Part 4

Eagle's Crown was a tiny speck of a town.

Home to less than a hundred souls, the Crown was little more than a dot of prosperity in the heart of a wasteland that was itself of suspicious origins. Nothing grew around the Crown but small, struggling shrubs and patches of tall, sickly weeds, none of which were fit for consumption by any living thing, human or otherwise. This was fortunate, for nothing lived around the Crown except lizards and insects that fed almost exclusively on each other, and which were fatally poisonous, even to themselves. To call the place a desert would certainly convey the essence of the place... yet it wouldn't be exactly true. Rain was as plentiful in the wasteland as it was everywhere else in the region. It wasn't lack of water that made the Crown's surroundings what they were.

It was its history.

But that is a story for another time.

The residents of Eagle's Crown tended not to dwell on the past. Or the future. They tended not to dwell on much at all other than their farms and their families... two things that were of vital importance to the tightly closed culture they had woven around themselves. In the Crown, farming was King and family was Queen. The town was a roughly circular carpet of large, bountiful farmland that yielded overflowing wagons full of wheat and corn and just about anything else that could be planted and grown. Year after year the crops grew from planting to harvest with no sign of the blight that would have claimed them had they been planted even a quarter-mile outside the town's clearly defined boundaries. The wasteland itself kept insects and predators well away from the crops and livestock, further adding to the Crown's almost effortless prosperity.

That prosperity was held by a small group of families that together owned and tended every square inch of the town. The richer families, like the Worthings and the Pritchets, employed field hands who lived on and worked the various sub-farms but didn't actually own any of the land. These field hands were permanent denizens of the town. The old ones never left. New ones never came, except by birth. They belonged to Eagle's Crown, and that was they way Eagle's Crown liked it. More moderate families, like the Verns and the Goodmans, tended their land themselves, helping each other out whenever there was more work than could be done on their own.

Altogether there were seventeen families that owned every speck of dirt and blade of grass in Eagle's Crown.

There USED to be eighteen, but that too is a story for another time-

Of the seventeen, sixteen of them had been present from the very beginning of the Crown... from the day their forefathers dared to search for an oasis in the wasteland and surprised even themselves by actually finding one. (or at least, that's what the stories say) They had been there ever since. The seventeenth family was a bit of an aberration. Newcomers were universally and often violently unwelcome in Eagle's Crown, and allowing a stranger to not only to settle, but actually purchase land in the town was unheard-of. But old Silas Grieves had managed to become accepted by the Crown and, most importantly, had himself accepted... even embraced... the myriad oddities, tenets, rules, and idiosyncrasies that made Eagle's Crown what it was. High on that list of idiosyncrasies was an acute wariness of strangers. Any unknown face in the town had to be questioned immediately, and if the answers to those questions weren't satisfactory, the giver of those answers had to be escorted out of town using as much violence as was required to ensure they didn't return. Old Silas Grieves had managed to talk and charm his way around that local custom. Now, YOUNG Silas Grieves... grandson of the original... leaned against the crumbling bar of Barny's Feed and Tavern and regarded yet another stranger who had just wandered into town. Silas didn't like this stranger, and he had every intention of sharing that opinion with everyone in the bar, including the stranger himself.

But he would have to wait. If only for a few seconds. Two hours ago, Barny's Tavern had been packed with the largest crowd it had seen in over seven years, and would not likely see again for another seven. Unfortunately for Barny it hadn't been a drinking crowd, but that was fine... his regular customers routinely drank enough for everyone in the Crown. The unscheduled gathering was part of local tradition, and, true to the custom, most of the men in the town made the trip to the local ale house to congratulate (and keep an eye on) the man of the hour: Lowell Vern. Hearty handshakes and jealous whispers were passed around (and around and around) and, after a few short hours, the crowd dispersed. The WatchNight was just a formality, after all, and the necessity behind it was wasted on Lowell. He wasn't going anywhere. So with thoughts of the celebration that would come TOMORROW night (when drinking was almost mandatory), the crowd disbursed, leaving Fenton Barny's ale supply in the capable hands of Lowell Vern, Silas Grieves, Lowell's corpulent brother Derris, and a half-dozen semi-conscious farmhands.

