The door to the tavern swung open. Cold wind swept in. The fire flickered and shrunk to embers, drowning the room in a cold darkness.
The mercenaries cursed. Even some apathetic patrons turned their eyes to measure the stranger who threatened their fire.
A tall figure stood by the threshold. He was cloaked, a hood hung over his head. The cloak was drenched by the hard rain, caked with mud, torn, and holed in some spots. Thunder cracked, and his black outline looked large and towering.
He pulled back his hood, revealing long scarlet hair that fell far beyond his shoulders. It was tied into a tail-like braid, but was tussled and dirtied with the journey. Strands stuck to his temple and cheek from the rain. He had the face of a young man, somewhere in his twenties. But the hard lines from exhaustion and battles etched grimly on his face, making him seem older than he truly is. His eyes were piercing amber, tired, but focused.
He heaved himself into the room, rain pattering down his body, trailing on the floor like blood from a wound. The patrons edged away from their precious hearth as they sensed the stranger's hunger for warmth. But he ignored the flames and walked over to the mercenaries' table.
His tall shadow lengthened on their table and Corvus turned to him with a sneer. "Eh, what do you want? You're dripping over our table. Get lost."
Behind the bar, Jobb warily put his daughter behind him. A redundant gesture, as the girl scurried behind him without being urged. Something told her it wasn't the best time to deliver the mercenaries' cheese and ale.
"You have what I have," said the stranger.
"Do you realise how little that narrows it down?"
Movement underneath his cloak. He slowly lifted his hand, revealing a muscular hand that was thick like a tree trunk. It slowly points towards Corvus, to the grim thing he held in his hand.
"The spear."
Firm. Short. Like a declaration of war.
The mercenaries started. They leapt to their feet, sending their chairs squealing and toppling to the floor.
Corvus narrowed his eyes. "You're that drifter we took it from! You survived."
Corvus eyed the Drifter thoroughly. The Drifter's face was battered, bruised, and weather-beaten.
Corvus whistled. "Did some good work on you, boy. But you got a spirit I'll give you that."
Corvus' brandished his cudgel, pointing its hooked thorns at the Drifter's face. Its tip nearly grazed his nose. "But don't think we won't do you in again, boy. Make no mistake. We will cut you up and kill you for good this time."
His men brandished their weapons as well. Cudgels, knives, batons. A few even grabbed the spoils of their scavenging.
The room stood still. The patrons edged even further, as far as the warm flame allows them. Some even abandoned the flame entirely.
Jobb carefully stepped out. "Please, whatever quarrel you have, take this outside."
Corvus craned to look at him, flashing his teeth. "It's fine, Jobb. Our friend here was just about to run home to his mother."
He turned around to find the Drifter's fist flying at him.
The Drifter heaved all his strength into his swing, cracking Corvus' teeth, sending him reeling and crashing into chairs and tables.
The mercenaries exploded into movement, jumping on the Drifter. Two caught him by surprise as their cudgels bit into his back.
The Drifter roared in pain and spun wildly, catching one of them with his elbow, sending the other reeling with a swing at his stomach.
One mercenary came running and swung his cudgel. A wide swing. The Drifter ducked forward and let momentum carry the man forward, right into his fist.
Another crept behind him, arm reared, a mug brimming with liquor clenched. The Drifter spun and kicked him in the chest, sending him staggering into the fire pit.
He fell, and the fire, doused with the alcohol, grew into a gust of flame. His screams rang as the rising fire cast a blinding light that extended the Drifter's monstrous shadow to the entire room.
The patrons cried and fled, crashing into tables, stumbling onto one another. But the corner of the room offered little respite from the flames. The fire's once meagre heat now licked the corners of the room.
At the centre of the room, mayhem continued. Another mercenary came from the front, longsword reared to a swing. The Drifter stepped forward and caught his wrists before he could finish his swing. He twisted hard and redirected the blade to block an incoming axe.
No crossguard in the axe. The Drifter saw an opportunity. He drew his sword back. The blade slid across the axe's shaft with no resistance, freeing its wielder of his fingers. A perfect draw cut.
The fingerless man fell to the ground clutching his stump.
"Bastard!"
