It was a peaceful night in the Boar’s Apple. That was exactly why Klay liked it there. Yes, it was always warm and it had good food and drink and an attentive ale-boy who seemed to know exactly when his tankard had emptied. But best of all, better than all that, was the quiet. It was the kind of quiet where an old man’s mind can be left to wander the Greathalls of his Memory. And Klay had plenty of acreage to wander. Enough to regularly get lost in, as he was now. He was staring wide-eyed and gormless into space while the ale-boy stood patiently next to him, face a mask of focus with his jug poised ready to pour. The ale-boy cleared his throat. Klay snapped from his trance with a startle and swallowed a burp. 

“Oh! Oh yes, another please, boy.” As the boy poured Klay could feel him trying hard not to look at his face. He couldn’t blame the lad. Klay had come to peace with all the scars and pockmarks – but why did it have to sag the way that it did? Scars told all kinds of interesting stories. Flappy neck skin told only one. Klay was impressed by the boy’s professionalism as he gave only a curt smile and then dashed off to find another empty cup to fill. The barkeep smirked over to him leaning both hands on the bar, “I told him if he worked hard, I’d make him employee of the month. He’s my only employee.” Klay gave a single exhaling snort as if to say, I have politely acknowledged your wit now please leave me to wander the Greathalls of my Memory in peace. The barkeep, familiar with all kinds of snorts, seemed to understand and returned to dusting a dustless shelf of bottles.

The quiet returned and Klay wrapped himself in it like a blanket. He thought how amusing it was, in a wow-the-gods-are-mean kind of way, how a man often comes to crave the opposite of whatever he has in abundance. The goatherd lives a life of peaceful solitude but looks upon a swordsman’s blade with envy, while the swordsman looks back at the goats and feels the exact same. Klay had been the swordsman; had travelled, fought, won some, lost more. But fighting was a young man’s game and his youth was spent. He could at least recognise that. So now he was trying his best to be the goatherd that he’d once envied but found that he was rather bad at it. He’d lost four of his nine goats already. But at least he had his evenings and the evenings were good. And the poncho. He liked the poncho. Klay sat at the bar’s end at his favourite spot nearest the hearth, enjoying the refreshed weight of the thick wooden tankard in his hand. Ah the quiet. He stared into the wood of the bartop as his mind began to course through his memories like the waving wood-grain. He sipped his ale, sucked foam from his mustached top lip and felt his age. 

Despite his best efforts to ignore time, he’d grudgingly arrived at the conclusion that there was likely more path behind him than ahead. With that realisation he’d found that his memories had become far more important to him. After all, it was his past that defined him now; his future unlikely to contain many opportunities for life-defining. He was grateful for his collector’s instinct as nothing anchors a memory quite like a trinket. Or a tattoo. Or a scar for that matter. He’d managed to acquire a good mix of all three during his many conquests and had garnered quite a collection. The leather pouch on his belt was filled with little keepsakes and as he did every night, sitting in his spot, he reached into the pouch and pulled one out at random. He squeezed one between his forefinger and thumb and felt a smile tug the edge of his mouth. He didn’t have to look down to know it was the Ba’shiek. Ah, one of his favourites. It reminded him of the time…

The tavern door was flung open banging carelessly against the wall. The evening breeze barged through the tavern, unsettling the hearth-fire and the few quiet patrons scattered throughout. His eyes remained downturned on the bar while his ears couldn’t help but tune into the thumping heavy-boot footsteps making their way to the other end of the bar. Four men. Rowdy. Already half-drunk and fully-bothersome. Very not quiet. Nor looking for quiet. Probably looking for violence, based on the shout-ey tones now being directed at the barkeep. There’d be no wandering the Greathalls of his Memory with these heaving dullards loudly over-compensating for whatever deficit of character they possessed. This annoyed Klay. Why did insecurity always have to be so loud? He held up the Ba’shiek in the candlelight and looked upon it for the first time in a long time. The bronze spinning top was hollowed and light with incredibly intricate patterns and lettering etched into its sides in the distinctive decorative style of The El’piota people. Those crazy bastards. He palmed it before taking another sip and stepped off his stool to make his way over.

