you drop a single grain, I'll give you the rest of the kicks I've saved for today.
Alistair looked at the mountain of sacks, feeling his thin arms already faltering.
– And when you're finished – Bjorn continued, turning his back on him, – you'll go to the river and dive in until your skin changes colour. If you don't, I swear you'll truly be known as 'the Pig-Man' in these parts until the end of your days, because I won't let you into any house that has a roof.
The wheat was heavier than pride, and Alistair felt every ounce as he climbed the wooden steps of the tavern. The linen of his tunic, already soaked in sweat and mud, clung to his spine like a cold second skin. With every sack he set down on the stone floor of the storehouse, the flour dust rose and mingled with the grime on his face, creating a grey paste that got into his eyes and lungs. When the last bundle was finally delivered, his arms were shaking like hazel switches in the wind.
Wiping his forehead with a grimy forearm, Alistair dragged his feet out of the inn. On the way to the river, he passed the pigsty once more. He paused for a moment, straightening his shoulders and gave an exaggerated bow to the occupants of the muck.
– Good morning, Sir Bristles – he greeted with absurd solemnity. – And to you, Lady Rosemary. I trust this morning's wash was to your liking. You're looking radiant, though perhaps a touch less aromatic than I am today.
The pigs responded with disinterested grunts, but Alistair smirked as if he'd just received a compliment in a king's court.
On the path to the river, he saw an old woman with a face as furrowed as a ploughed field, wrapped in a brown woollen shawl that smelled of moths and suspicion. She stopped in her tracks, covering her nose with a bony hand and casting him a look that could sour the milk in a bucket.
– May Solarius protect us – she muttered, her voice dripping with scorn. – How does a man let himself get into such a state? You look like something Morvak spat out after a night of bad digestion.
Alistair remained unshaken. He placed a hand over his heart, letting an expression of tragic heroism wash over his features.
– Ah, my lady, what you see is not filth, but the scars of an epic battle – he declared, lowering his tone as if sharing a secret. – Last night, while the village slept, a ferocious wolf, with eyes like embers and teeth like daggers, tried to invade the sty. I fought the beast for hours in the mud, protecting our noble swine with nothing but my bare hands and my bravery. It is why the troubadours already call me Sir Smells-of-Stable. The aroma is the perfume of sacrifice.
The old woman narrowed her eyes, eyeing him up and down with the scepticism of one who had seen many vagabonds and few heroes. Without a word, she clutched her shawl to her chest and began walking in the opposite direction with surprising speed for her arched legs, grumbling prayers or curses under her breath.
Alistair watched her go with a glint of satisfaction in his eyes.
– The public is always the harshest critic – he sighed, resuming his way to the cold waters of the river.
The river ran cold and indifferent, a silver serpent amongst the slimy stones. On the bank, Alistair undressed with the slowness of a man removing an armour of slavery. The linen and wool, heavy with filth, were plunged and scrubbed against the pebbles until his hands went red and numb. He spread the rags over the long grass, where the pale sun promised a warmth it failed to deliver, and stepped into the water.
The thermal shock snatched his breath away. Alistair dived in, feeling the current carry away the crust of sweat, the wheat dust, and the sin of the pigsty. For a brief moment, he was just a man stripped of titles or mud, purified by the river.
But the gods are cruel and enjoy a comedy.
A sharp laugh, like the cackle of a magpie, echoed from the bank. Alistair wiped the water from his eyes just in time to see a boy with tangled hair and bare feet grab the pile of damp clothes.
– Hey! Thief! – Alistair shouted, his voice echoing through the valley as the boy bolted up the slope with his only worldly assets under his arm.
With no time for modesty, Alistair emerged from the water like a pale, clumsy triton. The grass cut the soles of his feet and the cold wind lashed his naked skin as he ran, his thin limbs flailing in a frantic pursuit. It was an absurd sight: a naked peasant, glistening with moisture, chasing a pickpocket through the brambles.
Alistair launched himself in a desperate dive, his fingers catching the boy's dirty heel. Both tumbled to the ground, a mess of limbs and wet cloth.
– Drop... it... you little demon! – Alistair wheezed, reclaiming his tunic and trousers with a violent yank.
The boy, agile as an eel and showing no sign of fear, gave one last mocking grimace. Before Alistair could even catch his breath to ask who he was or why he'd robbed him, the child broke free and vanished into the thick vegetation, as fast as a shadow at sunset.
