Sabledrake Magazine
May, 2004
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McElway's Way
Copyright © 2004 Lewis Korn
Duncan McElway rode south into Elmhurst on his mount. The freezing rain danced all around him in the twilight of the evening.
His search had come to an end at long last. For two years Duncan had looked for Wallace of Fussbudget, the man with the rusty sword.
Duncan had searched in the canyons of Philomar to the north. He had scoured the coastal plains of Brightengale to the east. Those empty efforts had yielded only two other directions. And one of those was the Ocean of Anger in the south. Duncan certainly had no recourse to search in those waters.
The mount Duncan rode snorted into the cold, cold air. The frigid temperature and the rain were becoming unbearable. Duncan shifted his thick, elk-skin coat to combat the wind. He rode on.
“Easy now, lad,” Duncan comforted his steed.
Just up ahead was the town of Elmhurst. Some buildings, which were hidden behind the precipitation, slowly crawled into view.
Duncan smelled smoke. He squinted his 30 year-old eyes up ahead into the distance. From the light of dusk he was able to see smoke rising from a chimney. Duncan knew Elmhurst to be small; he just had no inclination how small it really was. He rode on.
Up ahead were some horses tied before a uniquely shaped structure. That had to be it, he thought to himself. In nothing more than a few moments he would be there.
A red sign sticking out from the front of the building read: The Familiar’s Dung. The place stood out like no other pub Duncan had ever seen. He scanned the structure with a keen eye.
The exterior to the tavern was covered in cats. They were dead cats. Each and every one of the unlucky felines had been nailed, or otherwise mounted in similar fashion, to the building in no particular pattern. Their deceased carcasses had been added one at a time until they had become one giant wall of rotting feline.
Duncan dismounted and led his horse up to the post where the other mounts were tied.
“Rest lad,” he told his trusty companion. “And may I mount again living,” and he walked into The Familiar’s Dung.
The cold was all gone as soon as Duncan closed the door behind him. His quick survey of the interior layout served him instantly. The numbers were in: four people were in the far corner hunched around a table and another individual stood behind the bar. Flames engulfed a fireplace along one of the walls.
The man behind the bar spoke first. “Welcome to this establishment of mine. ’Tis cold this night, no?”
Duncan kept an extra eye on the four in the corner. “’Tis,” Duncan responded. “And more is the warmth in here.”
“Aye,” the proprietor added. “’Tis more so this evening, no?”
Still with a watchful eye on the group in the corner Duncan slowly made his way to the edge of the bar. A bowl of apples sat on the counter. Him put one in his coat. Duncan turned and faced the individuals in the corner. And then, surrounded by a few empty tables and chairs, he spoke.
“I am Duncan McElway. And at this disgusting place of places I seek the contest with those who’ve done me wrong. I say and will in battle prove I am right. Now where, in the name of all that is false, where is Wallace of the clan Fussbudget?” and he pointed at the group in the corner.
A voice came from the corner where the four were seated saying, ”And whose justice and rough chastisement do I smell from all the way over here?”
Another voice from the group responded almost immediately. “Sounds much like another foul creature that must be nailed fast outside,” and they all laughed.
Duncan began peeling back part of his elk-skin coat with his left hand while moving his right hand to draw his sword. The proprietor and his bearded face began to back away from the serving area. Duncan honed in on his every move while still focusing on the group in the corner.
“Against thee if I must, merchant,” Duncan said to the owner of the tavern. “I’ll ask thee no more movement or that very breath which exhales now is to be thy last,” and the sword of McElway’s grandfather was pulled from its sheath.
The proprietor swallowed a lump in his throat and responded. “Good sir, I am no miscreant or keeper of treason -- ”
“Thy tongue runs more than the ale spilled in this wretched lair,” Duncan returned.
One of the four people in the corner got up from his wooden chair. He faced Duncan with a smile on his toothless mouth and held a crossbow gently in his left hand. He drank from a silver flask. Ale dripped furiously from his lips. As for the crossbow, the bolt sticking out of the weapon was aimed in the direction of Duncan. The holder of the crossbow spoke over the crackle of the fire, which kept all in The Familiar’s Dung warm.
“Mean time, Duncan McElway, let this defend my loyalty to that which I serve,” and he adjusted the crossbow in his grip, now of two hands.
“Wallace of Fussbudget,” said Duncan. “Give the property thou hath absconded, or thy blood will greet this blade of my fathers.”
Wallace of Fussbudget glanced back towards his three compatriots, one of which was hidden behind a cloak. They all laughed out loud. Then, two of them stood up from the table. They slowly pulled out blades much shorter than Duncan’s, but no less deadly.
