Demonsong

  *

  Glaeken dallied in one of those nameless little inns that dot the back streets on any commercially active town. His sat by the window. The shutters were open to let out the sour stench of last night's spilled ale, and the late morning sunlight glinted off the hammered tin goblet cheap wine that rested on the table before him. The harlot in the corner eyed him languidly...this foreigner might prove interesting. A little early in the day for her talents, but perhaps if he stayed around a little longer…

  A commotion arose on the street and Glaeken peered out the window to find its source. A squat, burly, misshapen hillock of a man with a square protruding jaw was trudging by, a large, oddly shaped leather case clutched with both arms against his chest. Behind him and around him ran the local gang of street youths, pushing, shoving and calling. The wooden heels of their crude boots clacked as they scampered about; all wore a makeshift uniform of dark green shirts and rough brown pants.

  "Ho, Ugly One!" cried a youth who seemed to be the leader, a lean, black-haired adolescent with a fuzzy attempt at a beard shading his cheeks. "What’ve y’got in that case? Give us a look! It truly must be something to behold if you're clutching it so tightly. Give us a look!"

  The man ignored the group, but this only incited them to greater audacity. They began pummeling him and trying to trip him, yet the man made no attempt to protect himself. He merely clutched the case closer and tighter. Glaeken wondered at this as he watched the scene. This "Ugly One’s" heavy frame and thickly muscled arms certainly appeared strong enough to handle the situation. Yet the well-being of the leather case seemed his only concern.

  The leader gave a signal and he and his followers leaped upon the man. The fellow kept his footing for a while and even managed to shake a few of the attackers off his back, but their numbers soon drove him to the ground. Glaeken noted with a smile of admiration that the man twisted as he fell so that he landed on his back with the case unharmed. Only a matter of a few heartbeats, however, before the case was tom from his grasp.

  With the loss of his precious possession, the little man became a veritable demon, cursing, gnashing his teeth, and struggling with such ferocity that it took the full strength of eight of the rowdies to hold him down.

  "Be still, Ugly One!" the leader commanded as he stood near Glaeken's window and fumbled with the clasps on the case. "We only want to see what you've got here."

  As the last clasp gave way, the case fell open and from it the leader pulled a double-barreled harmohorn. The shouts and scuffling ceased abruptly as all in sight, rowdy and bystander alike, were captured by the magnificence of the instrument. The intricate hand-carved wood of the harmohorn glistened in the sun under countless coats of flawlessly applied lacquer. A reed instrument, rare and priceless; in the proper hands it was capable of producing the most subtle and devious harmonies known to man. The art of its making had long been lost, and the musician fortunate enough to possess a harmohorn was welcomed – nay, sought – by all the royal courts of the world.

  The squat little man redoubled his efforts against those restraining him.

  "Damage that horn and I'll have your eyes!" he screamed.

  "Don't threaten me, Ugly One!" the leader warned.

  He raised the instrument aloft at if to smash it on the stones at his feet. In doing so he brought the horn within Glaeken's reach. To this point the outlander had been neutral, refusing to help a man who would not help himself. But now he knew the reason for the man's reluctance to fight, and the sight of the harmohorn in the hands of street swine disturbed him.

  The horn abruptly switched hands.

  The leader spun in surprise and glared at Glaeken.

  "You!" he yelled, leaning in the window. "Return that before I come in and get it!"

  "You want to come it?" Glaeken said with a tight smile. "Then by all means waste no time!"

  He grabbed the youth by his shirt and pulled him half way through the window.

  "Let go of me, red-haired dog!" he screeched.

  "Certainly." And Glaeken readily replied, but not without enough of a shove to ensure that the youth would land sprawled in the dust.

  Scrambling to his feet, the leader turned to his pack. "After him!"

  They forgot the man they were holding and charged the inn door. But Glaeken was already there, waiting and ready.

  He smiled as he met their attack and laughed as it moved out to the street where he darted among them, striking and kicking and wreaking general havoc upon their ranks. But these youths were hardly novices at street brawls, and when they realized that their opponent, too, was well experienced in the dubious art, they regrouped and began to stalk him.

  "Circle him!" said the leader and his followers responded with dispatch. Before the menacing ring could close, however, the pack found itself harassed from an unexpected quarter.

  "Ugly One" was upon them. Having regained his feet and sized up the situation, the little man charged into the pack with the roar of an angry bull. He was enraged to the point of madness and a smiling Glaeken stepped back to watch as the street youths were hurled and scattered about like jackstraws. A complete rout seemed inevitable. It was then that Glaeken glanced at the leader and saw him pull a dirk from within his shirt and lunge.

  The blade never found its target. Glaeken moved and yanked the pack leader off his feet by his long hair; he pulled the knife from his grasp and extended his grimy neck over his knee. All fighting stopped as everyone watched the tableau of Glaeken and the pack leader.

  "You should be slain outright," Glaeken said, toying with the dirk over the terrified youth's vulnerable throat. "And no one would miss you or mourn you.”

  "No!” he cried as he saw the cold light in Glaeken's eyes. "I no meant harm!"

  Glaeken used the point to scratch an angry, ragged red line ear to ear across the leader's throat.

  "A good street brawl is one thing, my young friend, but if I see you show your steel to the back of an unarmed man again, I’ll finish the job this scratch has begun."

  So saying, he lifted the youth by his hair and shoved him toward his companions. The green-shirted pack and its frightened leader wasted no time then in fleeing the scene.

  "Ugly One" turned to Glaeken and extended his hand. "I thank you, outlander. I am called Cragjaw, although I assure you I was not given that name by my parents."

  "No thanks called for," Glaeken said, clasping the hand. "A street brawl at midday is a good spirit-lifter." He did offer his own name in return.

  "I'm prefer quieter ways to amuse myself," Cragjaw muttered as he stooped to pick up the empty leather case.

  The barmaster was sheathing a dirk of his own as they reentered. The contested musical instrument lay on the bar before him.

  "I guarded the harmohorn well while you were out on the street!” he shouted to Cragjaw.

  "And what would you have done with it if he hadn't been able return to claim it?" Glaeken asked with a knowing grin.

  The barmaster shrugged and eyed the horn as Cragjaw returned it to its case.

  "I suppose I would have had to sell it to someone… I have no talent for such an instrument."

  Glaeken threw a coin on the bar. "That's for the wine," he said turned toward the door.

  Cragjaw laid a hand on his arm. "At least let me buy you cup before you go."

  "Thanks, no. I'm riding the East Road and already I've tarried long."

  "The East Road? Why, I must travel that way, too. Would you mind a companion for a ways?"

  "The roads are free," said Glaeken.