Alistair was left alone, sitting on the dirt, trying to shove his trembling legs into his damp, cold trousers. The silence of the river returned, broken only by the thumping of his heart and the thought that, at the very least, he no longer smelled of pig.
He crossed the threshold of the tavern with his chin up and his skin tingling from the river's chill. The damp linen clung to his chest, but the stench of the sty had been replaced by the neutral scent of running water and the sharp aroma of pine.
– Make way! – he proclaimed, spreading his arms in a grand gesture that sent a few drops of water flying. – Alistair the Bathed returns from the depths, purified and ready to grace this establishment with his radiant presence.
Bjorn was in no mood for celebrations. He was standing by the oak counter with an expression that would make a dire-wolf recoil. In his hand, he held a handful of wheat grains, squeezing them as if he wanted to turn them to dust.
– Three sacks – the innkeeper growled, his voice low and dangerous. – You tore three sacks, you donkey's abortion. The wheat is scattered across the barn floor like it's been snowing flour. Do you know what a sack of wheat costs in winter, you gormless sod?
Alistair didn't flinch. On the contrary, he approached with a sweet smile, though his eyes were measuring the distance to the door.
– Ah, Bjorn, always so focused on arithmetic and so little on aesthetics – Alistair sighed. – I didn't tear them out of carelessness; it was an offering to the gods of plenty. Besides, your barn floor has never been so well decorated. You should thank me for adding a touch of luxury to that rat-hole. Consider it a bonus for my excellent performance as a stevedore.
Bjorn let out a heavy sigh, an exhalation of futility. The anger seemed to have been replaced by a deep exhaustion. He knew that hitting Alistair would be like hitting a stray dog: it would only get his hands dirty and wouldn't bring his silver back.
– You cause more shite than any man I've ever had the misfortune to meet – Bjorn said, wiping his hands on his grimy apron. – But it seems your luck is as persistent as your bad breath. A man turned up hiring swords, or, in your case, bags of meat that can still walk. They're organising an escort for cargo to Verdejante.
Alistair arched an eyebrow. Verdejante was a long way, full of mud, dangers, and, with luck, better quality wine.
– Someone who recognises the value of a man of varied talents – Alistair said, giving a short bow. – I appreciate the information, Bjorn. If I survive the road, I'll be back to tear a few more wheat sacks for you.
Without waiting for a reply – which would surely involve a heavy object thrown at his head – Alistair turned and headed for the corner of the tavern where the recruiter waited, his step now lighter, driven by the promise of coins and a new audience for his lies.
The man sat in a dark corner where the candlelight could barely pierce the curtain of smoke and grease. His fingers were stained with ink and a scar ran across his face like a badly drawn road. On the table lay a thick parchment and a pouch that tinkled with the sweetest sound Alistair knew.
– The job is simple for anyone with legs and a shred of sense – the recruiter said, without looking up from his ledgers. – We leave at sunrise to arrive in time for the market day in Verdejante. The cargo is valuable, and the road doesn't forgive the reckless.
He drummed his fingers on the table, explaining the pay with the precision of a Marellian money-lender.
– Three silver coins for the journey. Another three if the load arrives intact. It's more than you'll ever see falling from a peasant's pockets, but less than the blood you might end up spilling. Furthermore, we provide a padded gambeson so the arrows don't tickle your lungs, an iron-reinforced oak shield, and a sword. It's not Ferralian steel, but it cuts flesh if wielded properly.
The man finally looked up, cold and scrutinising.
– Tell me then, lad: do you know how to handle a blade or are you going to piss yourself at the first sign of a brigand? Can you fight?
Alistair felt the weight of the silence. He remembered the weight of the wheat sacks and Bjorn's boot. He straightened his back, let the sarcasm give way to a rehearsed seriousness, and fixed the man with a conviction that would have fooled the High Priest himself.
– I have fought beasts in the mud and survived ambushes where the blood flowed like wine on a banquet day – he lied, his voice firm as iron. – I know where to bury the steel so the scream is short. If you want someone who doesn't blink in the face of danger, you've found your man.
The recruiter nodded, satisfied with the well-told lie, and pushed the contract forward. Alistair scribbled on the parchment. As he stepped out into the fresh afternoon air, Alistair flashed a lopsided grin. The world was full of dangers, but he was still alive.
– Look at you, Alistair – he muttered to himself, watching the grey clouds gathering on the horizon. – Your career is on a meteoric rise. Yesterday you were the rightful heir to a pigsty; today you're a contract mercenary. Tomorrow? Who knows... maybe I'll even get to sleep in a bed that doesn't snort or have pet fleas.