Chapter 2

 

The Thug-full Tavern

 

 

 

Phorknere's birthday plans went without a hitch, but it was the next day that was the problem-
 

“Phorknere!” Phella exclaimed, bursting into their room as Phorknere studied maps.
 

“What the Zitz? What's wrong?” Phorknere asked jumping from his chair.
 

“Come with us! We're going to visit a local pub in the village! There were reports of the men being so drunk that they murdered! This is a chance for us to finally get some action!- Or, at least you!” Phella said picking up his stuff.
 

Phorknere felt his stomach lurch with anxious excitement.
 

“Well? Are you coming or not?”
 

“Yes!” Phorknere rushed around, pulling on his boots, leather vest, weapon belt and slipped a dagger into the belt around his ankle, as his brothers had taught him.

They went out to the stables, where they also had their own armory.
 

“Tell me more about the tavern,” Phorknere said, slipping a large dagger into a side pocket attached to his weapon belt.

“Well, it was said that one of the men... I believed named... uh... Bystor Roe, I believe, had gone into the pub one night. He was from a far away country... I believe he came from Talilav-”
 

Phorknere gaped, amazed at how far Bystor Roe had come from. That was like traveling from one end of Afinlyn to the other, long ways.
 

“- and had left his wife and family to fend for themselves against a arising plague there, created by... I believe Imp's? But I'm not sure.”
 

Phorknere grimaced, remembering all the stories of the mischievous and dangerous forest elves, more commonly known as Imp's. Phorknere had no doubt that they could make a plague. Sense the kingdom of Den had already seen its fair share of Imp decease.
 

“But anyways! He was seen going into the pub and three days later, there was still no sign of him leaving. It was said that some one went in there to check on him, but the man who went in, didn't come out.” With these words Phella slid in his last piece of equipment, his sword, “Other men have gone in, respectable men, just going in for meals and maybe a tankard of beer, and they never come out again! The only men seen coming out and in are big menacing looking guys, thugs. And of course the bar man and his daughters.” Phella sighed at the mention of the bar mans daughters.

Phorknere knew better then to tease him on his obvious liking to the oldest and youngest of the bar man's daughters.
 

“We definitely have to do something!” He agreed, slipping his own sword in its scabbard dramatically, “Let's go kick their belts off!”
 

Phella had to smile at his brother's courage and what seemed to be spunk. It was actually anxiousness, another word for nervousness, “Their belts?”
 

“I... Don't ruin the moment!”

 

****

 

“Ready Phorknere?” Phorkellason asked him, looking at him skeptically, as they all stood outside of the tavern full of thugs.
 

“Uh... Yeah,” Phorknere said a bit shakily.
 

“You sure?” laughed Eorks in his deep bellowing voice, a grin across his almost black face- burned from all the smoke and fire he worked with.
 

“Sounds like he has the gidder's!” Phorkey said with his gruff voice, he must have been the most big, and muscled of them all.
 

“I do not!” Phorknere said defensively, courage coming back to him. He was ready to prove his brothers that he was not weak.
 

They all laughed as one, Phorknere glaring at them all.
 

“Don't worry Phorknere! We're here if anything happens! I doubt you'll even have a chance to fight with us around,” Phella said smiling.
 

Phorknere squared his shoulders and readied himself.
 

They all stepped forward as one, but thinned out in a single file line to fit through the door, and Phorkey almost didn't fit because of his large muscular body.
 

What really could have defeated him was the smell. It. Was. Horrid. The smell of sweat and dirt and ail mixed with dirty feet and faeces -- which must have been the worst smell of them all. All of it mixed together was like walking into... well a dirty tavern.
 

Phorknere had a sudden urge to throw up as he watched flies fly around one man eating some meat. Others were flying around some suspicious brown mounds on the floor.
 

Men with big and muscular bodies loomed here and there, frowning at them, some with sneers and others with bloodshot eyes. Frailer men were backed into corners, their white beards or just growing scruff soaked with beer and something that might have been dried blood.

A man larger then all the rest of them stood up to Phorkellason and Eellason. His beard was a dark mahogany color. His lip was cut and there was a very large bump on his forehead. His arms were almost as hairy and bushy as his beard and were of the same color. He only wore a worn out blue vest and dirty brown breaches, so that his chest revealed all of its hair that was as thick as his beard.
 

“Hello sir, I am Phorkellason, Head Captain in the Kings Navy, Royal officer, Knight, Commander. Head Battle master. Head of War Counsel and Kings friend. I request you and your men depart from these lands and never return. You can go peacefully or you can go with a fight, but you will leave this land.”
 

The man sneered, his hand twitched by his side nervously and his eyes filled with hatred.
 

Phorknere had just enough time to see a flash and the man was laying on the floor bleeding, Eellason's knife in his arm.
 

“We warned you,” Phella said, as the man groaned and moaned on the ground, his legs and arm flailing about.
 

“How pathetic!” said Forks, his lip curled in disgust and disdain.
 

