Hey, Bartender!"
A S.P.I.T. Ficlet

Rating: R
Category: Original Fic
Pairing(s): None.
Warnings: Angst, violence
Summary: Just another night at The Dirty Duck.
Notes: Tak wanted a fic about the bartender of The Dirty Duck Tavern from my book ‘A Strange Place in Time’. I was kinda glad she asked. Kirzag has quite a history. He doesn’t much like talking about it, but he said it was okay if I did.

“Hey, Bartender! Hey man, lookie here.
Draw one, draw two, draw three, four, glasses of beer…”
- Floyd Dickson.

The younger thieves didn’t even bow to him anymore. That was fine. No one expected them to, although the older thieves still showed their respect when they walked into the bar. It was a little hard at times though to decide just who they were bowing to; the Seer of Hercandoloff, who spent so much time behind the counter people thought he owned the place, or the broken-down wreck of a drunken Elf who didn’t even bother acknowledging their respect.

It was late evening, and there were few patrons in the tavern, but that was all right. Kirzag didn’t worry about a few slow nights. He had more than enough busy nights to keep from worrying about his business failing. Tomorrow night Misty Foxsworth and Blue would be in, regaling the place with songs and the tavern would be packed. Some nights Arrowsmith and Silver would play, and those nights would be standing room only, people literally perched anyplace where they could put two feet. The Dirty Duck Tavern was the only pub on Dargoth where one could hear the blues. Kirzag liked the blues; it was a style of music he could relate to. His favourite blues tune was “Hey, Bartender”, and his fondness for the song had earned him the title of ‘bartender’. It was not a term used anyplace other than The Dirty Duck. Most tavern owners were referred to as ‘innkeeper’, or, in the more respectable establishments, ‘tavern master’. But here, Kirzag was the bartender, and that was just fine with him.

A man approached the bar, and Arrowsmith asked him what he would have. The order was for a pint of beer. Kirzag poured two pints, one for the man and one for himself. Arrowsmith sighed.

“Kirz, you can stop anytime, you know.”

“Stop when I’m good an’ ready,” Kirzag said softly.

He reached up and tied his long black hair into an untidy knot, then tossed the small towel he used for cleaning the counter onto a shelf. He picked up an empty keg and walked it down into the cellar, skipping lightly down the stairs. He still had all the grace of his thieving brethren. It would take a trained eye indeed to detect just how very, very drunk the Elf was. Kirzag put the keg in a corner, then grabbed a full one and hoisted it up onto his shoulder. The keg weighed hundreds of pounds, but Kirzag made himself carry it up, feeling his body scream in protest as his bones threatened to break, and his muscles began to tear. He carried it behind the bar and set it down, then grabbed up his beer and swallowed it before pouring himself a new one.

“Rotten turn out,” someone said.

Kirzag knew the voice. He didn’t turn to look at the speaker.

“What’ll it be, my Lord General?”

“Mycinocroft wine.”

“As you wish.”

He poured The Moonhound a glass of the clear liquor, passing it to her, all without once making eye contact. Kirzag didn’t look at women. He rarely looked at anyone, but women he would speak to from over his shoulder. Arrowsmith and The Moonhound exchanged glances, shaking their heads over the behaviour of their long-time friend. They had known the Elf through many lifetimes, and remembered him as he was before he had come to White Palace, before he had set up this tavern. They had seen him through much, and though he had changed greatly, he was still their friend.

The door opened, and in walked two Highwaymen, wet and cold, seeking a warm fire and a dry bed. They were followed by a young man, likely an apprentice to the trade. He watched as his elders bowed in formal respect to the bartender, who was currently sucking back a pint of his own brew.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“Kirzag Darken,” said one of the Highwaymen quietly, and began making his way to a table.

The youth stared open-mouthed at the lean figure in the long leather apron, soaked in beer, his black hair tangled and unkempt.

“Kir…?”

“Hush child.”

The youth fell silent and followed his elders to the table, sitting down with them. Kirzag directed one of his two servers over to the table, and poured himself a beer before going downstairs to check his inventory, discovering he was low on beer. No surprise there. He began noting down what was needed, his acute Elven hearing picking up the conversation happening over his head.

“Kirzag Darken? For real?! That’s him?!”

“Yes, child, that is him.”

“But he was…”

“We know the tale, child.”

“And he…”

“Yes.”

“Hush, child. Elves have far sharper ears than yours, and it is rude to discuss a man in his presence.”

