Flex Ironthews's Arc

Chapter 1 of 6

Flex Ironthews stood on a barstool so the whole tavern could see his arms. He was a gnome, barely knee-high to the fighters around him, but his shoulders bulged like river stones. He wanted one thing tonight: to bed the tallest, proudest warrior in Duskwood and prove size meant nothing. The trouble was the crowd. Last week a brawl here had ended with Flex flat on the floor, all boast and no bite. Now, when he flexed, they laughed. "Sit down, little horn," a scarred man called. "Your mouth already won three fights this year. Your fists won none." The tavern roared. Flex felt his ears burn. His words had turned into a joke, and a joke could not win the bed of any warrior worth wanting. Then the door banged open and the laughter died. She filled the frame. Gilding Ironhart, the biggest woman in the land, ducked under the beam and straightened to twice Flex's height. Her arms were thicker than his whole body. Red hair fell over black armor. Men who had mocked Flex now studied their drinks. Flex forgot the brawl, forgot his shame. His heart slammed. Here she was. The proudest warrior in Duskwood, and he wanted her. He leapt off the stool and landed in her path. "You've never seen strength until you've seen mine," he said. He curled his arm and made the muscle jump. "Feel that. Iron." Gilding looked down at him the way one looks at a loud dog. She set one hand flat against his chest and pushed. Flex slid backward across the floorboards and hit a table. "I only notice the strong," she said. "Not the loud." She stepped over him and sat by the fire. Flex climbed up, rubbing his back. He should have quit. Instead he limped closer and listened while she talked to the barkeep. She did not want gold. She did not want a husband. She spoke of stories, of legends, of one legend most of all. "I wait here for a reason," she told the barkeep. "An ancient scroll sits at the top of the misty mountain. Story creatures guard it. No one in this town is strong enough or clever enough to climb up and bring it down. The one who does, I will call worthy." Flex stopped rubbing his back. The laughter around him no longer mattered. Words had ruined him here. But no boast could carry a scroll off a mountain. Only a deed could. He stood in the shadow of her chair and made his choice. He would climb the misty mountain. He would bring back the scroll and drop it in her lap. Then no one in Duskwood could call him all mouth again. "Enjoy the fire," Flex said, and marched out the tavern door. "I'm going shopping for rope."