The Barbarian's Downfall

No self respecting swordsman would leave blood to dry on his weapon. True to this philosophy, the Barbarian is sat on the toppled log of a tree, his hulking shoulders slumped over like a great sack of rice as he eliminates every trace of red and unwanted detail from his gladius. “The blood will cause the blade to rust, and will stick to the inside of your scabbard. Wouldn’t want to be quick on the draw and find your sword stuck now, wouldn’t you?” he recalled his father telling him. But he needn’t his father to impart such information, after all, the Barbarian, Rían, is his own man. He learned things on his own, the hard way most of the time. Toughened himself up. With a scrutinous squint, the Barbarian meticulously scoured the stainless blade as it glowed with a soft luster in the afternoon light. His old weapon had been more intimidating for the tetanus it harbored than anything else, but Rían obtained a replacement. The coin hadn’t been easy to come by over the past years. He took care of the successor well. And although the coin wasn’t easy to obtain, his fortunes had recently begun to change.

“Been making quite the name for yourself,” a stranger said as he approached. Rían grunted.

“I sit ‘ere t’ave some peace ‘n quiet way from th’ Pit. After a brawl I like t’lick me wounds, clean me sword, and count me gold,” Rían said as he began to rise. “Don’t think tha’ I included talking to some dumb c**t stranger in tha’ list, aye?” The Barbarian glared down at the man. He fidgeted at Rían’s intensity.

“Calm down there mate,” said the stranger, putting his hand between them. “Just wanted to have a drink with the winner here. Give me a few pointers for my own fight, eh?”

For a moment, Rían looked past the man, gazing at the urban sprawl of hovels and wretched shanties. Somewhere within that unorganized and impoverished mass was the Pit, a breeding ground of gamblers and fighters. He could only discern it amongst the other ramshackle piles of planks and stone because it was the only place he’d ever go for the past few years.

“Oi mate, you gonna talk?” urged the stranger as he watched Rían’s thousand-yard-stare manifest. For the Barbarian, the moment had been longer than what he thought. “You pissed already? You just had the fight,” he continued.

“Give me a fockin’ reason tha’ I should be talkin’ with ye,” Rían lashed back, slurring his words.

"Godssake mate, you are bloody pissed. In both ways at that. Can smell the f*****g ale in your breath from here.”

Rían gave him nothing, leaving them both staring at one another in silence. Not even the slightest breeze durst to disturb them, before the Barbarian finally stomped his foot into the dirt, a plume of sand rising about his boot. “Aight. You pay for th’ fockin’ drinks ‘n I’ll talk t’ye.”

The stranger shrugs back, slightly more at ease. “Sounds good to me. Name’s Garrett by the way.”

“Fock if I care.”

Garret only sighed as the pair began to make their way down the path. “You know, if you were a bit more charming, maybe the whole fighting ring in this bloody city wouldn’t hate you.”

Kicking a stone, the Barbarian scoffs. “They hate me because I be ruinin’ all their bets since I’m th’ bloody underdog with me fair share o’ upsets.” Their heels scuff the ground as the path descends into a hill, lowering into the city. “That’s true,” Garrett concedes, “but only part of the truth. No one likes an arsehole. No one will like an arsehole underdog that’s making them lose coin. And you’ve had your fair share of antics as well. Like when you pissed on the Mad Dog after you put him on the ground. What comes around, goes around. Got to be careful mate.”

“They’re wha’ came around. I took their fockin’ shite fer years and slowly became a better fighter with each fockin’ loss to ‘em. Now I be goin’ around, treatin’ ‘em th’ way they treated me.”

“I believe you. But that’s not the way they see it,” Garrett replied, practically yelling to be heard over the commotion of the city. They were back in its midst, evident by the smells of s**t and piss and the sticky heat that only amplified the already stomach churning stench. Vendors lined both sides of every street, each possessing an identical building: a dirt floored shop on the ground and on the second floor above it, their quarters, from where the occasional angry wife could be seen emptying a bucket of s**t through the window. If either of the men were phased by the conditions, they did not show it, save for the occasional scrunching of the nostrils. The Barbarian shouldered his way through a few passersby, before the collective subconscious of the oncoming crowd cleared a path at his towering stature. Garrett followed Rían in close vicinity, now appreciating having a companion that is at least a head taller than anyone else to be seen. They turned into a quieter alley, and the Barbarian took the opportunity to respond. “I be comin’ with ye so I could give ye some advice and so ye could buy me a drink, not th’ other fockin’ way around,” he growled.

