Chapter 09 - Vim

 The next morning they rose and after a leisurely breakfast at The Wheatfield Inn the party headed south out of Forrestvale following the map Sam had drawn for them.  The local manning the southern gate looked to be asleep on his feet as he leaned against his pike and paying them no mind as they rode out into the sunny spring morning.  Vim, with Gnomey in the sidecar, rode in front alongside Jahans while Modi and Paloma followed behind.  

Vim looked to his left and saw Gnomey, goggles over his eyes, his hair flowing back behind him.  The gnome had a huge grin on his face.  He loved riding in the sidecar alongside the bard.  Vim had been worried about his new friend after the incident at the Underwood’s farm, but after he confided his own secret Gnomey was relieved, his bond with the human solidified by their shared experiences in combat and mutual trust.  Though he had only known Vim for a few days and was twice his age, Gnomey regarded the bard as an older brother.  

 

Vim could always make friends with those who felt like outcasts…

 

What was the name of this town again…?  Vim struggled through the fog of yet another hangover to remember where he was.  His left eye was open, but the right was still closed, the pressure of the ground pressing against it uncomfortably.  His open eye itched with grit, and he was fairly certain he could feel a thick strand of drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.  Or would it be blood this time?  The pounding in his head told him it was irrelevant.  His tongue moved through the thick molasses that was his mouth as it cautiously searched for missing teeth.  Finding none, he was relieved.

 

After all, when your father operated a traveling freak show centered on a card of bare-knuckle brawls you were bound to occasionally get your ass kicked.  And given his ways with the adventuresome daughters and unappreciated wives of Töfraland’s small towns and villages, that was simply the price of an evening’s work for a handsome and strapping young man.  

 

Vim brought his hands inward and under his chest, pushing himself up cautiously and glad to not feel the pain of any kicks to the ribs.  He got to his knees then fell back into a sitting position, hunched over like a broken jack-in-the-box as the first wave of nausea rolled through his body like an old friend.  That was fine.  Broken bones took time to heal.  A hangover?  That would be gone by lunchtime.  

 

He’d been traveling with this band of misfits every summer since as far back as he could remember, so he quickly got his bearings and realized he’d passed out behind the cart occupied by the bearded lady, who was in fact no lady at all but instead an unfortunate half elf, half dwarf man called Valorean who had the fine features of the former and the hairiness of the later, and was over a century old.  The elf-dwarf had always been kind to Vim, singing him songs when he was a child and later introducing him to some very, very interesting characters. 

 

The Summer Brawl camp was already up and running, welcoming its first visitors from whatever godforsaken town they were near.  The locals paid the stumbling lad no mind as he brushed the dirt from his breeches and made his way toward the food vendors, his right eye still glued shut with dirt.  And, to be honest, given how bright the late morning sun was he was afraid to open it until he had a proper drink.

 

Vim bummed a smoke from the gnarled one-legged gnome named Dax who his father employed as a ticket taker and scout.  And by scout that meant he let Vim’s father know which of the arrivals looked like they had that special combination of deep pockets and dim wits that made them perfect marks.  Dax handed Vim the lit half cheroot hanging from his own mouth as he pulled a fresh one from a vest pocket for himself.  At that point Vim would have taken a smoke from a hobgoblin’s ass.  Anything to get the taste of stale vomit out of his mouth.

 

After a few minutes he began to feel a bit better, the advantage of a youthful constitution.  He grabbed some fried bread from the elves, then some indistinct meat-on-a-stick from the kenkus.  It was better not to ask what the meat was, but as long as you got it in the morning you could count on it being fresh.  His right eye cautiously opened now, peering out into the world like an unsure hatchling that realized that, well, it didn’t have much choice in the matter and better just deal with the pain now.

 

Sure enough by midday Vim felt right as rain.  Well, other than being completely indifferent.  The early card of fights had started and he sat in the mostly empty stands bored out of his mind.  These early battles were the populated by a mix of has-beens, likely-never-will-bes, and locals trying to impress their lady friends.  It was all so predictable, either a pair dancing around and throwing cautious jabs that missed by a foot or, occasionally, a straight-up slugfest of haymakers, most of which missed wildly.  Rarely did anything of interest happen. 

 

Vim sat in the temporary stands along the rail tapping the railing absently as he always did.  His eyebrow cocked when he saw old Francis enter the ring.  Apparently a local farmer put down a wager that he could knock out one of the traveling fighters.  The local was smart enough to come early in the day and not have to face one of the headliners, but he had no idea what he was getting into with a veteran like Francis.  Those old-timers were deceptively dangerous, and Vim had learned a few very effective tricks from Francis over the years.  This could get interesting.

 

When the bell rang the pair circled one another, Francis looking mildly bored as the farm missed wildly with a few swings.  This was probably going to be nothing, Francis keeping it interesting and eventually taking a dive to make his opponent look good.  But then the unexpected happened, the local landing a sharp jab that snapped Francis’ head back.  Vim felt his own spine straighten as he sat up, the instinctive part of his brain registering that something… something severe was about to transpire.  Francis’ eyes went from a look of surprise to that of a predator, the fighter crouching a little lower, his fists held a little closer to his own face.  One did not just punch Francis in the face and walk away with all of one’s teeth.

 

The farmer thought he had an easy match on his hands and had no idea he’d just stepped on a snake.  A snake with an incredibly nasty left-jab-right-cross combination.  Vim tensed in anticipation.  He reached out to his left instinctively and smacked the metal rail next to him, the faux gold ring on his left hand clacking resonantly with it perfectly in time with both of Francis’ punches.  CLACK CLACK!  And down went the farmer, a pool of thick blood slowly forming on the canvas around his shattered jaw.

 

The person sitting a few rows in front and to the right of Vim turned with the rapidity of a predator, startling him. Underneath the luxuriously thick red robe was a fine-boned, thin elf with long greasy hair and the most bizarre pencil-thin fu Manchu Vim had ever seen.  

 

“That was incredible,” the elf said, not even the slightest hint of emotion in his voice.  “You made that sound exactly when those punches landed.  Your timing was perfect.” 

 

The elf stared at Vim as if it had just uttered a statement of the utmost profundity.  And as Vim returned the look he began to think that maybe this weird elf was right. 

 

The pair looked at each other for a good ten seconds. 

 

“My name is Modi.  I’m a dancer,” said the elf.

 

Vim nodded, feeling the truth in the elf’s words deep in his soul.  “I’m Vim.  Let’s go practice.”