A War to End All by MIchael R. Fletcher & Clayton W. Snyder

Author:MIchael R. Fletcher & Clayton W. Snyder [Fletcher, MIchael R. & Snyder, Clayton W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: MRF Books Corp.
Published: 2023-09-17T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

A tavern is a place where madness is sold by the bottle.

—Badezimmer schnell

Vertrauensverräter sat in the annoyingly well-lit back corner of the Auslaufender Tavern.

Ten years ago, back when she was young and looking for trouble, this was the dingiest tavern in the neighbourhood. Locals spoke with awe about how much blood had soaked into the floorboards over the years, and how many people had been knifed in the back alley. The first time she came here had been on a dare. It had been an unexpectedly educational experience. The clientele looked exactly as scary as everyone said. Everyone wore weapons, stilettos, daggers, and cudgels hanging on every belt. A few even wore swords and crusty leather armour that looked like it might flake apart in a strong wind. The interior was dark and threatening, every conversation an angry whisper. No one ordered drinks, instead slapping coin onto the bar, and glaring at Bierserver, the barkeep, until he decided to slop something into a glass. She’d been there less than a minute before a terrifyingly large man lumbered to her table and demanded she buy him a drink. She’d been about to acquiesce when the woman at the next table, who looked no more than thirteen, said, “Riesen Blödsinn, if you don’t leave her alone, I’ll swap you with your mom and you can enjoy getting pillaged by your dad every night.”

Riesen mumbled apologies to Vertrauensverräter and fled back to his table. After that, and all the years that she continued to frequent the shite hole, no one bothered her. Even when the woman—whose name she never learned—wasn’t there.

Now, there was little point in sitting in the corner.

It’s hard to lurk when everything is so well-lit.

Polished brass lanterns lined the wall and sat on perfectly balanced tables. Every chair was solid and comfortable, and no one stank of puke, piss, or anything else. Meals were served on clay plates, each a flawless circle. Ale was served in dainty little glasses, and no one ordered whiskey without first asking its age and what kind of wood it had aged in. A menu, written in lavish chalk swirls, listed things like ‘A fire-finished wild rabbit deconstruction served on a bed of free-foraged herbaceous greens.’

Bierserver stood behind the bar, his wild mop of hair brushed back and viciously trapped in a ponytail. He looked raw, like he hurriedly dry-shaved every time he stepped into the kitchen. He wore pressed black pants, a crisp white shirt, and a dapper grey vest. Spotting Vertrauensverräter, he flinched, one lip twisting in a loathing not at all directed at her.

He hates what this place became as much as I do.

Which was a shame, as he owned it. But there was no place for mismatched furniture and people drinking themselves to oblivion—or at least in the right direction to end up there—in Selbsthass.

She hadn’t noticed how ugly Morgen’s perfect new world was until Konig pointed it out. Now, perfection was a knife in every thought. Every fresh-faced white-clad moron tilted her toward violence.

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