Spittle flew from his frothing mouth before the Drifter kicked his mouth in.
Axe in one hand and sword in the other, the Drifter kept two assailants at bay. The Drifter fought like a rabid beast, his blades flashing in the roaring light of the flame. He was a whirlwind of blades and fists, of kicks and blocks.
He dispatched one with a powerful overhead swing with the axe, breaking through his enemy's block. He tried to wrest the axe off, but it was stuck in his body.
He had to leave an axe, dodging a vengeful swing from his comrade.
The Drifter ducked and swung his sword. The chipped blade broke against the mercenary's breastplate.
The Drifter clicked his tongue at the half sword left in his hand.
His enemy laughed. "Now you're—"
The Drifter was on him, half blade reared, its pommel glinting in the light. He pummeled the laughing mercenary's face in, again, again, and again, until the man collapsed onto the floor, his nose a bloodied stump.
The Drifter looked at the half blade and tossed it to the floor.
Boots against the floor. The Drifter turned to find Corvus charging at him like a bull, the fearsome magebane trained at his heart.
The Drifter merely stepped aside. Corvus charged right into a wooden pillar. The momentum sent Corvus running right into the butt of his own spear.
Spittle flew from Corvus' mouth as the spear knocked the wind out of him.
He stepped back, clutching at his stomach, and crumpled to the floor.
Quiet. He scanned his fallen enemies.
His chest burned, his muscle ached, and his very bones creaked.
He walked over to his spear. It was firmly lodged on the wooden pillar.
He wrapped his calloused hand around the shaft and yanked it off.
He held the spear tightly. The fine grain of the wood felt comforting, familiar. Its thick shaft and heavy weight felt assuring, strong. Like an anchor that held him in place. And true to that, it helped him stand now, like a crutch.
They were complete. As Rose watched from her cover, she can't help but think both the Drifter and his spear looked alike. They were both beautiful things battered and bruised from their journey. Both he and the spear travelled plenty, both as companions, and that was a mark of his familiarity with the weapon, and how well-fitting the weapon was to the wielder.
Rose's father rushed past the carnage, tailed by the braver patrons, with water and dirt in their hands. They crouched low, eyes watching the Drifter, as if silently asking permission.
The Drifter ignored them. They promptly moved to calm the fire.
The Drifter turned to leave, ignoring the groaning men and the silent dead as if they were beneath his attention.
"You bastard!"
All eyes turned to Corvus. He was barely standing as he nursed his injury. He had taken the arquebus, and was aiming it right at the Drifter.
"Ha, ha! I got you, you bastard. You know what this is?"
The Drifter watched him. Silent.
Then, he smiled. He smiled as if he didn't just kill a dozen men. It was a cold, amused smile, like the smile of a man who saw a kid playing soldier.
"Go ahead. Shoot," the Drifter said in a low, smooth voice.
Corvus stared at him, confused, but grinning. But it faltered when the Drifter grinned back, flashing his teeth.
"But you better not miss, because I won't wait for the next."
The room was still. The air was thick with tension. No one moved, not even the patrons.
Corvus was pale as a corpse. His grip on the arquebus turned clammy with sweat. He grit his teeth and clenched the arquebus hard, trying to stop his hands from wavering.
He summoned the last of his courage and bellowed. "Damn you!"
Corvus squeezed the trigger, and a terrible flash erupted from the strange weapon, blinding, deafening.
Everyone covered their eyes.
When the light subsided, and everyone opened their eyes, the entire tavern gasped.
In that split second, the Drifter had closed the distance and skewered Corvus with his spear. It punched through his stomach all the way out his back, spraying blood right at the walls.
The bullet nailed a hole in the wall, behind where the Drifter stood a second ago.
Corvus fell to his knees, clutching the spear sticking at his gut with bloodied, slick fingers. He breathed his last gurgle of breath. His eyes remained wide open, a look of surprise and confusion forever etched in his face.
The Drifter yanked his spear off the corpse and planted its butt on the ground. Its round, metal tip shook the wood panelled floor. The spear and its wielder stood tall, casting long, flickering shadows across the room.
He was, without a doubt, the true owner of the wyrmmetal spear.