Wallace stepped back as if to give his companions a better initiative in the engagement. Again, he spoke to Duncan. “’Twas an uneventful night before thou broke our merry round of tales and such, Duncan. For this, thou shall be punished.”
Duncan held his ground and spoke slowly. “Then, so that it canst be said that I am unjust, I offer thou and these gout-licking rouges which surround thee…a bargain, Wallace. A bargain.”
Three of the four villains roared gloriously together in laughter. The one in the cloak did not move. For just a split second, Duncan noticed, Wallace even took his aim with the crossbow off of his intended victim. Duncan held his ground and awaited the response. Wallace delivered.
“And pray, Duncan McElway, forger of aggravation thou art, what is this…bargain?”
Duncan took two steps forward until he was in front of a wooden table. He did this slowly as he spoke with a likewise pace to his words. “If thou sees fit to return the property which is rightfully mine, then thou art welcome to finish that flask of ale thou hath been drinking.”
Again, the same three thugs laughed aloud at the words of Duncan McElway. And again, the one in the cloak did not.
Still laughing a little bit, Wallace of Fussbudget replied. “And consequently, what bargain is this, McElway? Half of the ale is still on the table and the other, well…the other half rests gently within. So again, what bargain is this thou offer?”
“To finish that half of ale still clotting on the table.” Duncan nodded.
“How is this a bargain, McElway? The ale is mine already.”
“Yet, if the bargain is made, thou can enjoy that very ale…for it is thy last,”
Duncan kicked over the table that was before him. Its top now faced his enemies. As he ducked on the safe side of the wooden protection, he could distinctly hear the bolt from a certain crossbow impale itself on the other side.
“Kill that venomous snake,” Wallace said loudly.
The two men with the shorter blades approached Duncan from different angles. Wallace of Fussbudget tossed his crossbow onto his table. It slid across the oak and into the hands of the fourth member of the group who was adorned in the hooded cloak.
“Reload this crossbow,” he said to that member of the pack.
Wallace watched his two minions of mercilessness close in on Duncan McElway. They were halfway there now.
Duncan, with sword in hand and squatting from behind the table, listened for the two men approaching. The fire emanated bright enough to give Duncan their silhouettes along the far wall, but the images were blurred between the two cutthroats looming in on his demise. He glanced away from the fire to concentrate on the shadow that appeared to be closest; and that was to his right. He gripped the legs of the table and pulled it back down into its regular position.
The noise from the table landing back into its upright position sent a momentary hesitation to the two villains. From atop the table in a 90-degree angle stuck one bolt as if it was doing its part to complete the symmetry of a sundial. Duncan pitched his sword from his right hand to his left. He grabbed the bolt with his newly freed right hand and launched it at the thug to his right. McElway’s sword slipped back into his right hand just as the bolt met its target.
The villain, who had been to the right, was now on the floor holding a bolt in his chest. He now laid still. The cutthroat to Duncan’s left charged with fury.
Their blades connected once. Then Duncan put his knee into the thug and swung down with his sword. Duncan’s blade, clearly longer and of better quality, came back with its flat, and snapped the cutthroats blade in two. Down on all fours, the mercenary of Wallace of Fussbudget raised up one hand as if to yield.
“If I shall not teach thee the definition of butcher, then flee, coward!” Duncan told him.
The thug ran out of the pub faster than a cat. Duncan picked up the fleeing man’s short sword in his left hand.
“Well done, Duncan McElway of Aumerle,” Wallace said. “Well done,”
Duncan eyed across the remaining distance that lay between him and the two who remained in the name of Wallace of Fussbudget.
“Are those that which good gold goes for these days?” Duncan asked.
“Aye. To defend my heaven with the valor of others, Duncan,” Wallace answered. “Perhaps it is time for a meeting with an associate of mine, Duncan.”
And the fourth individual in the party arose with crossbow in hand. Simultaneously, the hooded cloak worn by the figure dropped to the floor revealing a slender female fashioned in chain armor. Her deep green eyes looked through Duncan.
“This is Myrana,” began Wallace. “She hails from the north in Philomar.”
“And what of her, Wallace? To a thousand nobles this news would be of no use,” Duncan said as he took one step forward.
“Thy bravery is no more than lewd employment,” Wallace said. He exchanged glances with Myrana and then looked back to Duncan.
