Round 1: Amen Vs Sandstorm [Archive]

Amen

08-27-11, 11:59 PM

“I want to tell you about a guy I saw,” Fulgar Awale said.

Fulgar sat on the deck of the Maiden’s Favor at port in Fallien. Near his left sat Marcus Book, his good friend, who refused to go ashore in Fallien no matter what was offered him. In Fulgar’s right hand was a murky-glassed bottle of warm southern-sea rum. Book had his own, and they drank straight from their respective vessels. It was well before noon.

“Okay,” Marcus said.

“Tell me if he sounds familiar, as I’m telling you about him,” Fulgar said.

Marcus shrugged and took a swig.

“Okay, so for everybody’s benefit, he’s been sent from his home, for starters. His home is in Salvar, by the way. And his dad is Salvic nobility, but he’s been sent to Fallien. You know why? Because his mother is from there. Here.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Here’s a hint, his name is Marcus.”

“This is a stupid game,” Marcus said. “And I wasn’t sent away from my home for anybody’s benefit. It’d be a stretch to even say I had a home.”

“I wasn’t talking about you, though,” Fulgar said. “Weird huh? There’s a bunch of other stuff that struck me as vaguely weird, but to tell you the truth I was a little drunk.”

“When was this?” Marcus said.

“Last night when you were in the hold moping,” Fulgar began.

“I was reading a book,” Marcus interrupted.

“Like I said,” Fulgar said, “when you were in the hold moping, I went drinking with the rest of the crew. They don’t have a problem with the Outlander’s Quarter, you see, so I went out drinking with them at this hole in the wall called the…something. Drunken Decker? Drunken Digger? Drunk something. Anyway, guy walks in and he’s clearly a regular, and they tell me, ‘oh yeah, that’s Marcus, his mom’s a native but you’d never know it looking at him,’ and so on.”

“My father was Salvic, but you’d never know it looking at me if I’ve got ten minutes of sun,” Marcus argued. “He doesn’t sound like me at all.”

“He’s not like you at all,” Fulgar said. “You know how your eyes are all glinty-gold like…yeah, like that. It’s really noticeable when you glare. Anyway, his eyes are silver. I shit you not.”

Marcus took a drink, and mulled on that. And then he took another, and another, and sat fermenting and baking under the rising Fallien sun. “Silver eyes,” he muttered. “You’ve been drunk for something like eight days straight. You sure you didn’t just dream all that up?”

Fulgar put on his offended face, then thought about it a moment and conceded the point. “Look, I’m seventy-five percent sure this all happened. Six…fifty five. Pretty sure it happened, though. I’ve never made up silver eyes before, even after eight days of rum.”

Marcus nursed his bottle, and stewed, and then he finished it and got to his feet. Fulgar followed him with his eyes, watched as he disappeared down to the hold, and then a minute later he came back holding his axe. “Where do you think you’re going with that?”

“The Drunken Digger, or whatever,” Marcus said.

“What do you need an axe for?”

“Well I’m not going to go unarmed, and this is what I’ve got,” Marcus said. “What a stupid question.”

“You’re really drunk,” Fulgar said.

“I’m not. See?” Marcus stood on one leg demonstratively, and only wobbled a little. “I can hold my liquor.”

“You can,” Fulgar allowed cautiously, “but I fail to understand why you can’t go unarmed.”

“’Cause I’m going to fight him, and I don’t trust him to play fair.”

Fulgar blinked, and set his bottle down. “Give me the axe.”

“Hell no,” Marcus said, holding the thing away. “I haven’t fought anything in…in weeks. Okay? And you tell me there’s a guy just like me in some ways and the opposite in others? That’s a good fucking fight, Fulgar. That’s fate setting up a barn-burner.”

“Did you just say ‘barn-burner’?”

“I’m a little tipsy,” Marcus said, “but I’ll fight fine. Now help me down the gangplank, I don’t want to fall off.”

***

Book arrived alone at the Drunken Deklan two hours later, with his axe rested over his right shoulder. He was a little soberer by then, but determination and anticipation kept logic at bay yet. He hesitated only an instant at the batwing style doors, then pushed through as a final act of defiance in the face of good sense and civilized behavior.

He paused in the doorway, to let his eyes adjust to the dim interior, a silhouette framed by the burning sun from without. As he stood there, some of the afternoon regulars paid their tabs and retrieved their hats, then went on their way around him. Book stepped up to the bar and laid his axe atop it as he took a stool.

“Rum,” he ordered. When the tender delivered his drink, he dropped an extra coin on the counter. “When silver-eyed Marcus comes in, give me a nod, eh?”