“…And another fing, you’ll leave that bottle on the bar right here. Won’t ya? Cause you know fine well…” Klay had casually wandered up to them and had caught their attention, causing the speaker to stop mid-sentence. The four men turned their meaty heads toward him and stared with an expression that somehow held incredulity, disgust and impending rage all at once.

Klay paused in the light of their gaze before smiling, “Oh, don’t let me interrupt your conversation. I can wait until you’re done.” The barkeep looked at him with abject terror and remained motionless. Klay assumed the large wagon-sized man doing the threatening was the leader. It felt lazy to assume that the biggest one was the leader but in his experience of tough-guy hierarchies, it was always the case.

The big one let out a rasping chuckle – “Oh you can wait ‘till we’re done? Well that’s good of ya. You can wait all the way back over there then. Because you smell like goat’s piss. And I don’t wanna look at your mangled old face. Especially…” He picked up the bottle the barkeep had set down, “…while I enjoy my drink.” He took a canine bite on the cork and pulled the bottle away, popping it free. Then he blew, propelling the cork stopper from his mouth, hitting Klay on the forehead. The large men laughed. Klay gave a warm smile in return as though he found the taunt equally amusing.

“All the way back over there, you said?” Klay pointed in the direction that Wagon-Man had pointed. The men didn’t say anything in response but bunched closer together before him to form an intimidating mass of muscle, fat and angry faces. A threat didn’t have to have words. Klay had often found the best kind didn’t. “Understood. I’d just wondered if you’d ever seen an item such as this before.” He held the Ba’shiek between finger and thumb for them to see, turning it slowly so the light played on the etchings.

“What are you, a salesman as well as a goat fucker?” Wagon-man laughed and looked to his brothers in circumference who replied with forced laughter. Good one boss please don’t hit us, it said.

Klay continued undeterred. “The El’piota Tribe live on the far end of the Eastern Axl archipelago and they make the scariest warriors out there. Strong, skilled, tough as old leather. But what separates them from others…is their efficiency. To them, killing is a dirty and ungodly thing. Deeply sinful. But a thing they recognised they must do to survive. So they created these.” He held up the spinning top again and regarded it himself, eyes transfixed on the delicacy of the design. “The Ba’shiek is their most sacred item. Each warrior has one. They’d spin it and for as long as it spins they believe that they are shielded from the vision of their god, Shemikki.” He mimed a spin. “It’s inscribed with what they believe is a kind of blinding spell, you see. So while it spins, hidden from the judgment of their god, they would kill.” The whole tavern fell into silence. “But it only spins for so long, so they had to learn to be fast.”

Wagon-man stepped forward and grabbed a scrunched handful of Klay’s poncho, pulling him closer. His expression of mock amusement was gone. “I’m giving you five seconds before I make that face even worse. Take your poncey toys with ya, freak.” He pushed Klay back with a deft shunt. Klay stumbled backward into a barstool, lost balance and thudded to the floor. The Ba’shiek flew from his hand. He scrambled on his hands and knees, frantically searching for wherever it might have rolled. He barely registered the men’s laughter as he padded around. After a few long moments he found it resting under an unoccupied table. He picked it up, palmed it with a sigh of relief and shuffled his way back to his spot, the heat of old injuries everywhere burning hot.

Once more, Wagon-Man and his men went back to loudly tormenting the barkeep. Once more, Klay shook his head and wondered why insecurity must be quite so loud. He wanted the quiet back. So that he could return to wandering the Greathalls of his Memory. He picked up his tankard, held it to his mouth and emptied the whole thing in four mighty gulps. Somewhere hidden in the back of the tavern the ale-boy felt an instinctive flash of purpose. Klay wiped his mouth on his goatherd’s poncho and looked at the tankard. Good thick wood. Maple? Brass hoops. Nicely shaped. Solid handle. Heavy. This would do nicely, he thought.

He called across the bar. “Gentlemen. A quick word, if you don’t mind.” Despite the crying of old injuries, he walked towards them with a gait some thirty years younger, tankard gripped tightly in his sword-hand. At his favourite spot, by the hearth-fire, the Ba’shiek spun.