It wasn’t a particularly pleasant sight, and that was a vast understatement. Across the table from where Rhyvan sat was a man so large that the chair beneath him creaked in protest at every slight movement. It was not his enormity that was the problem, for it would indeed be quite rude to judge a man for the size of his waistline. No, there was much more to this man that made him one of the most undesirable creatures this side of Bree. His slicked back, greasy black hair which spiked at its ends with sweat. His chins, stained at the corners with the red of the wine he so elegantly slurped. His dark, beady eyes which had a way of piercing you with every glance. But the most appalling of all was his stench, the smell of old tobacco and poor hygiene mingled into one, frightful cacophony.
“Your move, Talvora” spoke he, reaching for a goblet of wine which dribbled down his chin upon drinking.
Rhyvan Talvora blinked, his awe of this horrific shambles of a man getting the better of him. He gave a thin smile, masking his distain before sliding a card across the table and tapping for another to be drawn. He had worked bloody hard to get to this stage of the game. To challenge the King, for that is what his opponent was called by those in the know, was not any small feat. Indeed, to reach the high table one must best several opponents in a game of cards. Rhyven was good, perhaps too good for his own good, but was he good enough to snag the prize of champions?
“Is that sweat that I see on your brow?” the King asked, grinning like a buffoon. “Didn’t get the hand you were looking for, eh?”
“On the contrary” replied Rhyvan, presenting all his card before the King with a self-satisfied look etched upon his face.
The atmosphere in the room became tense. Silence, the type of silence you’d expect before a storm. The rosy red colour from King’s face had all but vanished, replaced with a pale, sickly white. His dark eyes shifted from the cards on the table to his own, then back to Rhyvan’s hand. In a state of panic, he glanced towards two heavy set men standing at the door of the room, who pushed themselves from the wall with sudden interest.
“Well?” asked Rhyvan, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. “Let’s see what you’ve got, then.”
The King did not move a muscle. From his panicked state emerged a grotesque smile. Running a large, sausage finger along the top of his deck he spread the cards out across the table.
“My cards, Mr Talvora. I am the King.”
Rhyvan couldn’t believe his eyes. The colour from his face seemed to have been drained and transferred into King’s. He had to muster all his strength to avoid his jaw from dropping in terrified surprised. That was not the hand King should have played. He should know this, because it was not the hand he had set up to be dealt.
“I-” Rhyvan paused, becoming increasingly aware of the two muscle-bound men who moved closer towards his back.
“I?” asked King, in a mocking tone. “I what? Come on, Talvora. Spit it out!”
“I’m…. impressed! Yes, very impressed. Congratulations are in order I believe?”
“Do you think so, Talvora? Ah, do you think so? Well, I can certainly congratulate myself on many scores. The main being foiling your pitiful, half-arsed plan.”
“I don’t know what you mean?” said Rhyvan.
“Did you honestly think you could rig my game? My game? You might have hoodwinked your way all the way up to the high table, sir. But you’ll have to get up pretty damn early in the morning to best the King!” At this, his guards simultaneously placed a hand on each of his shoulders, forcing him to remain seated. King rose from his chair, slamming his giant fist upon the woodwork causing the cards to bounce. “Do you take me for a fool, sir? Do you!?”
“My… ah, King. There must be some kind of misunderstanding? I would never dream, no… even consider the idea of cheating you out of anything!”
“You think you can weasel your way out of this, boy? Ho ho! No, I don’t think so.” He clicked his fingers and narrowed his eyes toward his guard. “A hand! Take a hand, I care not which one. I want a hand for my time and trouble and with the bluntest blade to do the deed!”
Rhyvan’s eyes widened. This was not what he had planned in the slightest. How? How could King have found out about what he had planned? Wild thoughts ran through his head, desperately trying to find his fault. He had been so cautious, so meticulous in his plan. How could it have been foiled so easily?
The guards hoisted Rhyvan to his feet, pulling up the sleeve of his coat and placing his palm upon the table. From his belt, the guard on the left pulled a small hatchet which had clearly seen better days.
“Wait! Hold on, let’s just talk about this for a moment!” cried Rhyvan.
“Talk!?” King spat, waving his hand dismissively at the idea. “Words are your weapon, Talvora. I refuse to give you any such power!”
“Where’d you want it, boss?” asked the guard.
“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps away from my mahogany table? Take him outside and do it on a barrel!”
Rhyvan found himself being dragged towards the door out into the hall. He desperately struggled against the guards who held him to no avail.
“Ta ta, Mister Talvora! Until we meet again!”
“King! Listen, let me expl-” Rhyvan fell silent immediately, on the account of a fist that met his face. Dazed and confused, he felt his feet being pulled along the wooden floor towards the back of the house. He was powerless, and he knew it. For the first time in a long while, he felt the sharp, tingling, hot sensation of fear coursing through his body.
As he slowly became more alert after being stuck, he opened his eyes to stare upward at the night sky. It was a cool evening, and quiet too. There’d be no point crying out for help, if any would come at all. King had a lot of influence in Bree and was not afraid to enforce it.
“Alright, let’s do it here” said one of the guards.
“Grab one of them barrels, then!” said the other.
“Bollocks to that, you do it! I’ll do the cutting!”
Rhyvan found himself in a strange position, watching his two dismemberers quarrel over something so trivial.
“King always chooses me to do his bidding, we all know who’ll get paid more. The one who brings him the hand at the end of the day!”
“So why should you get to bring the hand?”
“Because I’m doing the cutting!”
“Alright, first of all, who decided that? Secondly, I need the money more than you do!”
“You’re not going to go on about your bloody family, again are you? You’d sell your own mother if it meant a shiny penny!”
“My father too! But fair is fair, why should you get to claim the hand!”
Rhyvan glanced between each man. Even he, about to find himself unburdened by a limb found this ridiculous argument tiresome. “Gentleman, might I suggest…” Again, he was silenced by the back of a hand to his cheek.
“Shut it! No one’s talking to you!”
“That’s right! You’ll get what’s coming to you in a moment, don’t you worry!”
Rhyvan remained silent as the two men decided to settle their differences in a game of scissors, paper, rock. A game played by the use of both hands. The irony.
“There! Rock beats scissors beats rock! Give me the hatchet!”
At that moments several things happened at once. There was a loud crack, a flash of light and the sound of clattering steel upon the cobblestones. Rhyvan winced at the light, trying to make sense of what was happening. When he came to, he saw both guards lying face first upon the ground. Now free of his captors, he stood upright. Whatever have happened gave him the opportunity to escape. Rather than waste time trying to figure out what had occurred, he ran. Over the back-alley wall, down the street and out into the common square.
