The Slime Farmer - 34 The Tavern Fight that Never Happened

Defi glanced at the open doorway of the tavern, the door slowly closing on its own.

It was obvious the girl hadn’t been looking for him, only latched on to the opportunity. He didn’t need to read deeply to see the fear on her face.

He gestured her over. “Renne, come eat before we go back.”

From her expression, she hadn’t been sure he would assist her.

He ignored the shocked relief on her face, and spoke to the server. “Could I have another set of cutlery?”

Berolt, the server, chivvied the girl into a seat before he left.

Renne sat down opposite him, her face only lightening when the door fully shut. She grasped the edge of the table with wet, shaking fingers.

“S-sorry…for interrupting. I’ll go. I have to –”

Berolt quickly returned with spoon, bowl, and plate. He even had a blanket to drape around the drenched girl’s shoulders.

“Later.” Defi spooned soup into his bowl. “Eat first.”

He wasn’t going to send a child into that heavy, hammering rain.

She already looked like a drowned cat.

Or a drowned dog, Defi glanced at the pointed ears, fur the exact same shade of mahogany as the strands of hairs falling down her shoulders. Both fur and hair looked black now, water dripping off the ends of sodden locks, gathering at the tips of the ears pressed nearly flat to her skull.

Berolt put a smaller glass mug of ale beside Renne.

Defi just looked at the server. “She’s ten.”

“I’m twelve!” She glared at Defi, the retort coming so quickly he believed she’d heard similar observations before.

Defi lifted a brow. “You don’t look much older than your toddler brother. You’re tiny.”

“I’m not tiny! I’m just like this, alright?!” She reached for the mug of ale, and took a large defiant gulp. Her eyes widened, she swallowed with some difficulty.

Defi sipped at his own ale, nonchalant.

Her eyes narrowed. Her furred ears flicked in irritation. She set her jaw and drained the mug, needing to tilt it up with both hands. She put the mug down and inhaled deeply. “It…it’s warm.”

Defi nodded, poured a ladle of soup into her bowl. “Eat. Your small body can’t handle even that amount of alcohol without food.”

At twelve, he’d already been drinking wine that wasn’t watered down. This ale was fine for twelve years in age, wasn’t it?

She glared at the bowl full of clam and mushroom, but the scent had her swallowing in anticipation, her mouth watering. She took up her spoon without a word. Curious, she dipped it into the soup, tasted the liquid. Her ears pricked up in interest, even though her brows were defiantly scowling.

Such honest ears.

She pushed the wooden spoon against the solid ingredients. It looked like she didn’t know what they were.

“Knife clam and moon mushroom.” Defi grabbed a clam from his own bowl and tipped the meat and juices from the shell into his mouth.

Renne reached to imitate him, interest sparking in her eyes.

The door crashed open.

The clam in her hand dropped with a splash into the soup.

Defi eyed the obviously furious man dripping all over the entranceway. “Isn’t that door a little too noisy?”

“It’s supposed to be like this, young sir,” said the attentive Berolt, also looking at the newest customer.

They both did not miss how Renne cringed at the sight of the man.

He dressed like the average traveler, with sturdy boots and a wide cloak over waistcoat and trousers. The expression on his face, however, was a snarling pout, a child who was told he had to put away his toys when he never had before. That entitled expression, Defi had seen it in numerous variation, across numerous faces; an expression only common to those who knew they could have anything they wanted.

Another, closer, inspection of the traveler’s attire and Defi could see the inconsistencies. The waistcoat was brocade, he could see the patterns even in the shadow of the cloak, and the trousers, though plain, creased softly in that way only high-quality wool did.

The cloak was rougher make, likely a concession to subterfuge – a smaller target for bandits – but the boots…they were polished to a proud shine.

Despite the mud covering the soles, it was a dead giveaway.

It completely negated the cloak.

An idiot, then.

The man’s eyes narrowed on Renne. “There you are,” he growled. “Come child, we are leaving this place.”

Renne stood and backed away, heading to the kitchen entrance.

“I beg your pardon, who are you?” Defi drawled, posture relaxed, almost lounging on the bench. “Please stop menacing my sister like a cheap criminal. Chelua, are others so unmannerly these days?”

There were a couple of nods from the people watching, and more people took notice of them.

“Sister? Do you take me for a fool? I have been looking for this girl for months. I will not mistake her for another!”

Defi laughed, amusement evident, a sudden loud sound. “You will not mistake her? You say that in the same breath you admit to not being able to catch a child for months? Good sir, I tell you, how can you not be mistaken?”

The man reddened at the susurrus of a roomful of snickering.

“Be silent! Do you know who I am?” He drew his sword, but pointed it at the floor. “Stand away, boy. I will be taking the girl to her father. Obstruct me, and there will be none to care for your corpse.”

