The Three-Beast of Mooregardia

Consciousness crept in with confusion and contempt. The poignant tang of vomit and ale overwhelmed my senses. My head throbbed with every heartbeat.

I sat up with some difficulty — muscles aching from a night on the cold, stony earth. I acclimated to the world through squinted eyes and made two unpleasant discoveries. First, I didn't have my rucksack. Second, the sign painted above the nearby inn told me I was in Draff. I couldn't believe it. I would never voluntarily come to this gods-forsaken village of inbred idiots and knuckle-dragging mouth-breathers.

Looking over my shoulder, I was less surprised to discover that I was a stone's skip from a tavern. A worn wooden sign cut in the shape of a shield swayed and creaked on rusted chains. It bore a single letter — a D in faded red. In this chamber pot of a village, that could only mean one thing: Deviant Drake’s Draught Haus. A name that is usually preceded by the infamous and followed by stories of debauchery. It's a place where miscreants devise dastardly deeds and revel in their degeneracy — where catching a dagger in the back is part of its charm.

Drink will be my downfall. That nagging and intrusive thought banged around my soul.

The jingly clop-clop of battle-dressed horses approaching compelled me to my feet — the change of altitude triggered a stabbing pain in the deepest, darkest parts of my head. Whatever I did last night, I'm sure I came by this vile feeling honestly.

At the far end of the village, three human soldiers clad in gleaming mail sat atop huge trotting warhorses. The last thing I wanted to do was set foot in a tavern, but I needed to find my pack and that was — given my condition — a natural place to look. I also didn't want any run-ins with the oncoming warriors.

I willed my body to climb the uneven wooden steps to Drake’s front door. On entry, I was greeted by thick, dank air that would've peeled the righteousness off a paladin. The cocktail of sweat, urine, spirits, and gods-know-what-else, was an agonizing addition to my crapulence that catalyzed an acidic burn in the back of my throat. I willed myself onward.

Shafts of sunlight poked through uneven gaps between the deteriorated wall planks, and a large brazen oil lamp suspended from the ceiling painted the room in a dim, yellow glow.

An expansive L-shaped bar that lined the left and rear walls was empty. The chaotic patchwork of tables, no two the same size, shape, or finish, were also unoccupied apart from one in the far right corner of the large room. A very large man, or small giant, was surrounded by crates, sorting bottles of spirits. I walked toward him and stopped short, giving myself a little extra distance should my stomach revolt.

At my stature, I am accustomed to looking up to people. But even at ten paces, I had to crane my neck to meet his gaze — like a squirrel at the base of a mighty oak scanning for acorns in its topmost branches.

“Wasn’t sure you’d be back,” he said in a voice the subtlety of thunder and the texture of gravel.

He was unnaturally muscular for a mortal and his skin was darker than a moonless midnight. His head was bald and smooth like polished apple skin, and his eyes were a vibrant, almost electric green. His chiseled features and hulking frame were not diminished by his loose-fitting attire — burlap pants and threadbare linen shirt.

“Are you Drake?” I inquired.

“Drake is a myth, created to sell more ale,” he said with a flicker of pride and a faint smile. “I’m Margaret.”

"Did you say Margaret?"

"I did," he replied, burning a hole in me with his bright green eyes — as if daring me to laugh or say something foolish so that he could rip me in half.

"Nice to meet you, Mmm-argaret," I replied tentatively. "I'm Wh—"

"Save your strength, Whelm the Under," the dark-chocolate titan interrupted. "We got to know each other very well last night." He winked and smiled a few measures too long. "I'll get your things."

Did he just wink at me?

He turned and disappeared through a doorway in the back wall.

As I clawed frantically for some hand-hold on the slippery wall of drunken memory, the stillness of the tavern was broken by the sound of heavily-armored footfalls and loud banter. The front door flung open and three men filed in — one of them loudly aggrandizing a tale of some conquest.

These were the three on horseback. They were not mere soldiers or knights as I'd previously assumed. Their armor bore the King’s crest — a gilded eagle’s head surrounded by a ring of luminescent purple flames. Great swords with jeweled hilts dangled from their waists in ornate scabbards. These were Royal Guard — knights of legend and renown that carried the full weight of the King's mantle. What were they doing in Draff?

The knight telling the story stopped mid-sentence when he saw me and smiled broadly.

He drew his sword with a shinnnng that startled me and extended it into the air as if in salute. “Long live the Wonder Chicken of Draff,” he shouted. One of the other knights feigned cheers and applause, while the third looked on bemused.

I turned and looked behind me in bewilderment. He said it again.

"Yes, I'm talking to you, you hungover half-pint. Surely you drank enough for twelve men. Or are Halflings like dwarves with their drink? Did the gods gird your innards to imbibe without repercussion? Either way, I didn't think we'd be seeing you quite so soon, little friend." He sheathed his sword.

