LotS/The Story/The Saga of Drunken Ragnar/BarroombrawlII

Barroom Brawl II

There were two pint glasses upon the holographic sign. One bore golden liquid, the color so glorious that it might have been formed when molten metal ran from precious bars. The other carried dark redness, rich and strong as the blood of ancient heroes. Each was topped with a thin layer of frothy whiteness, enough to delight a warrior's eyes without drawing blows from his head-smashers. Both beer-bearing vessels orbited each other in spinning ellipses.

"It's closed," Svana said.

Thus the word beneath that image blared, crushing the dreams of those who wished to begin the day drunk.

But that edict had no hold over Ragnar, son of Ragnar. The hero approached the door, seized its long metal handle, and pulled. Hinges broke with a whine of metal as it was torn from its berth -- for it had been a push door, till the hero's mighty hand had brought it to another way of thinking.

They stepped inside, where a big unwindowed chamber was lit by glowing strips of garish light. There was a man behind the bar, with a bottle of blue liquid in one hand and a mug in the other. He wore a black vest -- the two pint glasses from the sign revolved upon its breast.

"We're closed, you moron! And you're paying for..." His eyes grew wide. Both mug and bottle fell from his hands. The bottle smashed on the bar and scattered glass and blueness across its surface. He pointed at Ragnar. "Murderer! Murderer!"

"You know me?" Ragnar growled. "Then you'll answer my questions!"

His mighty frame began to move, ready to storm the barman's bastion as he had stormed that of Kebab Chaos. But then a voice spoke, and something hard pressed against the back of Svana's skull.

"Don't move, stink-beast! Or this female's puny brains will be blown through the front of her pathetic skull."

The weaver raised her hands. One was empty. The other clutched the word-axe by its edge.

A Rylattu woman had dozed in a booth near the door, hidden from the Niflungs' sight. Her name was Bel Wunk Plon, and she was Binary Beer's bouncer. Her gun was at Svana's head. This troubled the weaver -- for she knew that if it fired, her saga would be spilled across the floor, and never be hacked into being by her word-axe. Also, upon pondering such things, she realized that she was too young to die. Thus great was her vexation.

The hero's foe-finders stared brutal death at the Rylattu. And his body turned to bring that gruesome fate about.

"Don't try it, wretched ape-like creature! My powerful finger is faster than your lumbering carcass!"

The son of Ragnar halted, for he knew that she was right.

"Keep them there, Bel!" the barman said. "I'll teach that bastard to murder people in my bar!"

He ducked, and disappeared from Svana's gaze.

"Foolish employer! This sniveling human already knows how to murder people in your bar! He did it last night!"

"It's an expression!" he shouted from underneath the bar. There was a hissing, clicking sound, as of machinery coming to life. "And I've told you before -- I'm your boss! None of that 'puny humans' talk when you're addressing me!"

"Yes, sir..." Then she muttered: "...you insignificant bag of ragebeast excrement!"

"Look, we're not here to cause trouble," Svana said. "We just want to find out what happened last night!"

"And I want my axe!"

"And he wants his axe," she agreed.

"I'll tell you what happened," the barman said, "your friend there murdered a woman! A good-looking one too. It's bad for business when pretty women can't come to your bar without getting killed!"

He stood up. He moved slowly, for there was a huge cannon resting on his shoulder.

"That's why I'm going to blast him in half!"

Ragnar glared. He took a step forward.

"Another step and the puny female dies!" Bel shouted.

And once more Ragnar froze, as the barman aimed his weapon at the hero's mighty chest. The weaver gasped. Her omnicidal companion, the slaughter of multitudes, butcher and destroyer, faced death. Yet he stood unwavering, rather than let her perish. Truly he was worthy of her saga. And that worthiness, his heroic soul, was about to bring his doom to pass...

The barman pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. No great blast flew from the weapon's barrel and smote the Niflung warrior.

"Bel! This piece of crap isn't working! This is the last time I buy Rylattu weapons!"

"The weapon is a magnificent work of superior Rylattu engineering! Your feeble human mind is-"

"It's not working!" He pulled the trigger again. And again. But still the weapon was silent.

"Foolish stink-beast! Did you read the manual?"

"It didn't come with a manual!"

"You need to release the safety switches before destroying your worthless enemies!"

"Oh..."

The barman fiddled with the weapon. And the weaver acted. For she was a Niflung woman, and her father's daughter.

Svana spun round. Her word-axe struck Bel's hand, and knocked the pistol from her grasp. For in her arrogance the Rylattu had forgotten that action was swifter than reaction. And thus no shot pierced Svana's brain. Instead the Rylattu howled.

Ragnar ran towards the bar. The barman threw the final switch.

Bel Wunk Plon lunged for her fallen gun. But Svana Spunbracher's pretty face burned with fury, and her muscles surged with the might of her people. The word-axe struck again, and the Rylattu fell. She groaned on the floor, as blood tricked from her head. Svana seized the pistol, and saw that it was broken. Her word-axe had cleaved with all the force of its literary might, and damaged the gun -- a mere tool of violence instead of the saga-weaver's illustrious craft -- beyond use. She grinned in pride. But then she threw herself down, landing atop Bel. For a chunk of the wall exploded, and daylight poured in.

The barman's weapon had fired. But the great hero had hurled himself from its path and rolled across the floor. Thus its mighty barrel had blasted a hole in the wall instead of the Niflung.

The barman turned to aim once more. But like Svana, Ragnar was swifter. A round table flew from his hands, its long metal legs following in its wake as though it were a squid. But it was not a squid. For squids were soft, and the table was hard...

"Aaaaarrrrgggghhh!

Such was the cry of the barman, when the table knocked the weapon from his shoulder and smashed many of his bones. He fell back against shelves that were laden with colored bottles in strange shapes and sizes. And great was the crash thereof. Glass and alcohol cascaded and tinkled.

Then the son of Ragnar grasped him by his vest, pulled him into the air, and slammed him onto the bar.

"Yeah, kill me!" the barman wailed. "Kill me like you killed her!"