Was he so unlikable, Defi thought, idly. Shouldn’t it be on the third meeting that people threatened to kill all the people who ever loved you?

“And I say, stand away, foolish servant of a foolish man. My sister is no daughter to your master.” Defi took a spoonful of soup leisurely. “I have no liking for violence, so let us end this like rational men. Walk away, servant. There is nothing for you here.”

“Boy, you are brave. You would call me a servant? You would even call my lord a fool? Do you think I would let that pass?”

“Truth is no insult. A father who lets his child run away, what else could he be but a fool? The subordinates that failed to find a child for months, are they still competent? It appears I must agree; you are no servant. To call you so is an insult to those who so nobly and capably serve. You are nothing but a bootlicker yapping at the heels of a fool.”

The sword swung. The spoon in Defi’s hand sheared in half, the larger part falling into the bowl of soup. Defi’s eye twitched imperceptibly.

“Boy,” the man’s tone was black, raging. “Face your death on your feet. I am Fretharic il Magmont. I know not why you protect her; she’s only the child of a werefolk whore. For whatever your reasons, you will die today.”

Defi was still ambiguous about werefolk, which is why he subtly kept away from the three children after the sable crab incident. But werefolk or not, Renne was a child and nothing he saw contradicted that. Not to mention, he had some negative thoughts on being dragged back to one’s father after running away.

“You’re still harping on her identity?” Defi stood as he complained. He lifted Turq from his shoulder and gave him to Renne. The girl hugged the slime, glaring at the man who said he would return her to her father. “Even saying I’ll die? I have no stomach for death, so I must decline.”

“I have no liking for violence.” Defi repeated as he smiled brightly at the man. “But for insulting my sister’s mother, you will beg forgiveness.”

The moment he was properly standing, the man attacked, a straight lunge. He knew from just the way the man was standing, the person before him only saw the sword as an accessory of his station. Defi used to think like that as well, but at least he was never as pathetically untutored as this.

Defi slid past the sword, batting the weak attack aside, and brought his fist up into the man’s gut. The lunging of his opponent met the force of a Current-assisted punch. He once saw an instructor end the arrogance of a classmate in the same manner.

Fretharic il Magmont dropped his sword, his face bulging with pain and disbelief, his arms instinctively cradling his vulnerable gut.

Defi pulled him up by the collar of his expensive waistcoat, turning him to face Renne. “Apologize to her, for your disrespect of her mother.”

The man spat, eyes hateful. “You still claim she is your sister? Then why would my men see her in this town’s orphanage?”

“Orphanage?” Defi casually rolled his shoulders. “Ah, the house of noisy children. Admittedly, I do regret renting rooms in the vicinity of that racket. Is it not natural for a child to seek out playmates of the same age?”

“You lie–!”

Defi hit him in the nose. The man sprawled on the floor. “Once more, take back your words. Know this, you attacked an unarmed opponent and, by doing so, excused yourself from noble conduct before a score of witnesses. Do you understand me, Fretharic il Magmont, servant of a fool?”

The man showed a flash of unease. “Pitiful commoners,” he still said. “What should I care for their testimony?”

Defi bent, as if to pick the prone man up again, and with his face hidden, smiled in triumph as he met the other’s eyes. The man jerked back in fear. “Apologize.”

“Y-yes…”

Defi hauled the man up. Two people approached to help, dark looks on their faces. He waved them away gently. Their glares turned to him. He smiled apologetically at them. For this to work, the townspeople must not touch the man.

He pushed the man toward the table where the soup was now cool, where Renne watched with a pale face.

The man bowed to Renne and forced a sentence out. “My words were poorly expressed.”

Renne glanced at Defi, reluctant, and blankly returned, “May the Weaver guide your path.”

The man straightened from his bow, brows furrowed and lips curled.

Defi jerked him about before he could say anything. “Should you choose to resume this dispute, look for Zoros of Agamarl.”

He pulled back a fist.

This time the man dropped and stayed still, unconscious.

Defi all but sighed as Rocso neared. He nudged the unconscious body with a toe. “Do you mind if I leave this here?”

Rocso smiled grimly. “It’s fine. The inns near the road say the men he came with are still in their rooms, so you should go and see to the little one. This one will know the hospitality of ‘pitiful commoners’, eh?”

There were dark mutterings from the nearby tables, as some of the customers returned to their seats.

“I do need him to report back,” said Defi apologetically.

It was a thin scheme, his plan, but the man was an idiot. He would believe that Defi was from somewhere else. As for Agamarl, Defi was still only starting to study local geography and cartography just yet. Agamarl was just the nearest city on the River Indar, bar Ecthys. It was the first place that came to mind.