“By Delia's grace and Lavinia's mercy, a thousand apologies sir knight. I fear I have been mistaken for someone else in your company,” I responded, doing my best to maintain a level of decorum despite the acidic burn inching up my throat.

“Abrion, did you hear that? A thousand apologies sir knight. You wound me, chicken man, addressing me so... so... politely," he replied with a mock shudder. "You really don’t remember last night? We had quite a time the lot of us.”

Before I could respond, Margaret returned holding my rucksack. I sighed in deep relief when I saw my family’s mace still tethered securely to its side.

“Here you are, my corpse-dressing cleric. That’ll be one silver.”

“One silver,” I asked. “For what now?”

“Safekeeping while you drank twice your weight in ale. But for you, I suppose I can take ten copper.” At this he threw back his head like a howling wolf and laughed heartily — a sound like a mating rhinoceros.

Feeling slightly uneasy about haggling with such a colossal man, I retrieved a silver piece from my coin pouch and thanked him for his service. I turned my attention back to the knights.

“May I ask why the Royal Guard is in Draff?”

“Boring,” the talkative knight said, parrying the question.

“Maybe this will spark your memory,” the one called Abrion interrupted. He pranced up to me flapping his arms like a madman, pecking at the air, and clucking repeatedly like a chicken. “Bok-bok-bok-bok, bok-bok-bawwwwk!”

The knight's idiocy brought my blood to a boil — and I could feel it in my cheeks. I was not in the mood for this kind of taunting and I wanted nothing more than to clobber the clucking ninnyhammer square in the grapes.

“Alright, alright. I remember.” I hollered over the ruckus, donning my best smile.

Abrion stopped his show and patted my head like a dog before flopping down on a chair at a nearby table.

“I’m not proud of the way I acted last night. It’s just not befitting someone in my line of work."

“You’re a horrible liar. Really. Just dreadful.” The warmth dissipated from his voice with each word. He drummed his fingers on the pommel of his sword and furrowed his brow. “Let's go about this another way then. Is it your practice to lie to your betters? To the very threefold captaincy of the King's Guard? To the men — the only men — in direct and lifelong service to the King's Master of Arms by right of noble birth? And if such pomp and circumstance doesn't tickle your fanny, to the finest swordsmen of the Realm?”

Off balance and struggling to recover under the severity of the knight's gaze, I gathered my thoughts and weighed my words carefully before speaking again. “I do beg your pardon, sir. I surely meant no disrespect. It is only my practice to lie to tax collectors and maidens.”

After a moment of pregnant silence, Margaret erupted in laughter and the knights followed suit.

“Now there’s the truth — well, mostly. Sorry to pucker your arsehole, my friend. I'm just having some fun. Sit, sit, and let us regale you with a recounting of our magnificent fuckery,” he said. “I’m Denault. The prancing chicken is Abrion, and the one who's silent as a church mouse is Robson.”

“I’m Whel—”

"Whelm the Under," said Abrion. "Your barley-drenched memory doesn't change the fact that we are quite well acquainted."

I took a seat at the table. “Well, it's nice to meet you then — again that is. Margaret, can I trouble you for a water when you have a moment.”

"What did you call me?" the man's voice exploded like a powder keg.

I stared at the behemoth, utterly dumbfounded.

All of them — even the quiet one — doubled over in laughter that dragged on for what felt like years. Denault slapped the tabletop vigorously as tears fell down his cheeks.

"I'm Drake," said Margaret after the guffawing had subsided. "I was having some fun." He set a large tankard on the table in front of me.

"I really cannot do this right now," I said, pushing back in my chair and moving to stand up. "Arrest me if you must."

"Whelm, my friend, sit," said Denault. "We're just having some fun. We'll behave. I promise — really."

I picked up the tankard to quench my night's thirst and was arrested by a sickly-sweet smell. "Is this mead?"

Drake nodded. "Honey mead — closest thing I have to water."

My stomach somersaulted. I sprang up, knocking my chair over, and ran out of the tavern. I'd barely made it to the steps before losing what remained of my stomach contents. A mother and her two daughters walked by, clearly in temple attire. She scowled at me and hurried her children along. I leaned against the building and did my best to compose myself before returning to my unusual new acquaintances.

"Thanks for not doing that in here," Drake said when I'd returned. "You thought my storage fees were high, you would not have enjoyed my vomit tax."

"Vomit tax?"

Drake nodded.

I waited for a laugh, a smile, a punchline — but none came. He walked away and returned to his inventory at the back table.

The purge of last night's folly, however unpleasant, returned some mental acuity. I changed the subject. "Alright then, would someone please tell me what in the humping hobgoblin happened last night?" My words spewed out more forcefully than I'd intended.

"There he is at last — our spicy conscript. Splendid. Sit, drink," Denault said. "I'll tell you all about it — and the glorious adventure that awaits us four."