Phorknere let out a pent up breath, now, that he saw how weak their opponent was he didn't feel so small. But maybe it was because his brothers were there.
 

The other men waited and watched as their leader sprawled around on the tavern ground dramatically. One man with a blond beard and some dried blood crusted in it, stood up from his table and grabbed a club from beside him, “Your going to pay for that,” he said with a gruff voice with an interesting accent.
 

Phorkellason swung his sword so that its tip was at the mans throat.
 

The man gulped loudly, backing away the best he could from the needle sharp point of the dangerous blade.
 

“As I said before, leave this land or leave this world all together,” Phorkellason said coldly.
 

“NOW!” Cried one man in the tavern and they all attacked. But it wasn't just their signal. It was also the eight brothers signal, all at once swords were slashing through the air, things were being spilled and fists were flying.
 

Phorknere drew his sword just in time as a man swung an ax at him. Phorknere dodged the ax and cut at the man with lightening speed. All that training finally paying off. He was very thankful that he was apart of the legendary family at the moment.
 

The sword cut through the mans jacket and blood started to soak the mans front.
 

The man starred glassy-eyed and fell over gripping his wound, and lay still.
 

Realization of actually killing some one, hit Phorknere like a sack of flour. It was weird, he couldn't quite make out his feelings. What he felt in his stomach might have been triumph but maybe it was sickness.
 

“Well done Phorknere! Bet I can defeat more then you!” Phella challenged.
 

After that Phorknere was uncertain of fighting anymore, he wanted to go in a corner and think and repent over what he had just done. He didn't have much time to think of the matter, sense a two hundred pound man charged at him. Phorknere slashed, cut, and the man fell away, “Your on!”
 

It was a blur, with blood, dirt and beer.
 

Phella had made the bar man and his family- especially his daughters- leave until the situation was dealt with. They had readily agreed to leave the premises.
 

Phorknere had wounded five and he was sure he killed seven more, which frightened him.
 

“Enough Roe!” Called Eorks, his large sword at a short mans throat.
 

Everyone stopped, their true leader was at sword point and there was no point in fighting anymore.
 

Phorknere was surprised by the size of the man, short, his beard was short, black and wiry. His eyebrows were thick and his chest was very round. He looked and smelled very drunk and his eyelids drooped even if his life was in danger.
 

“You... can...make... Me...” he slurred.
 

The older brothers laughed.
 

“Your absolutely right!” Forks said grinning, his red hair plastered to his head, dripping with sweat and blood and beer.
 

Eorks picked up Bystor Roe by his forearms and raised him up, carrying him to the door.
 

Bystor Roe looked like child in Phorknere's big brothers arms. It was a comical but also pitiful sight.

All pity for the man disappeared, as the little man twisted out of Eorks grip-which seemed to everyone impossible-, there was a flash of something silver.
 

Phorknere was just able to catch sight of it and move to the side. It scraped his arm, and plunged deep into one of Phorkey's abnormally large biceps. Sheathing, Phorknere stepped back, gripping his scratched arm, which trickled blood. He looked at his handd that was red with his own blood, horror and relief filling his heart. With a start he turned to his brother, who had fallen to his knees, a short, sharp knife sticking out of his arm.
 

Now all the brothers understood the man's skills and why he was feared. He was a master of the throwing knife. It was very impressive, that, they all agreed.
 

Phorknere stood horrified, wondering if his brother was alright.
 

Phorkey stood up, pulling on the knife, his teeth clenched. He laughed.
 

Many of the thugs shrunk back at the laugh. Rumors had passed around of these heroic brother's father. Who had been feared by all dark men, who had laughed in the faces of his enemies and death itself. It was said that he died laughing, that wonderful but feared laugh. Wonderful to friends ears but feared and dreadful to his foes. It was also said that these boys had inherited that incredible laugh.

No one doubted it now.
 

Phorkey swung his arm back and with a swift and fluid movement, Bystor Roe, lay... dead on the dirty thug-full tavern floor. Killed by his own blade. Phorkey and Roe's blood mixing with each other.
 

Some men cheered but were hushed by the look the Kings men gave.
 

All eight brothers stood gravely round the small trouble maker. They hated it when they had to kill, it was something they detested, even if it was necessary. Eellason bent down and touched Bystor Roe's head. He drew a line across his own neck. They all nodded solemnly and backed away from the cold body.
 

Phorkellason looked up at the men that were left, “It is over... collect the dead, bury them and speak not of this to anyone. After you are finished, go to your homes and be silent. For what has passed tonight... is the past.”
 

The brother's gathered their weapons, bowing their heads they left the tavern.
 

Phorknere looked back at everyone before he went through the door. He first glanced at the frightened men, then at the cold bodies on the ground. It was sad, he had to agree. But he didn't understand why it was such an evil thing, and why everyone looked like they had seen a ghost. He saw the blood trickling from one of the dead men on the ground and a shiver went down his spine. He understood.
 

Death, was evil.

**Sorry it was so gory! Thanks for reading! **