“For f**k’s sake mate,” Garrett exclaimed. “I’m probably the only bloke in this area that doesn’t hate your guts, let alone give a rat’s arse about you. Listen, if you’re going to survive here, you’ve got to be more careful. You keep this up mate, and sooner or later you’re going to piss off the wrong people.” Maintaining his fierce countenance, Rían tore his gaze from the path ahead and glared down at the smaller man as they came to a halt. Garrett’s fingers were crossed as he tried to return Rían’s scorching countenance. His attempt was less convincing. Finally, the Barbarian grunted and began to walk once more. Rolling his shoulders, Garrett followed, masking his relief. “Wha’s with th’ fockin’ beard?” asked Rían. “Be fockin’ blazin’ in this shitehole and ye’ve a bloody racoon on yer face.”

“F**k off mate.”

Rían chuckled, dispelling the aura of unease. Though perhaps half a foot shorter than the Barbarian (as most men would be), Garrett himself was no meek man, with an imposing demeanor in his own right. The caution he found himself exercising--and perhaps fear--was an unfamiliar experience. But by the time they had arrived at the dilapidated entrance of the Pit, the two did not appear as if wanting to slice one another’s throats. Once inside, Garrett raised a hand towards the bartender, two fingers raised. “A pint for me and the winner here, eh Sal?”

Heads began to turn at the mention of the ‘winner’ as the bustling of the tavern trickled to a standstill. Murmurs echoed throughout the room as the Barbarian scanned the vista of glaring eyes. He kept his hand lingering at his scabbard. Any sudden movements and he would pounce. Interest waned as the tavern-goers turned back to what they were doing. “You trying to start a bloody war in here? Already enough fightin’ in the arena downstairs, don’t need to bring that into the tavern,” the bartender barked at Garrett as the two sat themselves at the counter. “And you,” he continued, looking at Rían, “you could start a war just by existing. Nothing but trouble, you are.”

Garrett feigned a laugh that dripped with unease. “Come on Sal, you don’t mean that.” He moved forward to hiss into the bartender’s ear. “Just appreciate that he hasn’t f*****g clobbered you in the noggin yet.”

Arms crossed, Sal was unimpressed. Unfortunately for the man, so was Rían. Without a moment to spare, he yanked Sal by the hair and slammed his face onto the countertop. The bartender had fallen to his knees as his head slumped forward. “Get back up, willye?” Rían said, as he cackled his raspy laugh. He flicked the base of his palm into Sal’s forehead, sending the already disoriented man backwards. “And while ye’re at it. Get th’ two o’ us somethin’ to drink.”

Horror was written across Garrett’s face as his jaw dropped, anticipating their inevitable doom. Sal stumbled to his feet, before bumbling to the kitchen. “Rían, mate. What did I bloody say back there!” The human equivalent of a snarl escaped the Barbarian. While the room hadn’t fallen dead silent as it did when they entered, the both of them could feel the hostile eyes all around the tavern examining them. “This be why I don’t come to this bloody joint. Ye should o’ left me alone with me fockin’ sword.”

“Ye, this is my fault,” Garrett replied sarcastically. “Let’s get out of here.”

“No,” Rían declared firmly.

“Wha’? Are you bloody insane?”

“I’m goin’ t’get me drink, otherwise, none o’ this shite was worth th’ time.”

“The only thing that the bartender whose face you just SMASHED is getting, is the f*****g Enforcer! And his whole bloody battalion of henchmen!” Garrett could hardly contain his bafflement as he flailed his arms in desperation.

“Let them come.”

“Do you want to die?”

“No, ‘n I won’t be dyin’. They’ll be needin’ a bloody army fer me.”

“And that’s exactly what they’ll be bringing!”

“If you don’t like it, you can be leavin’!” Rían roared raspily. Garrett shrunk.

“You’re a c**t,” Garrett finally said. “But I’m not going to let you just die here. I’m more charismatic than you are. I can sort this out without any of us getting bloody maimed.”

“Good luck with tha’.”

“Yeh, and good luck fighting a whole horde of the Enforcer’s men.”

Rían only cackled.

“We are so fucked…” Garrett muttered under his breath. His eyes darted between every corner of the room. It was not long until the reveling in the tavern abruptly ended, giving way to a cadence of thunderous footsteps that were headed for them. Rían remained seated. Garrett gulped as he looked to the other side of the bar at the source of the footsteps. “Rían… the Enforcer is here.”