“Her aim will accomplish no deeds as well, Wallace,” Duncan pointed out as he sheathed his grandfather’s sword. The shorter blade he had picked up only moments ago found its way into his right hand. He gripped the hilt to suit his desired skill.
“True, ‘tis true, Duncan,” Wallace smiled. “But Myrana, she fails to miss on regular occasion. Kill him, Myrana. Kill him now,” and Wallace let loose with another bellow of laughter.
Myrana brought the weapon up to the horizon line of killing. Duncan saw her index finger move into position. Wallace reached for the silver half-empty flask of ale. His grip on the flask was the same as if he were holding a sword.
Duncan brought the sword over his shoulder as if to scratch the lower part of his back. He dropped to his knees. Myrana tried to compensate for the departure of Duncan from view. But Duncan had already brought the sword back over the top of his torso from whence the sword had come.
He catapulted the blade with intensity. Myrana’s figure caught it with equal intensity.
With an unfired crossbow still held in her arms, she slumped to the floor. Then, the bolt to the weapon discharged. Wallace dropped his flask onto the ground and began stumbling back towards the wall. He was grabbing at the bolt in his right leg while trying not to lose his balance.
“That back stabbing wench!” he cried out. “She planted her handy work in my veins!”
Duncan arose. The palm to his right hand reaffirmed the taste of his grandfather’s sword. Slowly, he pulled the family persuader from its scabbard. Duncan’s double-sided blade of reckoning justified its gleam in the fire-lit room.
“Thy cursed demon!” Wallace said as blood poured from his wounded leg. “That was Farnsworth Ale. 20 ducats it cost me! On this, Duncan McElway, ye shall pay with more than just life!” and he pulled out a brown sword that screamed as it exited the sheath.
“Thy blade is equally covered in rust as thy brain.”
“And by the glorious cost of thy descent, command this!” and Wallace of Fussbudget charged.
Duncan moved around to the other side of the table as Wallace tried in vain to get to his intended victim. Duncan stepped over the eternally sleeping figure of Myrana. Wallace, limping desperately and leaving a trail of blood, cursed at Duncan.
“When this blade sticks in thy soul, mercy, oh sweet mercy thou whilst cry for! Yet, none will there be!”
Duncan kept moving around the table staying cautious never to let Wallace come any nearer than he already was. They went around the table again until this time, Wallace was standing over Myrana. Duncan leaned forward and pushed the table into the waist of Wallace.
With one injured leg to his credit, Wallace was no match. The size and weight of both the table and Duncan McElway being forced onto his person overwhelmed him. He fell to the unclean floor. With his left arm Duncan flipped the table up off its legs. The rim of the table landed squarely on the ale-filled belly of Wallace who let out a deep and humiliated groan. He was pinned, on his back and unable to move.
“’Zounds! These are not fair times!” he cried.
Duncan kicked the rusted blade from Wallace’s grip. The dirty weapon sparked across the floor and into the fire.
Duncan said, “On ancient malice is thy beaten scourge. I now claim that which is rightfully mine.”
“No, ‘tis not right!” cried out Wallace.
Duncan leaned over the top of his vanquished enemy. He picked up the silver flask that lay on the floor. He eyed it closely. The precious metal was in poor appearance, but not permanently damaged.
“Wallace of Fussbudget,” Duncan said. “This property is reclaimed in the name of McElway. If thy lips taste ale ever again, even if word travels as such, thy days henceforth shall be numbered. More is the pities that ye never finished that last one. Is there a bargain upon ye now?”
Wallace breathed heavily a few times and then spat out the words Duncan wanted to hear. “Aye…there is a bargain between us,” he spat.
“Swear by this sword of McElway.” Duncan put the tip of the sharpened heirloom in range of Wallace’s neck.
“It is sworn,” he gasped.
Duncan, seeing that Wallace was without the constitution to pursue, turned around and headed towards the door from whence he had entered. The proprietor, still motionless from Duncan’s order of silence, stood behind the counter. Duncan pushed open the door. A rush of cold and rain greeted him.
Then he turned and pointed to the proprietor and spoke. “Three minutes ye have to set this infernal place to flames. If not, thy carcass joins the ashes,”
“Consider it done, my liege. Consider it done!” the proprietor responded.
Fully engulfed by the wintry weather, Duncan McElway approached his mount that was still tied next to the others. He set the others free. He then took the apple out from his coat that he had taken from The Familiar’s Dung. Duncan fed it to his mount. As it ate, the beast snorted crystallized breath into the freezing night. Duncan patted him on the neck.
“Easy now, lad,” he said to his steed.
And Duncan McElway mounted again, living.
**