A group of men strode into the tavern. Longswords, daggers, and cudgels hung from their hips. But they didn't bear any form of heraldry.
Mercenaries.
One of them walked with more self-importance than the rest. He was a lanky man with a crooked nose and thick brows that gave him a hawkish look. His long dark hair clung to his temple. He wore an ill-fitting gambeson draped with a once colourful cloak.
A cruel looking cudgel hung from his hip. It was a rough stick of wood crowned with dark, metal thorns. It was a weapon that wouldn't kill quickly but would bleed someone enough to make them think twice about resisting.
To Rose, it was a weapon fit more for a bandit than a mercenary. And she wasn't wrong. It wasn't a secret that Corvus, that leader with the ugly nose, used to be a petty bandit. It also wasn't a secret that their lord didn't mind lowlifes in his ranks of mercenaries.
The mercenaries chased some patrons away from their best, warmest tables. The old farmers and peddlers didn't dare to even grumble and scooted away to the damp corners of the tavern.
Rose gulped. She gripped her tray tightly and approached the table, but her father held her in place.
"Go help in the kitchen."
Rose nodded, no trace of her usual feisty spirit. She turned around, but her father held her a second longer.
"And no eavesdropping."
Jobb took the tray off her hands, and she scurried into the kitchen like a mouse.
As Jobb approached the mercenaries' table, Corvus regarded him with a snarl. "Jobb, what are you standing here for? Bring out your drinks already, it was freezing outside."
Jobb kept his head low and served them without a word.
When he returned with the drinks, he was surprised to find a large bundle of weapons on the table. Corvus' men were picking through and appraising them.
Corvus caught Jobb staring and said, "You know a thing or two about weapons, don't you? You think they'd fetch a good price?"
"I'm not that familiar with them," he said, but he was. Jobb simply didn't make a habit of reminding everyone of his adventures as a youth.
Upon the invitation, Jobb joined their table and began studying the weapons.
Corvus scratched his nose. "I used to think that with the world saved, there wouldn't be a lot of quarrelling between men to make my job worthwhile. But surprise, they're got back to warring with each other the moment our common enemy left us.
"Where did you find these weapons?"
"From the field in the south, where the rivers meet. There was a small skirmish there."
"But our lord has no quarrel down south. Unless you found another employer?"
Corvus grinned, revealing rows of crooked, yellowed teeth. "He doesn't, and no, we did not. These are spoils of war, but we just didn't do the warring."
"Scavenging, then?"
A new low for you, Jobb thought.
Corvus ignored the question. He scratched his chin and said, "So, Jobb. We rode to the smith earlier. Found the furnace cold. Any idea where the old smith's off?"
"Gone. Off to the cities by the coast."
"When is he coming back?"
"Never." He had the right idea.
"Damn him! He might as well go straight to hell." Corvus slumped back on his chair and groaned. "Now where am I supposed to sell these?"
Jobb shook his head and continued picking through the weapons, admiring the longswords, hammers, picks, and daggers.
"Well, they're standard arming weapons. Nothing unorthodox. The captain's armoury down the road would probably take it. Or if you're in a hurry to leave this town, stop by the city. The Consortium's quartermaster might take them. As for the price, that's up to them to decide."
He frowned when he came across a basket hilted sword with a curved blade.
"You don't look standard," he said.
Further picking revealed equally unorthodox weapons, from an axe with a strange, gilded head to a dagger with an ornate handle. There was even an arquebus, a strange, stubby weapon that spewed fire and metal. The weapons here ranged from expensive to experimental. They weren't the kind of weapons a petty lord would be generous enough to arm an army with.
Corvus grinned. "We picked up a few along the trail, too."
Robbed, Jobb thought. Just how many resisted? How many killed?
Jobb paused. From the strange array of weapons came the strangest. A spear that stood taller than him, with a thick wooden shaft and a head fully wrapped in some sort of cloth.
Corvus followed his gaze. "Strange, that one."
Jobb erected the spear and was surprised by its weight. He planted the butt on the ground and the wood panelled floor shuddered under its weight.
Its thick and firm shaft stood tall, casting a long shadow across the floor. It ended with a spearhead that was wrapped tightly with layers upon layers of cloth that was crusted with dirt and caked with mud.
The old paint, the dirt, and mud were the mark of a wanderer.
"This spear has seen battles." Jobb whispered.
"Yes, yes. But does it sell?"
"Shaft looks good enough despite the dirt. Let's see the blade."
Jobb unwraps the cloth, revealing a long and broad metal spearhead. It reminded Jobb of a partisan; a spear meant to be swung. Yet the head was also narrowed to a sharp tip, allowing for powerful thrusts. A wing spread at the spearhead's base, meant to catch blades or hook riders down from their horses.