Kirzag raised an eyebrow. What was there to discuss? Once he had been a Highwayman. Once he had been the finest Highwayman patrolling the Northern Plains, a veritable paladin of his kind. His name had been celebrated in song and tale, his arrival in a town a grand event, and when evil things heard he was close at hand, they sought other places. Once he had been Kirzag Darken of House Darken; the sixth house of Marakim and the only House to have one of the fell and fey Black Elves at its head, nothing less than the brother of the woman who bore Brennon, father of Ilenya Skywolf. He had stayed when all other Black Elves had left, determined to see the work Marakim had begun continued. And he’d been good at it; exceedingly good. His territory had stretched hundreds of miles, reaching the most remote and rural of areas. His house had been enormous; dozens of widows, orphans, elderly and infirm called his hearth home. He had bred the tall and leggy black horses that the Highwaymen still used, favouring their speed and stamina as much as their beauty. And it was he who, centuries ago, single-handedly, with only a short sword and dagger, slaughtered a corporeal manifestation of SkullDigger.

SkullDigger never forgot the slight.

The main problem Highwaymen faced was distance. Their work often took them to remote places, and it was not unusual for a Highwayman to be gone from his home for weeks at a time. There was also the problem of not being nearly as loved as the Temple Thieves. It was easy to love Temple Thieves. They stayed home and ran orphanages and only troubled the rich. Highwaymen made their way into far-flung destinations, and were not above looting tombs, temples, and even each other. They were far more dangerous and pragmatic than the kindly Temple Thieves, and though most people understood their purpose, few liked to spy them in the distance. Merchants especially detested them, and hated the punishment for killing them even more. Technically, it was not illegal to put an arrow in one of the blighters. However, killing a Highwayman meant everything a merchant owned immediately became property of the Highwayman’s family, right down to his silk pantaloons. So killing the black-clad pests was out of the question. But merchants had money, and money bought favours.

One night, while Kirzag Darken was over a hundred miles away, helping a small village devastated by a flood, a merchant handed over two thousand pieces of gold to a temple of SkullDigger. Along with the gold, he gave directions to the carefully hidden clan house of Dargoth’s most celebrated Highwayman. SkullDigger’s priests were only too happy to take the money, though in truth they would have done what the merchant asked for nothing, just to get their hands on Kirzag. But Kirzag was not at home. Only those he was caring for were in the house, along with his wife and six children. Kirzag returned eight days later to a burned foundation and rotting bodies, all slaughtered in a ritual to SkullDigger.

The swath of death Kirzag cut in his rage and grief was the stuff of nightmares. He littered the roads with the corpses of SkullDigger’s priests in his vengeance, routing out temples, laying waste to lands owned by merchants, even hunting down and killing the merchants themselves. Yet in all the carnage, he never found those responsible for the ghastly deed. They had lit out for other shores to escape his wrath, and there were none who knew where they had gone.

For decades he searched far and wide, but never learned where they were. After a century, hunting turned to wandering. Another century after that, wandering turned to despair. At last he found himself in the City of the White Palace, and despair turned to drink. Eventually Kirzag opened the Dirty Duck, and there he stayed, his black garb put away, his sword and dagger locked in a chest. Kirzag Darken, like his house, was no more. Now he was a bartender, and few people recalled his tale. That was all right. Perhaps if enough people forgot, then he too could forget, and the images that burned in his mind of his wife and babies lying torn to pieces would finally fade.

“Kirzag!” called Arrowsmith into the cellar. “You want me to start locking up?”

“May as well,” he said, not looking at Arrowsmith.

He heard Arrowsmith walk away, and made his way upstairs, walking past The Moonhound without looking as he went to pour himself another beer.

“Hey Kirz, answer me something.”

“If I can,” he said, his back to her.

“How come you never look at me?”

“Don’t look at any women.”

“Why is that?”

Kirzag had a swallow of beer. “Because if I look at a woman, I might notice she’s pretty. If she’s pretty I might want to talk to her. If I talk to her I might ask her out. Then I might fall in love with her and marry her. Women have babies.” He shook his head. “I’m not breeding any more babies for some monster to sacrifice.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Me too. Daily.”

“You know, you don’t have to be alone. There are a lot of nice guys around here.”

Kirzag snorted, and picked up some tankards and began juggling them, just to amuse himself. “Yeah? What man wants a booze-soaked Marakim-forsaken waste like me?”

“I don’t believe Marakim has forsaken you,” said a soft voice with an elegant accent. “And some find booze-soaked wastes rather charming.”

The tankards dropped, and Kirzag turned to look into golden amber eyes with an intense, predatory expression, a hint of a smile touching the black muzzle.

“Hi,” said Kirzag, suddenly having a difficult time locating his normally cold demeanour.

The Mycinocroft blinked his golden eyes. “Hi.”

“Wine?”

