‘Cold out,’ says Thugar, rubbing his hands as he bundles himself in through the tavern door. Saying it’s cold this far north is like saying water is wet, but when Thugar, the stout dwarven headman of the dock loaders, says it’s cold, then Ivor knows it’s damn cold out there.
Thugar’s motley crew follow him in, bringing the frigid breeze with them. Ivor is already pouring two flagons of the heady, dwarven ale that this lot so love. Two of the dwarves pick up pint pots from the bar with their greasy, gloved hands, and pass them out across their usual table by the fire. Before Ivor is finished filling the second flagon, one of the younger dwarves is pouring out the first into the pots of the elder workers. These lot know the crack. They do it every day. They’ll be here most of the eve and Ivor doesn’t expect much more custom than that. Well, aside from old Rube, who’s half slumped over the end of the bar and mumbling to himself. Pay Rube no mind and he’ll not bother you. At least, in theory. He drinks and he pays, which is all Ivor could ever ask for.
Thugar and his dwarves are just about settled in with full pint pots when the door opens again. Ivor rubs his eyes to make sure his vision isn’t on the fritz, because the figure that stoops through his doorframe is almost eight foot tall and built like an ice bear.
The man closes the door behind him and begins to walk over to the bar, bending his neck so his head doesn’t drag along the ceiling. Ivor sees the big man’s grey skin, rough and dark like unhewn stone, and realises this is no freakish human; he’s a goliath.
Strange, to see his kind. Strange, but not unheard of. Ivor’s had a few pass through here in years past. Usually old ones, too weak to carry their own weight in the clan. Goliath’s chuck out anyone that’s more trouble than their worth. But not this one. He’s young as. Fresh-faced. A thick shock of black, close-cropped hair on his head. Pale, blue eyes surrounded by skin not yet folded by old age.
‘Alright,’ says the goliath, by way of greeting. Ivor notices this one’s got no markings. Most folk think goliaths tattoo their whole bodies, but Ivor knows better. On the contrary, the markings they have are natural, a bit like the stripes on a herring, and some believe they foretell the fate of the one they mark. The last thing a goliath would do is tattoo over that.
But strangely, this young one appears to have no markings. Least, not that Ivor can see. He’s wearing a big shearling coat that covers his arms and most of his neck, as well as some fur trousers and some thick hide boots. What really draws Ivor’s gaze is what sits in the goliath’s gloved right hand. A mean-looking greataxe, old but well kept, and clearly of dwarven forging. In fact, the dual heads, that menace in the dull light of the tavern, aren’t much smaller than a dwarf themselves.
‘Alright,’ says Ivor in return. The goliath looks tense, nervous even. Which is odd to see in a person that’s got almost three foot on anyone else in the room. The dwarves, if they were stood up, would barely come up to his belt.
‘Just lookin for something to eat,’ says the goliath.
‘Aye, no worries,’ says Ivor, leaning on the bar. New patrons always get his guard up, but this one, despite his size and his armament, which is extensive, doesn’t seem to be looking for a fight. Seems to be making himself as small as possible, which of course it isn’t. ‘Got a reindeer fresh today, if that takes yer fancy?’
The goliath nods. ‘Aye, that’ll do. And an ale if it pleases ye.’
‘O course,’ says Ivor. ‘We got human-brew and dwarf-brew.’
The goliath considers his options, before shrugging, ‘Dwarf.’
‘Right you are. Take a seat and I’ll bring it over.’
The goliath looks around him. There’s not much room in the place as it is, even less for one big as him. He looks as lost as he is uncomfortable. Eventually, he settles on a chair by the window, where the wood on the wall glistens with frost, blown in by the sill, loosened and cracked by damp and age. He’s a table over from the dwarves, who, to Ivor’s irritation, are all gawping at the huge newcomer. Thugar lightly claps one of them on the chest with the back of his hand and their conversation steadily resumes. Mercifully, old Rube appears to be too preoccupied with his own ramblings, and doesn’t seem to have noticed the stranger.
The goliath sets his pack down, which looks much diminished, and places his large, round shield over the top of it, leaning on the wall. It’s about the size of the table that the goliath squeezes in next to, and the wood is unpainted, so no heraldry that might betray what clan or company its master might belong to. The iron boss is blunted and dented with use. Ivor winces at the thought of being struck by it. He can only imagine the strength needed to heft such a thing, let alone swing it.
Next, the goliath sets down a bundle of javelins, tied together with a leather strap, each the size of a man. Then he unbuckles one of his belts, through which two axes are looped, and sets it on the table beside him. Handaxes, for him, Ivor supposes.
A hunter then. But what does he hunt? Bears? Drakes? Or something bigger?
