Five hours before
“What you’re not gonna do,” Ezra drawled as he swung his cane over his shoulder, “is start shit in the gutter just to begin crying about how dirty you got.”
The idiot with the cracked nose and dirty tunic was a frequent customer of The Dragon’s Toenail, a sniveling blowhard named Tomas. He had enough money to throw away on the cheap beer in the bar every evening, but not enough to pay for patience from the waitresses to deal with his wandering hands. And that was where Ezra came in.
When Tomas, or some other moron, started touching and not paying, he got his knuckles, shins, or nose cracked.
“I paid this time!” Tomas whined. “A whole extra copper!”
“And if you’re looking to start something with one of the employees,” Ezra replied while pulling the cane down and pointing it in the muddy- and bloody-faced man, “you’ve gotta pay five times that before I come a’knockin’. You know that, Tomas.”
“But she took my copper!”
“Cause you gave her a tip. It ain’t a surprise that the waitress took the money you gave her, you idiot.”
Tomas struggled to his feet, his nose swelling as the involuntary tears streaked down his face. “I’ll never come back here!”
“If you could afford to go to a nicer bar, you’d do it, Tomas,” Ezra waved him off. “Get some rest, the morning comes and you’ll have to get some work done if you’re gonna keep your mug full.”
The drunkard turned and stumbled away, his foot slipping on a muddy rut in the road, though he managed to catch himself before falling. Ezra watched the man on his way, and once Tomas reached the end of the block without falling, he knew that the middle-aged client would get home fine.
“Thanks, Ezz,” Matilda said from the doorway. “He wouldn’t stop pawing at me.”
“Sure,” he answered as he walked back towards the bar. A fire roared inside, and though he’d only been outside for a minute, the cold was already chewing at his bones. Fortunately, Tomas wasn’t a fighter when he was getting in trouble, and Ezra wouldn’t be nursing some bruises of his own after tossing the older man out.
“We’ve got a whole lotta people still in here,” Ezra said to the brown haired waitress as he nodded to a table whose drinks were running dry. “I don’t think you’ve got time to spare on me.”
“They enjoyed the show,” Matilda disagreed as she raised her voice. “Didn’t you, boys?”
Though they didn’t seem to have been listening to the words she said, they all cheered at her invitation to show their excitement. As a table, they’d paid enough to enjoy special attention from the waitresses, though nothing more than a wandering hand and flirtatious pat on the arse. Even though it was located in the slums and staffed by people just as poor as the rest of the slumrats, the Madam had long since determined that The Dragon’s Toenail wasn’t a brothel and wouldn’t ever be. Sure the line was narrow, but she made sure it wasn’t ever crossed, and the girls who worked here appreciated it.
“Sure, Tilly,” Ezra replied. “Get to work before the Madam gets after you.”
She whipped him with the towel she kept around her neck but flounced back to the table, where the men demanded to be served another round of beers. One patted her bum as she walked past, and, once he passed over a pair of coppers, she winked back at him as she brought the payment for the round to the barkeep.
He knew it shouldn’t bother him as much as it did, given he was the son of a prostitute, but Ezra hated watching the waitresses make petty sales of their bodies. Then again, there weren’t many places willing to employ a boy barely sixteen as a guard, so he said nothing out of respect for the years of employment The Dragon’s Toenail had provided him. Now that he was an adult of eighteen winters, though only barely, he honored the people who had treated him well for his life until now by not ruining their business.
“More of your useless sense of justice,” a voice spoke from beside him. Despite himself, Ezra twitched and turned to look at the person who’d spoken. The Madam stood beside him, her black dress blending in with the shadows cast by the doorway. “It’s going to get you into trouble. We can’t afford to concern ourselves with justice.”
“I know,” Ezra answered. “But some people with strength choose to be kind and take in little rejects, so maybe it isn’t all bad.”
She laughed at his mention of her own generosity and gestured for him to take his place beside the bar. There, he could keep his eyes on the bar as a whole to keep an eye out on whenever someone started getting stupid.
Fortunately, a bit of fresh blood on the cane he dispensed punishment with was enough of a reminder for tonight to keep him from having to crack any more skulls. The dark of the winter night passed without much issue, and before long, the barkeep Adam was giving the last call and closing the bar. A few of the regulars had begun to get rowdy when denied another round of drinks, but instead of making trouble, they filed out with nothing more than a couple grumbles. As the last flutters of snow drifted in the inn, Ezra slammed his shoulder against the heavy door and closed up. Throwing the heavy bolt over the door made it secure, and he turned back to the room, where the waitresses and Adam were cleaning up.
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“That’s all from you,” the Madam called Ezra over. “The cook should have your meal prepared as usual, but let me know if you need more.”
“You just want to apply your rates to the meal to have to pay me less,” Ezra chuckled as he palmed the silver and pair of coppers for his work. The two coppers were hazard pay, for when he actually needed to kick someone out.
“Not only growing in stature but in wisdom,” the Madam replied with a smile as she pushed his dark, curly hair back from his face. “And in beauty. If you clean up, I’m sure a few of the brothels would take you.”
“And you know I’ll never take that offer.”
“No, you won’t,” she replied without anger. “But it would be a failure on my part if I didn’t remind you that easier living is available to you.”