“Please.”

“I’ll… get you a bottle of the black cherry,” Kirzag said, almost stumbling over one of the tankards he had dropped.

“Thank you.”

Kirzag hastily gathered up the fallen tankards, then went for a bottle of the cherry wine, eventually locating the corkscrew.

“Hey Kirz,” said Arrowsmith, grinning. “Your cool is melting.”

Kirzag muttered something in his own tongue, and managed to yank the cork out of the bottle. He set it before the black Mycinocroft, and then grabbed a crystal glass that sat on the shelf behind the bar for the exclusive use of this one patron.

Alloicious was a spectacular specimen of Mycinocroft kind. He was a fully matured male, with a fantastic ruff of sensually soft fur around his neck, his black coat boasting silver tips. He had lived in White Place almost all of his adult life, studying alchemy. He had never married, and as a result still had both ears fully intact. To a poacher, he was a wet dream; a mature male black with silver points and both ears was nothing less than seven hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold. But when Kirzag looked at Alloicious, he only saw the gold of his eyes.

The Moonhound discreetly left, and, not long afterwards the few remaining patrons did as well. Arrowsmith was the last to go, locking up before heading home, leaving Alloicious and Kirzag in peace.

“So what brings you here so late?” asked Kirzag softly.

“Well it’s not the ambience, I assure you,” said Alloicious.

Kirzag managed a smile, unaware of his own beauty, even as old as he was. Black Elves were long-lived, but not immortal, and Kirzag was over twelve hundred years in age. He had another three centuries to look forward to, but he was not a young Elf. Another Black Elf of course could have determined his age, but to the people around him, he looked little more than twenty-two. He was tall and lean and leggy, with the ice-white skin and depthless midnight-blue eyes of his kind. His build was slender and graceful, but masculine, and there was no mistaking him for anything other than male. Many patrons thought him just a young man, tending bar until he found something better to do. Few would have guessed the young man was really an old Elf.

Alloicious likewise was not young. He was past an age where females of his kind would consider him attractive, not that females had shown much interest in him when he was young, either. Black Mycinocroft males tended to end up dead and skinned; not a good thing in a mate. Alloicious had realized early in life his best chance at survival was to lock himself in a university until extreme old age rendered his pelt worthless. But as his bones began to creak and his eyes began to weaken from long hours of studying books by candle light, he had recently begun to think it would be nice to have someone in his life. Someone who would be happy with companionship and love, rather than a family. Alloicious too disliked the idea of having children that may be slaughtered.

That made Kirzag Darken very attractive.

“Well it can’t possibly be the bartender,” said Kirzag, leaning on the counter, gazing into the sensual eyes. “Could it?”

“It could be.”

Kirzag managed a grin. It was a little strained and lop-sided, but it had been a long time since he found anything worth grinning at. “And why would you want to drag your fine self down to this dump just to see me?”

“One Dream Creature to another? I think you’re sexy.”

“Rubbish. I have no fur, no nice white fangs, and no tail.”

Alloicious leaned closer, resting his forearms on the bar. “Define tail.”

“Careful, you get too cheeky and I’ll have to cut you off.”

Alloicious reached up to touch Kirzag’s face. “How about if you just carry me upstairs to bed?”

Kirzag’s expression softened. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, Ally.”

“Why not? I find you very attractive, and I’m reasonably certain that you find me attractive…”

“You know why.”

“Kirzag, forgive me, but that was a very long time ago.”

“Yeah, it was,” said Kirzag. “But… I can’t risk… I can’t let the same happen to you.”

“Kirzag,” said Alloicious, “you know that was not your fault. You could not have stopped it.”

“Then why did Marakim forsake me?”

“He did not forsake you! You have all your blessings still. I see it almost nightly. You drink like no Elf I know of, and yet you still maintain your grace. Your hands do not shake, you still juggle tankards for your own amusement, I’ve seen you…”

“Why did he let my family die? What was the point of all the work I did if I could not save my family? They were sacrificed and sent to that… thing, that three-headed monster of filth and death. I didn’t even get to take vengeance on them! My family is in the realm of SkullDigger and I can’t save them. Do you know how that haunts me? I can hardly stand to draw breath; I can only sleep if I am so drunk I can no longer stand up! I’m a Black Elf; do you have any idea how much I have to drink to reach that state?” Kirzag stepped back from the bar, bringing his hands up to his head. “Creation, Ally, have you any idea how this haunts me?”

Alloicious hopped over the bar to take Kirzag into his arms, holding him tightly.

“Marakim did not forsake you, nor shall I. You shall have your vengeance one day.”