And the stranger.

Derris had just finished making a side-splittingly funny joke at the expense of one of the (unconscious) farmhand's wives when the trouble began.

"Who the hell is that?" Lowell Vern said, nodding at the thick, hairy man that had slipped in almost unnoticed. Vern was only on his seventh tankard of ale, still several tankards away from seeing things that weren't there, or not seeing things that WERE there. But the bearded man in black leather had come through the tavern's front door and walked halfway across the room before Lowell saw him.

Silas and Derris looked and did a double-take. They hadn't seen the man either. The trio watched as the man made his way to a table in the corner of the tavern. The table was well away from the windows and the door, yet, if one sat in the proper seat, afforded a clear view of both.

The stranger took the proper seat.

"What the hell?" said Silas. He stood up straight and was on the verge of walking over to the man when Lowell grabbed his arm.

"Hold on," Lowell said. Lowell studied the man, taking note of the hefty sword on the man's hip and the long scar barely visible beneath the man's tangled black beard. Lowell was taller than the stranger, and Derris clearly outweighed him (even though in Derris's case it was all fat)... yet the stranger had a dangerous look about him.

"Lowell?" Silas said impatiently.

"Either of you seen that man before?" Lowell asked.

"Well that depends," Derris replied. Derris's voice was a full octave higher than everyone expected it to be. That, and the fact that he never took anything seriously made conversation with him an exercise in restraint. "Do you count right now? Because if ya DO, then I've seen him once-"

"Wasn't talkin' to you, halfwit."

"But you said 'either'-"

"A stranger," Silas said the word in a near growl. "And on WatchNight. He just walks on in just a few hours after the Proclaiming.... What are the odds of that, eh?"

"Pretty damn good," said Lowell. "All my years in the Crown I've never had an Honor go by where somebody DIDN'T show up and try to interfere. Figured we'd get by easy this year, what with the short notice and all. But-" Lowell nodded at the stranger, who either hadn't noticed them or was intentionally ignoring the trio. "-there he is."

"So what do we do?" said Silas.

"Let's buy him a drink," Derris suggested.

"Here's what we'll do," said Lowell. Me and Silas'll go talk to this fella. Derris, you go around the long way once we get over there" Lowell nodded again, indicating that his brother should move toward the stranger's table by way of the front door, thus cutting off the stranger's escape (if there was one).

Silas slapped his hand against the bar, summoning Fenton Barny, the owner and barkeep. Fenton (who wasn't far away and was listening to the entire conversation) appeared instantly.

"Still got yer bow, Barny?" Silas pushed the words out of the corner of his mouth... his version of a whisper.

"Aye," said the elderly bartender. "Loaded for trouble."

"Well there's about to be some," said Lowell.

"Ale?" said Derris.

"Ale," Lowell answered.

The three men drained their tankards, then slammed them on the bartop loud enough to stir the other patrons from their stupor...

...which was their intention. Several heads lifted and a few sets of eyes made the short trip between the trio and the stranger. One man got up and left. Another man stood up, propped his boot up on the chair he'd just vacated, and waited with one hand dangling lazily near the sheathed knife on his belt.

Trouble was in the air.

Lowell cleared his throat and walked toward the stranger's table with Silas Grieves a half-step behind him. Derris Vern appeared to be leaving, but when he was two steps from the door, he stopped and turned. Then he, too, started toward the stranger's table.

"You must be the welcoming committee," said the stranger as Lowell approached. The stranger's voice was low, but polished and smooth. He sounded like a man who made his living speaking, but he LOOKED like something else entirely. His hair and clothes were dirty, and, on closer inspection Lowell saw that the sword wasn't the only weapon dangling from the stranger's black leather belt. He had knives. Lots of them.