“It isn’t easier to do that for some fat fucker who comes down here for an easy lay,” Ezra replied hotly.
“Some would kill to have your opportunities,” the Madam said, more by way of dismissal than anything else. “Sleep well. I have errands for you in the morning.”
“Yes, Madam. Have a good night.”
With that, Ezra strode through the bar into the kitchen, where a plate with a boiled potato and watery stew waited for him. His stomach rumbled, and he didn’t hesitate to rip into the potato between deep gulps of the warm meal. It’d cooled more than he would have liked on such a biting winter night, but it was part of his pay and he wasn’t going to complain.
In what felt like only a few bites, he’d eaten through his entire meal, and frowned down at the empty plate. After a minute of arguing with himself, he decided to get himself another serving. As the Madam had said, he was growing and sometimes, now that he was used to being fed, the hunger kept him from sleeping. Sometimes, he laughed at how soft he was now. He’d spent winters under filthy hay and sucking water from whatever puddles he could find, and now that he’d spent two years being spoiled with a job and food and a bed, going back to that would be impossible.
Similar thoughts filled his mind as he poked his head out of the kitchen, passed two coppers over to Adam, and waved to the Madam to show he was going to get another serving. Then, with just enough self-control to slow his eating, he ate until his belly was mostly full and sat back, comfortable. He only allowed himself a couple seconds of relaxation, instead standing and walking out to the stairs to the second floor, where most of the staff lived.
Most of the cleaning was done by now, and Ezra walked through a quiet room lit only by the embers of the fire. Creaking up the stairs, he made his way to his room, which was only large enough for a small locker that held his few items and his bed. Settling onto his bed, sleep claimed him quickly, and he dreamed of a battlefield, of burning skies, and a Knight's last stand.
I’m no fuckin’ Knight, boy. Not for a long time.
That gravely voice shook him from his dreams, and Ezra woke, grasping blindly for his cane. As he breathed heavily and brandished it, he looked everywhere to try to find the intruder, but saw nothing. That wasn’t surprising, given he was in a dark room with no window, but when Ezra moved through the room, he couldn’t feel anything either. Opening his door with a creak, still he saw nobody, and there was a single lantern burning down the hall that let him know that there wasn’t anyone near enough to be the source of the words.
“So I’m going crazy. Or still dreaming,” Ezra muttered as he stepped back into his room and rubbed his eyes.
I’ve never heard of a Clubmaster, but plenty of people get started with whatever they can find. Boy, what’s your name?
Ezra looked around and saw nothing still, but he was sure he was hearing something. “Who is it?” he whispered.
When I lived, my name was Jormun Weaponmaster, but I guess I’m just Jormun now. Now, again, gimme your name.
The voice seemed to rumble in his chest and head at the same time, and Ezra couldn’t see where it was coming from. That said, it was obvious someone was messing with him.
“Whoever you are, you need to be a better liar. There’s no ‘Weaponmasters’ and no way even a Pseudo-Knight would come to the Villy slums.”
You don’t have Masters, do you?
“I’m not talking to you while you’re making shit up.”
Alright, whelp. How’s about this?
At that, a figure appeared before him, floating just a few centimeters in the air. Ezra could be considered a tall boy in the slums, maybe a meter seventy five. Even if he wasn’t floating, Jormun must have been at least a meter ninety tall. He was an absolute bear of a man. Thick, bushy eyebrows over dark eyes that shone with an inner light as well as an untamed beard framed his face. Every bit of hair he had, from the top of his head to the bottom of his beard, was silver from age, but his body looked like… nothing Ezra had ever seen.
His shoulders were so broad that it looked like he was more of a door than a person. Unlike some men that seemed to try to make themselves pretty with muscle, the specter that called himself Jormun was built like a beer keg. His waist was nearly as thick as his chest, and what Ezra could see of his skin was covered with thick, corded scars.
Again, I am the man once known as Jormun Weaponmaster. You have seen the remnants of what was my world and my power. I was never able to become a Weapon Saint, but I’ll train you to do the same, if you want. If not, I’ll fade away and leave you to your slums. What you’ve seen? That’s the last thing I remember, kid. Now, do you want to be a Weaponmaster? Or, even a Weapon Saint? Cause if you do, I’m your guy.
A part of Ezra wanted to just tell the ghost to leave, to give him peace, but the thought of being more than just… some thug in the alley? That was tempting. And, despite everything, despite his fear, he spoke.
“My name’s Ezra. And if you can even help me become a Knight, I’ll do whatever you want.”
Great! Jormun’s voice boomed out once again, and Ezra looked all over to make sure he wasn’t about to wake anyone up. Despite how loud the voice felt to him, it looked like nobody else could hear it, and he relaxed a little and looked up at the ghost. Or, his master, he guessed.
First things first, get some sleep. Gotta rest if you’re gonna train!
“But you woke me up,” Ezra complained.
I didn’t train you to talk back! Now lay down and get some sleep!
Ezra began to open his mouth to argue then decided against it. If the weird old ghost wanted to act like he was so smart, he wouldn’t say anything, so long as it got him out of the slums. The idea of being able to take his friends with him, to save them from this life? That was enough to deal with an unreasonable old man.