“Don’t worry. He’ll live.”

Defi left it at that. “Sorry about the commotion.”

Rocso smiled widely, laughed. He turned to the room, and asked loudly. “What commotion? Did I miss a fight?”

“Bad luck, old man,” yelled one of the people in the bar. “Not only was there no fight, there’s some pansy from the city conked out without paying the tab!”

There was laughter around the room.

Rocso clapped Defi on the back. “That’s not what this one said!”

“Who cares what some city nobody and his sister said! F*cking Agamarl, all barking and no teeth!”

“We’re still prettier than you!” Renne yelled back, despite her face still being pale from the confrontation.

Defi raised a brow. Was she from Agamarl?

Laughter sounded at her sally.

“F*cking Agamarl,” was the return retort. “Full of pretty pansy boys!”

Defi’s brow twitched. Did someone just call him a pillow boy? The people in the range of his smile leaned away in alarm.

Rocso snorted in amusement. “The place is used to this. No fight happened here. Come by again, I still owe you three dishes.”

Defi made a note to have someone else with him when he ate at the tavern next.

He waved Renne to his side, exiting through the kitchen. “That, by the way,” he pointed at the unconscious body. “is why if you ever pick up a sword, you must learn to the level where the disadvantages of wielding a sword in combat are minimized.”

She looked at him doubtfully. “Isn’t the sword the best weapon?”

“If you want the greatest return for battlefield training, you’re better off with a polearm. A sword is too light, its reach too short. Its wielder must train harder than others, more precisely than others. If you cannot, pick up a halberd or a bow instead.”

She frowned. “Is the random weapon advice why Mureil and the others can’t stop talking about you?”

Defi huffed a laugh.

Adan was still in the yard, and though he looked curiously at the girl, did not ask questions.

It was still raining heavily, but they could not stay. Adan let them borrow waterproof capes, and a hat for Renne. Turq returned to its perch on Defi’s shoulders.

Defi sighed as the gate closed behind them. That went better than he expected. He knew at the start of the fight that he needed the tavern customers’ support. He didn’t expect Rocso to back him up that way. There were holes in the narrative, but…he resolved to choose the best slime he could for the old man.

Now, he and the three children should remain out of sight for some time, and they still had a fair chance of convincing Fretharic il Magmont’s compatriots that their prey was further south and not in the Lowpool.

Defi put his hands on the crossbar of the pullcart and started to move.

There was a scuffle of feet behind him. A smaller figure came to stand beside him, just fitting between the struts of the pushcart, and smaller hands placed themselves on the same crossbar.

“Why would you help?”

“Hm?”

“You don’t like me. Me or my brothers. Why would you help?”

Oh, Defi’s self-control was getting slovenly if a child could get that much off him. He could only be silent in his surprise. Her posture drooped when he didn’t answer.

“It is not you that I dislike,” he said at last. “Or your brothers. I grew up in a place where werefolk were not…well-liked.”

“Oh.” The sound was soft, despondent.

“Do not think much of it. They were only stories after all. I’ll get over it, probably.”

“But not now, huh…”

The child was perceptive. But she was not wrong. How did he slough off the teachings of a religion that had always been with him since birth? When the Creator’s Gift was curling warmly within him, a pillar of his existence, proof undisputed of the Holy Teachings?

Impossible.

But then…the eyes of mortals were not the eyes of gods.

“Renne, give me your hand.” Defi stretched out his own, palm up.

She looked at it in suspicion, but slowly reached to touch her fingers to his palm.

He immersed himself in the Current.

The Teachings said the Creator was ever averse to the demonborn. But Defi sent the Current swirling in the direction of the girl.

He felt her gasp and the vitality that was common to every living thing in Ascharon jumped as if to defend. Still, there was no darkness or evil, no immediate sense of enmity, not even a hint of the epic opposition he expected from an enemy of the Creator.

The Current swirled around the girl like it moved about every living being under the Creator’s gaze.

Defi took back his hand, breaking the connection.

“What was that?!” Renne looked discomforted.

“Proof.”

“Of what!”

“That werefolk are not the abominations spoken of in the stories.”

Renne stared at him, silent. Then put her hand back on the crossbar and helped him push.

They walked in the late afternoon rain, simply two children whose wandering paths crossed momentarily in the infinite roads woven by fate.

**

Chapter End

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Notes:

‘May the Weaver guide your path.’ – a benediction, for children mostly. The Weaver stands for crafts, so it is said to people who have not yet found their life’s work, or to those who need a reminder to get on the right path, or those looking for a new direction in life.

Basically, when Renne, a child, said it to Fretharic, who is both older and already certain of his destiny, he saw it as an insult. But he had to take it because of customary rituals of politeness.