"Depends on who YOU are," Lowell replied. Lowell took position behind one of the unused chairs. Silas stood close beside him... intentionally cutting off the stranger's view of the front door.

The stranger took notice. He leaned back slowly, sitting up straight in his seat and fixing Lowell in a long stare.

"I'm just a man passing through town," said the stranger. "looking for a drink and a bite to eat. Maybe some supplies."

"Liar," Silas chuckled. "Nobody passes through Eagle's Crown. Nobody comes here by accident."

"Didn't say I came here by accident. Said I was passing through."

"You take us for fools, mister?" said Lowell. "There's but one road in and out of this town. Unless yer traveling in a damned circle, you ain't just 'passing through' Eagle's Crown."

"Really." The stranger glanced at Silas and then returned his gaze to Lowell. "Seems you don't know your own town. The map I saw shows a road leading outta here going east to Pendleton."

"He means the Old Road," Silas said. Some of the edge came off of his voice... but not much.

"The map you saw's gotta be over a hundred years old, mister" said Silas. "'cause that's the last time anybody took THAT road. Now its just an abandoned trail that wanders around in the wasteland and stops in the middle of nowhere. That where you trying to go, mister? Nowhere?"

"Your little desert doesn't bother me. I think I can find my way."

"Well then maybe ya oughta be finding it," said Silas. "You aren't welcome here."

"Oh?" said the stranger. He leaned slightly to one side, catching a glimpse of Derris approaching the table from behind Lowell and Silas. One glance around the room told him that everyone was awake and watching. And that the old man behind the bar was holding something... something down low, where he couldn't see it yet. "I see."

"Good," said Silas. "Get out."

"Problem is, I'm gonna need some food and supplies... which I'm more than willing ta pay for. I'll even throw in a little extra. To avoid trouble."

"We ain't sellin,'" Silas snapped. "You don't look like no trader I ever saw, so you've got no business here."

"Never said I was a trader. Just a traveler-"

"Doin' what, exactly? Goin' where? Pendleton's a long way from here. What business you got there?"

"The private kind," said the stranger. "Look, you people obviously don't want me here, so I'll be on my way. I'll camp out of town and I'll make do with the supplies I got tomorrow. If you'll excuse me..."

"Waaaiiiit." Silas leaned forward a bit to study the man.

The man let himself be studied.

"What now?" he said.

"No camping," said Lowell. "You get whatever you came here with and you LEAVE. Tonight. And we'll be escortin' ya a little ways, just ta make sure."

Then, for the first time since the conversation began, the stranger frowned.

It was a deep, ugly frown that would have backed a pair of lesser (or more sober) men away from the table.

"What?" he said, his voice slipping a bit lower.

"Ya heard him," said Silas. "The only thing worse than a stranger sittin in plain sight is one creepin' around where nobody can see him. We'll take you out to where WE feel comfortable, and then you can be on yer way."

Now, in the stranger's defense, the proposition that Silas Grieves had just made was like an announcement of his intention to commit robbery and murder...

...which was exactly what Silas had in mind. Not that he could be blamed for such intentions, as they did run strong in the family. ...but that is a story for another time...

"No," said the stranger. He offered no further explanation or conversation... just the one-word refusal of Silas's offer.

"That wasn't negotiable, mister," said Lowell. Lowell didn't have any intention of robbing the stranger. Murder would be sufficient. "You'll be comin' with us, now."

What followed occurred with all the speed and accuracy of a well-rehearsed stage play. The series of events went so smoothly that there seemed to be no spontaneity to them at all... yet they still managed to catch everyone in the room completely by surprise.

It began with Lowell and Silas reaching for the stranger. Their hands came across the table in a single thrust as they stepped apart, allowing Derris to charge into whatever fray was about to develop.

Despite the suddenness of the attack, the stranger actually paused...

No, not hesitated.

Paused. Intentionally.