But then Ivor takes another look at that greataxe, which the goliath rests on the wall next to him, well within arm’s reach. A thing like that, well that’s for splintering shields. Sundering mail. Bludgeoning helms. Cracking skulls. Lopping heads. That there’s no tool for hunting; that there’s a tool of war.
Ivor bears this in mind as he walks over, pot of ale in one hand, steaming bowl of stew in the other. Just onions and roasted reindeer. A bit of salt. It’s about as complex as cooking gets around these parts. But it does fill a belly. He’s even chucked a chunk of bread on the side. But the goliath doesn’t even seem to notice it when Ivor sets it down. He’s staring at the far wall, looking like he’s absorbed in his own thoughts.
Ivor decides not to bother him with talk, so walks back to the bar without a word spoken. But the image of the goliath’s face holds his thoughts for a moment. Something in his gaze. Made that hard, tough face look hollow almost. Gaunt. Like he’s seen something horrible and can’t shake the bruise of it from his eyes.
Ivor takes a look over his shoulder as he reaches the bar. The goliath hasn’t moved. Not gone to sup his ale or take the first spoonful of his stew. He’s just staring. Looking… sad, if anything. Lonely. Ivor has half a mind to walk back and clap him on the shoulder. ‘It’ll be right, lad,’ he might say. But then his eyes wander over the sheer size of the goliath and his greataxe, and Ivor thinks better of it.
Something about Ivor returning to the bar appears to awaken Rube from his quiet ramble. Bleary-eyed, he squints at Ivor, as if unsure who he is, despite coming here every day for the last eight years.
Ivor nods his head at Rube’s empty pint pot. ‘Another?’
‘Eh? Uh, aye, g’won then.’
Ivor takes his pot and starts to fill it. He’ll need to tap a new keg soon, he thinks. Rube is doing an odd mixture of heavy blinking and smacking his lips, as if unsure if he’s waking up or getting ready to devour an extraordinary meal, despite doing neither. Casting about the room, he tips his head to Thugar, who returns the gesture, then his bloodshot eyes come to rest on the goliath, who is now tentatively eating his stew.
‘Fuck me,’ says Rube, though in the quiet murmur of the tavern, it’s more of a shout.
The dwarves’ conversation comes to a juddering halt. They look first at Rube, then at the goliath. The only sound is the slow trickle of an almost-empty keg being poured into Rube’s pint pot, held by a barkeep whose heart has just skipped a beat.
Rube you damn fool, thinks Ivor. What are you doing?
The goliath had the spoon halfway to his lips when Rube’s brazen proclamation clattered into the room. But, blessed be the gods, he simply brings it the rest of the way, as he stares at the wall, and pretends that the odd, old human by the bar hasn’t said a word.
For a moment, Ivor thinks the matter over. But then Rube, in his infinite wisdom, staggers from his stool and starts to wander over to the seated goliath. Ivor stares, wide-eyed, and ale pours over the brim of the pot, running along his clasped fingers.
Rube points. ‘He’s grey! Grey as stone. A damn bloody mutant if ever I saw one.’
The goliath sets his spoon down and raises his chin, his cold eyes meeting Rube’s swollen ones.
‘Rube,’ hisses Ivor from the bar, setting the overfilled pint pot down.
‘Aye, come on Rube,’ rumbles Thugar from his table. ‘Leave the lad in peace.’ The other dwarves are watching with hard-set jaws. Some rest their hands on the hilts of their tools. Hammers. Axes. The younger ones watch on with open gawps.
Rube squints. ‘Is it a big orc or what?’ He takes another staggering step forward.
The goliath stands, slowly, like a mountain rising above the horizon; slow, inevitable and casting a long shadow.
Rube stumbles back, onto his arse. ‘Fuck me! He’s fucking huge. Look at size of ‘im! His mum must be a giant! His da, an owlbear!’
The goliath looks down at the scrambling human, a strange calmness on his impassive face, which is almost worse than the snarls or furrowed brows that usually precede a fight. His fists are clenched and he is remarkably still.
Ivor touches the crossbow, hidden beneath the bar. If it kicks off, he isn’t sure if he’ll shoot Rube or the goliath. He likes Rube, but he doesn’t fancy his chances with the big newcomer. He doesn’t fancy the chances of the dwarves either. Then again, it might be small enough in the tavern that the goliath might not be able to swing that massive axe of his. Mind, he doesn’t look like he needs it, with arms like that.
But before Ivor has to choose, Thugar is there, dragging Rube to his feet.
‘Pay him no mind!’ booms Thugar, doing his best to sound jovial.
The goliath is unmoved.