Kirzag held Alloicious tightly, stroking the black fur. “How? When? Even if they were half-Elves, they would be dead of old age long ago. They were never punished for their crime, and my family rots in the wasteland of that mad beast’s hell. I cannot eat, I cannot sleep, all I can do is soak my brain in cheap beer until the screaming guilt and pain quiets a little.”

Alloicious tightened his embrace. “You are not forsaken, Kirzag. I swear to you. After all the good you did, I refuse to believe Marakim would discard you thus.”

“The gods are fickle, Ally. What do they care for the lives of Elves? Or Mycinocroft.” He stroked his hand over the thick, soft fur.

“They must care a little,” said Alloicious softly. “They led me to you.”

Kirzag drew back, looking into the golden eyes, suddenly aware of how close and warm his friend was.

“Do Mycinocroft kiss?” he asked quietly.

“No. But this one doesn’t mind at all if you kiss him.”

Kirzag ran a hand over Alloicious’ silky fur, then leaned forward, wanting to kiss him, and uncertain how. Both began to laugh. Then there was a loud pounding at the door.

“We’re closed!” yelled Kirzag.

“We seek rooms for the night!” shouted a voice.

Kirzag made a sound of aggravation, reluctant to part with the armful of muscle and fur he held. Alloicious nuzzled him.

“You let them in, I’ll clean up. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You better not,” said Kirzag.

He released Alloicious and walked around the bar to the door, unlocking it and opening it. He stepped aside to let the three men in, and immediately regretted it. They were filthy and stinking, having travelled far, and the reek from their black clothes was almost more than his Elven senses could tolerate. Still, there had been times in his life when he had smelled much the same after riding for days across the great plains. The smell put him in mind of his time travelling the roads, and as he closed the door, he uttered without thought the traditional Highwayman’s greeting.

“Welcome, brothers. My hearth greets thee and thy tales of the road.”

The three men stopped cold at the soft utterance, turning to look at the tall Elf. Kirzag gazed back at the men. Slowly his brain registered that their clothes were not black; they were dark from rain and dirt. The men were in fact clad in rusty greens and browns, each with a dagger and short sword in his belt. All had red gloves made from the hide of song dragons, which enabled the wearer to handle noxious poisons without being affected by them. About the throat of the eldest of the three was a golden amulet featuring a triple-headed dog with seven red eyes.

An unspoken “whoops!” hung in the air as each considered the other. Then Alloicious demonstrated his superior Mycinocroft intellect by diving behind the bar before all hell broke loose.

Kirzag stared at the trio, feeling a savage hate rise up like bile, rage turning everything colour of blood. He appeared to grow in stature as madness claimed him, and he seemed to turn to shadow and smoke as he went for the dagger in his boot. He managed to pull it just as one of his hated enemies drew a short sword, and there was sudden ring of metal striking metal. A dagger struck out, and would have gutted Kirzag, but passed through him as if he was mist.

It seemed Marakim had not forgotten Kirzag after all.

Kirzag split one of the three from breast to groin with one sudden move, then dodged and turned in time to sink his blade into the throat of another, pulling his foe’s short sword from its scabbard as the body slumped to the ground, spraying blood. The blade dripped and sizzled with poison, which was forbidden to followers of Marakim, but Kirzag was in no mood to worry about doctrine. Marakim could punish him later, if he could think of something worse to do to him than what he had already suffered. Right now all his hate and rage was focused on the remaining man before him. He stalked after him, a column of shadow silhouetted by the image of a great black fox.

“You can’t use that blade!” the man cried out, realizing he was up against a Highwayman of exceptional power. “It is forbidden you!”

“After what I have endured, Marakim will forgive me, and I will gladly take what retribution he gives me. It will not compare to the boundless agony I have already endured at the hands of the monster you serve!”

The man backed away, cringing in terror. “I serve no one! I found these clothes!”

“LIAR!” Kirzag screamed. “Not even the most impoverished fool wears the garb of a High Priest of SkullDigger! He certainly would not be fool enough to wear that amulet! You not only serve the beast, you draw spells from him, rewards granted for murdering the innocent and condemning them to eternal torment!”

The sword hit the wall with an explosive sound, spewing drops of venom. The man screamed and cowered on the floor.

“Have mercy!”

“MERCY?! Did you show my wife mercy? Did you show my babies mercy? I’ll show you mercy, all right! I’ll split you with your own damned blade so you can enjoy the agony you inflicted on so many others!”

“But I did not kill them!”

“Do you think that matters? It was one of your ilk in the name of your god, what do I care if it was your hand or another’s? Do you know who I am, you clot of filth on the back end of a rabid animal? I am Kirzag Darken of House Darken, the Sixth House of Marakim, fallen now, and lost. As you are about to be!”