....paused, as if he had all the time in the world to decide on the most prudent course of action. He took his time to examine all of the options, including several that Lowell, Silas, and Derris were COMPLETELY unaware of.... then decided on the most efficient one, which he began to execute immediately.

Without hesitation.

The knife came out of nowhere.

It ACTUALLY came from a hidden sheath on his sleeve, but to those who witnessed it, the blade seemed to mysteriously APPEAR in the stranger's right hand.

He moved... and there were four distinct sounds.

The first sound was simply the stranger's chair sliding backward suddenly as he stood.

The second was the sound of his blade stabbing into... and out of... the flesh of Silas Grieve's right hand, impaling the appendage in the center, squarely between the bones connected to his two middle fingers. The third sound was remarkable similar. Lowell Vern was left-handed, and when both men reached, his left hand was in close proximity to Silas's right. Close enough for the stranger to knock/twist/drag Silas's skewered hand over on top of Lowell's, and then sharply downward... all with such speed that the man SEEMED to have impaled both hands with a single thrust.

The fourth sound was also a simple one. It was the sound of the blade, having impaled not one, but TWO hands, sinking into the hard wooden tabletop, pinning both Lowell and Silas to the table like insects.

And so, with a-

SKrrrrnnk-
Squitch!
Sklitch!
THWOCK!

The stranger was up and away from the table.

This was when Derris Vern arrived.

The stranger's SECOND knife likewise appeared from nowhere. Derris was unaware of just what had happened to his brother had his friend, but he heard the screams of two grown men and knew that something unexpectedly bad was going on. Derris was already charging, ready to use his bulk to drive the stranger into and even through the wall if necessary.

Derris's high pitched roar turned into an incredibly porcine squeal when the stranger grabbed him and... somehow... spun him around. The next thing Derris knew, the stranger was behind him holding very very VERY sharp knife tight against his fat throat.

"EEEK!"

"NOBODY MOVE," The stranger said. It wasn't a shout or a bellow... just two words spoken in a loud, but still calm voice.

"GET HIM! GET HIM!" Lowell screamed. Beside him, Silas was screaming as well... but instead of words, Silas's scream consisted mostly of long high-pitched vowel sounds. The knife was still connecting both men to each other and to the table. Lowell's single attempt to pull it free only made Silas's vowel sounds go louder and higher. (Apparently, more ale would be required before a peaceful extraction was possible)

Fenton Barny raised his loaded crossbow from beneath the bar and aimed it-

-at the dead-center of Derris Vern's gut, which was all he could see. The stranger was behind the squealing Derris, who made a most excellent human shield.

"MOVE AND THE FAT MAN GETS IT!" said the stranger.

"NO! NO, NOT THE FAT MAN!!" Derris squealed. "NOT THE FAT MAN, PLEASE NOT THE FAT MAN!"

"You people want me gone? Fine... I'm gone. You won't be seeing me again by MY choice... if you make it YOUR choice then you're taking your life into your own hands. For the more ignorant among you, that means don't follow me. Come on, you..."

The stranger wrestled Derris over to the door, keeping the younger, fatter Vern in front of him at all times. When the door was close enough...

...the stranger disappeared.

One instant, he was behind Derris... and in the blink of an eye, he was gone and the door was swinging closed.

And Derris...unhurt, without so much as a scratch on him... was crying. Suddenly the world wasn't quite so funny any more.

Two of the farmhands dashed after the stranger, but all they found outside was a dark, empty street. The stranger was gone, leaving nothing behind but a long knife, a bloody table, and two wounded men who had no inkling... no clue whatsoever...of how lucky they had just been.

But luck was a very strange thing in Eagle's Crown. And, as luck would have it, the stranger that had just decided to let the lot of them live out of mere expediency was not the stranger they should have been watching for.

For there was more than one uninvited guest in the Crown that night. In fact, there were three. And in the end, Silas Grieves proved to be correct. The stranger that had been sitting among them proved to be much, much less dangerous than the ones that were out hiding in the dark... waiting for later...

...waiting for tomorrow.