“Ha, you want to do it?” Ralist asked, smirking and rubbing the back of his scalp as they walked along the shadowy road of Eastpoint’s north-easternmost district. Ralist’s hair still looked damp.
Tirak knew his own hair was still soaked. He was astounded it had stopped raining long enough for them to walk the whole way to the Tinker’s Cup, a tiny drinkhouse that would soon be the site of much violence. “I’m itching for some action,” Tirak confessed.
Brellik chuckled, and—when Ralist looked to him for advice—he only shrugged.
“Fine,” Ralist said. “Just remember, Notho is the target. Leave him senseless, but not dead.”
“I heard Adrix,” Tirak muttered, and hurried his pace. He had spent nearly two thirds of the last Moon waiting for something like this. Mercenary work wasn’t glamourous; most of his days were spent observing the habits of particular townspeople or reporting on specific locations. He sparred regularly with the members of Adrix’s troop; he had proved his combat skill to their approval, but now he had an opportunity to demonstrate his eagerness and his ruthlessness.
The Tinker’s Cup likely couldn’t house thirty. It felt full with its nearly twenty inhabitants, but three were barmaids and one a barkeeper—not to mention the card players near the window. They would be the first to run for the street when the fight began.
The barkeeper poured Tirak a rye whiskey at his request, and Tirak downed it on his own at the counter. When he finished it, Tirak noted that Brellik had come in, and chosen another spot at the bar. Tirak had already laid eyes on their target: a man at the end of the bar matched the description that Adrix had given them. Notho was a sturdy-looking man with a thick brown beard, a scar on one hand—with which he cradled a tall beer horn—and a nose that had never been set right from a past break.
The only thing Tirak knew of Notho was that their attack on him was to look like a brawl to the public. His senseless defeat would send a message to his bosses that would cause them to question their security. Tirak wasn’t clear on the purpose of that end; of Adrix’s East Storm Company orders, Tirak only knew that they were aiding Councillor Worlon in getting an advantage against Councillor Cassiya. The latter controlled the district around the Tinker’s Cup. That was enough for Tirak though. He would take a lesser excuse to beat some fool.
Once Ralist had appeared near the card table feigning interest in the gamblers’ games, Tirak downed his second whiskey and rose from his stool. He dragged his feet, acting half-stupefied, as he approached Notho at the end of the bar. A man who was speaking with Notho—perhaps his comrade or a polite stranger—noticed Tirak first, but not in time. Tirak advanced between them and shouted, “You there—you’re that dirty cheat from the other day! You took 3 gold pieces from me and I want them back!”
As he rose out of his bar stool, Notho stammered, “I don’t know you,” and got the full brunt of Tirak’s forehead to his nose, easily breaking it again. The target stumbled back against the bar, kicking over his stool and sending it rolling away, past his comrade. The latter man lashed out with a predictable reactionary blow which Tirak easily back-stepped. The patrons of the Tinker’s Cup cried out in mirth as the fight broke out. A distracted drunkard past the bar tripped over the discarded bar stool and, in anger, hurled his spilled mug toward Tirak.
Tirak barely saw it coming. The pewter vessel glanced off his cheek, more startling him than anything else. In that moment, Notho’s comrade came barrelling into Tirak, knocking him heavily against the nearest wooden pillar that supported the roof. Tirak glimpsed Ralist elbowing the other drunkard before the mug could be followed by a secondary attack. A loud bang deafened the room as the drunkard collapsed across a table, toppling it.
A knee to the gut was sufficient force to loosen the comrade’s pin on Tirak. The mercenary drove his fist into the man’s ear and his adversary stumbled away, knocking another man from his stool. As the bar erupted into shoves and chaos, Brellik finally got involved, bodily knocking aside a man who had disrupted his feigned peace at the bar.
Notho had come up to his feet at last, but his head was on a swivel. He glanced from Tirak toward the hallway behind the bar—and escape. Tirak paced toward him spryly, lashing his first fist to Notho’s jaw. To his surprise, Notho slipped into a fighter’s stance and knocked aside the follow-up of Tirak’s combo. He rebutted with a jab to Tirak’s ribs and soon they were going blow-to-blow. It wasn’t anything Tirak hadn’t handled before, but he was a little annoyed that his friends hadn’t joined in yet. They had caused too much chaos already, it seemed.
As Notho and Tirak exchanged their third trade of fists, another punch drove in, low on Tirak’s side. He reeled to one side, realizing Notho’s comrade had rejoined the fight from behind. By now, they were fighting in the space between the end of the bar and the stone wall of the tavern. Tirak quickly angled his blocks to redirect Notho’s reinforcement toward the same side as his main target. He had fought two plenty of times before—the trick was keeping them on one side. Between the bar and the wall, Tirak ducked and punched, blocked and cursed.
Then a wooden cudgel smashed over Notho’s comrade’s head. The barkeeper sent the fighter sprawling—out cold before he hit the floor. Alarmed, Notho spun to one side, putting his back against the wall.
Tirak slipped in beside him, presenting Notho as the nearest target for the livid tavern owner. The bald brewer viciously slammed his cudgel into Notho’s stomach as he bellowed, “Get out of here!” at no one in particular.
Notho heaved forward, coughing and wheezing in Tirak’s iron grip.
At last, Ralist appeared, barrelling into the barkeeper and wrestling the wooden club out of his hands.
Finally, Tirak thought. He used Notho’s torn collar to yank the man back against the wall and drilled him with fist-blows. It took only a moment for Notho to collapse to his knees, sputtering out blood. “Let your bosses know that security is a little loose in these parts,” Tirak sneered. His boot gave Notho’s head a terse kick, sending his mind reeling into unconsciousness.
Ralist gave the barkeeper another punch before glancing at Tirak again. He had beat the tavern-owner into the corner. At Tirak’s nod, he let go of the poor fellow and followed the recruit toward the door. Brellik fell into stride as they fought their way through the sprawling chaos. A few brawlers had already spilled out here, including one man that seemed intent on clinging to Brellik. They soon dislodged Brellik and sent his opponent face-first into a muddy puddle near the alley.
Brellik muttered, “Sorry about that… I should have been closer before things got out of hand.” He hadn’t supported them once.
The sky had darkened during their time inside. It was drizzling again—the rain was continuing to grow more frequent, week-by-week. It was more annoying than anything else. Still, it helped cool Tirak off as he relived the fight in his mind. “Well, that beats our usual chores and patrols, eh Ralist?” he asked, letting out a low chuckle.
“It truly does,” Ralist returned, stretching one arm. He was grinning. “You handled yourself well back there. I’ll tell Adrix about your eagerness,” he added, with a wink. He combed his black hair out of its knot with his fingers, then retied it. Not many of the mercenaries had hair as long as his.
“I appreciate that,” Tirak responded. “Although that Notho had a mean right hook. I may have been a bit too eager. Brellik didn’t even get to hit him.” He chuckled again and glanced at Brellik.
Brellik shrugged his broad shoulders. He was the biggest out of the trio. “There were fools enough at the bar,” he said with a snort.