The poisoned blade came down, nicking the man as he darted out of the way. There was the fetid stink of burned flesh, and the man screamed horribly.

“Spare me, and I will tell you how to free your family from the dark realm of SkullDigger!”

“You would say anything to spare your own existence!” Kirzag swung the sword once more, nicking his leg this time. Again the man screamed.

“I speak true! Ask the Seer, he can go to the world in which the gods dwell, and free them!”

“And doom himself! Do you think I do not know the beast craves his soul?”

“I speak true!” the man repeated. “Why do you doubt me?”

“Because I know you! I know your kind! Do you think I do not know how many babies you consigned to unimaginable horrors to gain your status as High Priest? To slowly cut you to bits is a better death than you deserve!”

Again the blade fell, and again the man shrieked. Then Kirzag felt something behind him; a warm, loving presence, silent, yet somehow making itself known quite clearly. Kirzag and his victim both felt it, and as Kirzag gazed at the man, he realized he was staring at something behind him. He had gone sheet white, and he was shaking in absolute terror. Slowly Kirzag turned around, the dagger and short sword slipping from his hands as he saw the being before him. He fell to one knee, bowing reverently.

“There is no need for that, Kirzag. Rise up. You knew me in life; there is no need for formality. I do not forget my friends.”

Kirzag slowly rose up to look at the man before him, clad in black, an eight-pointed star blazing brightly on his left shoulder. His long red hair was loose, and he wore a fold of black cloth over his eyes.

“Marakim…”

“It has been a long time, Kirzag. Your sister sends her love.”

“She is well?”

“She shares my realm. As does your own family.”

Kirzag’s knees failed him, and he struck the stone floor hard, heedless of the pain. “My..? They… are not..?”

“No.” Marakim stepped closer, reaching out to trail a black-gloved hand over Kirzag’s face. “I could not stop their murder, but I did not let that monster have them. I do not forsake the children of the ones I hold dear. Just as I did not forsake you. I had hoped that in time you would come to me and learn of their fate, but you never did. Long I waited. Then tonight I saw you on the verge of committing a crime that I cannot forgive, and I knew I could wait no more.” He pointed to the sizzling blade lying on the stone floor. “No matter how fitting, I cannot permit you to kill him with his follower’s poisoned sword.”

“I am sorry. I was angry.”

“With good cause. But a wrong is still wrong. Let me see to him. Go rest. Take your pretty lover to bed, and be at ease.” He smiled. “You have earned it.”

Kirzag rose to his feet, and nodded, suddenly realizing how terribly exhausted he was now that the weight he had been carrying was gone. He staggered towards the flight of steps that would take him to his room, scarcely aware of Alloicious at his side. The fate of the priest of SkullDigger no long concerned him. All he wanted was sleep. He stumbled wearily into his room, and collapsed onto the bed. The last thing he was aware of was Alloicious undressing, then slipping into bed beside him.

When he finally awoke, there was no trace of the three men.

***---***

The Dirty Duck Tavern was jammed to the rafters with bodies; people were everywhere, even standing on the bar, all gathered to hear Silver and Arrowsmith play the blues. The doors and windows were open, so the crowd in the street could hear as well, and Kirzag’s two serving boys were hard pressed to keep up with demand. Kirzag was behind the bar, dancing to the music, singing along as he poured beer and wine. With him as always was his tankard, though few noticed the golden fluid in it was apple juice, not beer. Beside him, Alloicious helped serve patrons.

“I think I enjoy this music,” he remarked. “But I don’t understand the lyrics at all. What does ‘flip flop and fly’ mean?”

Kirzag grinned as he handed a tankard of beer out the window to someone. “Haven’t a clue, but I love it. I could listen to it all the time.”

The song ended, and there was a great roar of approval from the crowd. Arrowsmith laughed, delighted with the response.

“Any requests?” he asked.

Kirzag poured a mug of ale. “‘Hey Bartender’!” he shouted, and the crowd laughed. Arrowsmith grinned.

“‘Hey Bartender’ it is, then!”

He began to play, and Kirzag smiled as he felt Alloicious gently nip him.

“Feeling better?”

“Feel like a whole new person,” said Kirzag, handing the mug to a man. It was a Highwayman, and as his eyes met Kirzag’s, he bowed respectfully.

For the first time in almost four hundred years, Kirzag returned the gesture.

Disclaimer:

All original fiction and the characters, places and situations with them are copyright Alyx Shaw, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.

The characters, places and situations described in these stories are fictional unless otherwise stated in the story headings.

(C) 2008 Alyx Shaw