‘Aye, pay me no mind,’ slurs Rube, finding his footing with his shirt firmly gripped in Thugar’s hand at the shoulder. ‘I meant nout by it! Honest!’
‘He’s had a mite too much to drink, han’t ye Rube?’ snarls Thugar.
‘Aye! I have! I have!’
‘And now yer gonna shut yer trap, aren’t ye Rube?’
‘Aye! Right you are, Thugar.’
The goliath adjusts his jaw a little, considering. Then he raises his chin, and nods.
Thugar nods back, then spinning Rube around, marches the drunk back to the bar. The goliath seats himself. Ivor sighs, the tension slipping from his muscles. A layer of sweat has built on his brow, which he wipes away with a sleeve.
‘My thanks, Thugar,’ says Ivor, as the dwarf roughly sets Rube on the stool by the wall.
‘Aye, no bother,’ says the headman.
‘And you,’ Ivor says, glaring at Rube, ‘you can buy Thugar and his lads a round.’
Rube’s face screws up. Coherent enough to understand that, it seems. ‘Eh? What? Why?’
‘Because,’ Ivor hisses, leaning in, ‘if it wan’t for Thugar, ye’d be having yer skin stripped from yer bones right about now.’ Ivor slams Rube’s pint on the bar. The drunk reaches for it, but Ivor pulls it out of reach. ‘Ye hear me, Rube?’
‘Aye, aye, I hear ye! Now give us me pint.’
The evening passes without further incident. The dwarves drink, as usual, and grumble, as usual. Rube sits, swaying, a round poorer than expected. And the goliath eats his stew, drinks his ale and orders another. He sits, sipping from his pot, staring at the wall opposite. No one bothers anyone else.
Come dark, the dwarves depart, leaving their pots and the flagons on the bar as they go. Much to Ivor’s relief, they take Rube with them.
‘See you tomorrow, Thugar,’ says Ivor, as the headman leaves.
‘Aye, ye will,’ says Thugar, taking one last, cautious look at the goliath before he heads through the door. Through the window, Ivor spots the passing dwarves jostling the drunken Rube about in their midst, before they are completely gone and Ivor is alone with the strange goliath.
The sudden quiet seems to snap the goliath out of his thoughts. He blinks, drains the remains of his pint pot and stands. He looks awkward, stooped below the ceiling like that. He licks his lips, as if unsure what to do with himself. He starts by gathering his things.
Then he nods to Ivor. ‘Thanks,’ says the goliath.
‘No bother,’ says Ivor.
‘Which way is Ten Towns from here?’
Ivor frowns. ‘Ten Towns? Well, which one?’ It’s a confederation of villages, but the goliath says it like it’s one place.
The goliath shrugs. ‘Any.’
‘Yer not planning on going there now are ye?’
Now the goliath looks confused. ‘Why not?’
Ivor gestures out the window. ‘It’s dark out, and cold. The edge of Ten Towns is miles from here.’ And more so, Ivor doesn’t like the idea of this lumbering giant wandering the village at night. He’d give the town’s watch a heart attack, if they saw him. He doesn’t like the idea of a scrap breaking out with this one at its center.
But the goliath just shrugs. ‘It’s where I’m headed,’ he simply says.
Ivor sighs. ‘Well you’d have to follow the road north from here, following the coast. There’s signage along the way. But you're a long, long way off from Ten Towns lad.’
‘Ta.’ The goliath nods, then moves to the door.
‘Say,’ says Ivor, ‘I’ve got some spare rooms, y’know? This is a tavern.’ He isn’t sure why he said that. He could have this cumbersome anxiety gone from his life if he just keeps his trap shut.
The goliath shifts his gaze to the barkeep. ‘I’ve no gold.’
‘Aye, it’s no mither,’ says Ivor, much to his own irritation. ‘I’ll not charge ye. You can just give us a lift with the dray tomorrow, how’s that?’
What are we, a chapel? Why am I giving up rooms to a lunk like this? Ivor isn’t sure. This goliath is clearly a man-killer. His stillness. Those weapons. That stare. But there’s something in that young goliath’s eyes that calls to him. Something he can’t leave be. A vulnerability. Reminds Ivor a little of himself, in his younger days. Confused. Lonely.
The goliath shrugs. ‘Sure, if it’s no bother.’
‘Aye,’ says Ivor, a small sigh of relief escaping with that single word. ‘No bother lad. Say, they call me Ivor. What can I call ye? Doesn’t seem right not to know what to call each other.’
The goliath says nothing for a moment, as if weighing on the decision to speak his name. Then he says, with a pained look on his face, ‘I am Loneman.’
Paddy Dobson
20th September 2020