As if on cue, a tall, bald man emerged around the corner, his face riddled with scars. He donned steel armor of imperial make, a raiment completed by his tattered red cape. His gait had all the movements of a soldier: rigid and practiced, yet smooth. The Barbarian spared him only a mere glance over his shoulder. Barging into place, the soldiers encircled him and Garrett, and when the shuffling died down, the bald man stepped forward. Garrett, in turn, took a step back, nearing Rían.

“You’ve caused a great deal of trouble today,” the man boomed.

“I could be on th’ other side of th’ fockin’ world and ye lot would still be sayin’ I be responsible fer all yer problems,” Rían grumbled. “Maybe ye should be gettin’ a barkeep tha’ jus’ takes me fockin’ order instead o’ askin’ fer trouble.”

“And what warranted you smashing his face into the countertop?” the man calmly replied. Garrett was nearly swept away by the fierce undercurrent of the man’s chilling brevity.

“You all be thievin’ c***s, tha’s why.”

The Enforcer raised a firm hand to calm the rest of the men, before clenching his fist in his palm. “You really are nothing but a dull sack of meat. And from all the trouble you’ve caused us, I’m sure no one will miss you when you’re gone.”

“Leave him be,” Garrett barked.

The Enforcer casted an amused glance at him, before looking back at his soldiers. “Get them.”

With a vociferous roar, the circle engulfed them. Springing out of his seat, Rían thrusted his gladius straight through the heart of the nearest man. He drove his elbow into the face of another behind him as he freed his weapon. Garrett managed to pummel one before the horde of others apprehended him, holding his arms behind his back. Pivoting, the Barbarian pierced the brigandine of another soldier, the sword lodged in his stomach. Rían had no time to remove it. Bellowing a fierce growl, he struck the temple of a man and sent him to the floor. He grabbed the arm of a trailing punch with both his hands, and smashed it onto his knee. The bone burst from the flesh, leaving the owner hollering. The Barbarian swung at every man that neared him. Some fell in his wake. But not all. It must’ve been a dozen men that grabbed him by each arm and pinned them behind his back. Now both him and Garrett were in the same boat. With a complacent smirk, the Enforcer approached Rían.

“I hardly know th’ man, leave ‘im be,” the Barbarian sputtered.

“I won’t be doing you any favors, no,” he replied.

Rían spat in the bald man’s face. The Enforcer replied with a punch to his. Snarling, the Barbarian violently shook his head to clear his vision. “But I’ll be doing everybody else one, by getting rid of you,” he continued, wiping the saliva off his face. “Men, release his arms. I’ll deal with-” The Barbarian wasted no time pouncing the Enforcer, and punching him in the face. As the man fell to the floor, Rían began to kick him. But to his surprise, the Enforcer snatched his foot and slammed Rían to the ground. Both grumbled as they rose and prepared to attack. The Enforcer wound up for a powerful punch, and Rían began to raise his arms to block as he tried to evade. But the soldiers behind him once again grabbed him by his arms. Defenseless, his face met the full force of the blow, grunting a silent “uff” at the impact. Rían spat out blood as the Enforcer wiped some off of his fist. “He’s all yours men. And his companion too,” the Enforcer uttered, before turning to storm off. “And leave him alive!”

“Which one sir?” one of them replied.

“You know which one.”

*****​

The Barbarian awakened to the warm glow of the morning sun. Shirtless, he was lying on the shores of a sandy beach. The first thing he noticed, other than his location and lack of shirt, was that he had been stripped of all his coin. His armor, his shield, his sword, everything that wasn’t his pants were gone. Rían panickedly searched his pockets to see if it was still there. He sighed with relief when he produced his mother’s eyepatch. A momentary pang of regret crossed his mind. All these years, fighting, making a name for himself, he neglected to find his sister. “Sylvi…” he muttered. It was a name he hadn’t said in a long time. Moaning, he rolled off of his back. His head rang from the night before--partially from the alcohol, partially from the blow to his head. As he stood up, a paper plastered to his back fell to the ground. He examined it with a scowl; he wasn’t a profound reader.

“Your companion is dead. There is a bounty out for you. If you return to the city once more, both the guards and my men will kill you. You have been robbed of all your possessions, and your home has been given to another. We left you with a few items so that you can f**k off. They’re in the cave behind you. You have caused a great deal of trouble for me and my city. Now it is your turn to suffer. Begone.”

Rían morosely crumpled up the paper in his hand, before trudging over to the cave. On the floor was his old tattered and pitiful gray coat, along with black boots. A white shirt muddled with sand was included. His rusty old gladius was there as well, and his shield. He was surprised to see his pauldron amongst the belongings. Silently, the Barbarian wore what he found, and gathered what he could. They wanted him gone. And gone he will be.