This was a spear of many uses, not meant to be wielded by a peasant levy who were only taught to point it towards the enemy ranks. It was meant for someone who knew how to make use of everything a spear had to offer.
But there was something more disturbing than the thought of what kind of man would wield such a beast. The spear gave an odd sensation when touched that made his skin crawl. It was like a thousand small needles pricking at his skin, numbing his nerves. The sensation felt faint at the shaft, but it grew stronger closer towards the head. And right at the metal head, the sensation felt overwhelming.
Jobb wrapped the spearhead with the cloth again and instantly felt better. He didn't realise he was sweating.
He searched the depths of his memory. He never came across a material that gave a feeling like it.
Just what is this spear?
He turned the shaft over and his eyes widened. Etched upon the wood, right below the spearhead, was a small symbol no bigger than a print of a thumb. It was shaped in the form of a wyrm that circled back to eat its own tail, yet its neck was severed.
"Corvus, this is wyrmmetal."
Jobb felt a few heads turn towards him, and not just from this table. That word alone managed to rouse the other patrons' attention, and it wasn't the friendly kind of attention they were giving. Jobb could see envy in their cold, tired eyes.
Jobb cursed himself and shoved the spear back to Corvus' hands.
While Jobb wiped his hands like he just touched poison, Corvus accepted the spear without fear. His eyes lit up as he gazed upon it. "A wyrmmetal spear…"
One of Corvus' men, a man with one eye and a lanky build, spoke up. "Wyrmmetal? You mean the wyrmmetal?"
Jobb rubbed his beard. "The very same. Legend says that the name wyrrmetal came because its ore could only be smelted by the fire of a wyrm dragon, near mythical beasts who lurk in the darkest pits of the earth. Add the fact that the ore itself is impossible to find, wyrmmetal is as rare as any metal could be.
"But its promise of power makes all that hardship worthwhile. Wyrmmetal weapons are mighty, allowing mortal men to take down sorcerers. It was an arsenal full of wyrmmetal that aided Jason, that great warrior hero, in fighting the armies of the Sorcerer King Trigan."
The mercenaries listened to the tale, absorbed, and jubilant at this treasure they now possess. But Jobb didn't share in their joy. He went pale. The lines on his face hardened, and he lifted his foreboding eyes towards Corvus.
"Who the hell did you take it from?" Jobb asked.
For a second, Jobb worried Corvus would never answer, so consumed as he was by the spear. He barely looked at Jobb as he said, "No clue… just some vagabond on the road. The unlucky bastard was a walking corpse, all bloodied and broken when we found him. Of course, we jumped on him and beat the life out of him for good measures. He was face deep in the bloodied mud when we left him."
"That's impossible. How could a random vagabond have it?"
Corvus didn't listen. A crooked grin split his features. He lifted the spear, holding it like a king would his sceptre, and posed on the rough wooden chair like it was a gilded and cushioned throne. "Now what does that make me, Jobb? A Hero? You think the lord will give me land for my bravery?"
Jobb eyed the neighbouring tables. Sunken eyes of poor and hungry men stared back.
"Corvus, these are not the kind of men you should boast around."
Corvus' lips curled. "I'm not afraid of some farmers."
"Damn you, man! That spear is a bad omen, I tell you. You're better off without it."
Corvus' nostrils flared and his face went red with fury. He leapt to his feet, his chair squealing against the stone. "Give it up just so you can have it for yourself, will you? Jobb, Hero of Shepeste! You, a bloody bartender? I'll end you if you'd even stare at my spear!"
He snapped his head around the room. Envious eyes shied away from his wild, bulging glare.
"And that goes to you whole lot! Touch my spear and I'll fucking end you!"
He raised his spear like he was about to whip Jobb with it. "Now go be a bartender and fetch my food!"
Jobb retreated into the kitchen and wiped his brows. His apron suddenly felt heavy and tight around his neck. He took it off and felt his breath coming easier.
He found Rose already helping around the kitchen. Her worried glance tells him she went against his words and listened to everything.
The evening became busy as they followed the mercenaries' growingly tall orders. The drinks turned to large meals as they drowned in their celebration. Fresh picks of fruit and large cuts of roasted meat spread on their table. And their victorious songs mixed with the smell of alcohol in the air.
The other patrons edged away from their table, as if their joy was the plague. But their eyes never strayed far from the spear.
Black clouds darkened the sky and rain poured, just as Jobb predicted. Ice cold rain pelted the roof. The wind grew stronger, howling through the alleys, battering the walls.
Outside, a cloaked figure trudged through the muddied road. His gait seemed sluggish, burdened with wounds and exhaustion. But then he stopped and craned his hooded face towards the tavern.
There was something inside that was louder than the revelries and stronger than the smell of a feast. It was an electric sensation, permeating through the air, making his skin prickle.
He shifted his direction and made for the tavern.