“Look what we have here, boys.”

Malik, that son of a motherless goat! Even with his steel-grey hair and stubbled face, he is still a young-looking man. Plenty of healthy muscle on his big frame, and thick-knuckled fists he loves to use.

“Where you be going, boy? Don’t you owe my boys some money and interest to boot? Jimmy, how many slips does this fine gentleman owe us?”

Jimmy is Malik’s second, and as black-hearted as his rotting teeth. I am not sure what sewage pipe he spawned from, but he smells like he looks. Jimmy starts to speak, and I am nearly knocked out by his putrid breath.

“Boss-man, this white-bred owes you thirty-eight slips, and fifty bits, plus forty percent,” he says, smiling at Malik.

Damn, damn, damn! That’s everything I have on me. Most of it was going to pay for my registration in the Hall today.

“Come on, boy, cough up now or ... well, I don’t need to tell you what will happen.”

Surrounded by these grinning fools, my stomach rebels at the rancid smell of their tightly packed bodies. I just need some more breathing room, to keep him talking while I figure a way out. Wish I was a more quick-witted person.

“Do you really want to do this on the street, Malik? An honourable Charter might come along, or a patrol. What if they help me?”

Jimmy laughs at that. “You hear that, boss? He thinks ‘heroes’ will save him! A bit of gutter white-bred trash like him.”

Edging a little more away, I see Malik waggle his finger at Jimmy.

“That isn’t nice, Jimmy. We have Truth-spawn in our gang too,” Malik says.

“Sorry, Boss, just a slip of the tongue.”

“Where are you going, boy?” Malik notices me backing up. “We haven’t finished our chat.”

“I am off to find a permanent job, Malik. Next week you will have everything plus another forty percent.”

Malik scoffs at my request. “Jimmy.”

Jimmy walks up and smiles, then punches me in the gut. I drop, trying to catch my breath. My hand instinctively heads to my boot knife, but this is not the time to lose control.

As I look up, everyone in the street is acting like this is not happening. Every time I look at a stranger, they avoid eye contact. Jimmy and another two thugs pick me up and plant me back on my feet, with Jimmy and another goon still gripping my arms.

Malik comes over and brushes off the dirt. “See, if I let you go, boy, then some other poor sod who owes me money will want a break too.”

Why today of all days? I look Malik dead in the eye. “I think I know why you have to bring most of your boys with you. A bit scared of me, Malik, eh?”

All the Dock Boys hold their collective breath. Malik looks a little shocked. Even Jimmy loosens his grip on my arm. This is my chance! Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the half-breed brute and Ratface coming out of the alley where I left them. Time to move.

I catch a glimpse of a watch patrol walking towards me. Oh, what luck! The Trinity smiles upon me today!

Yanking my arm out of Jimmy’s grip, I quickly step back, scooping my arm under the other thug’s. I knock him off balance with a quick kick to the back of the knee and throw him into Jimmy. As they fall, I jump over them and shoulder past another two goons.

Having some free space, I do what army men call a ‘tactical retreat’, which in layman’s terms means running the Abyssus away.

The closer I am to the patrol, the sooner Malik is not a problem. I run faster, then stop in fear. Only now do I understand why I could see the patrol through the crowd; they are pushing the citizens around, and the large woman leading them looks familiar. Oh no, it is Zlata Madyson! Such a corrupt bitch! That lady’s stare could make a bull stop charging. She will pin me down, allowing the Dock Boys to kick me to within an inch of my life, then throw me in jail and call me a public nuisance.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

She must be so angry because she is a half-breed, like me. I can understand what it feels like to be hated by elven and non-elven parents alike. I must have only known my elf mum for a moment before she dumped my sister and me at some half-breed orphanage.

Zlata is a half-breed I do not readily recognise; wish my pedigree was not so slutty. She is broad, as tall as I am, with a nose that some would say is cute and upturned, but makes me think of wild boars. A trail of pale yellow hair hangs from her head past her shoulders like straw slopping up last night’s vomit. I hope she won’t take her aggression out on me all the time—we are both elf bloodline!

Time for plan B, into the back ways to the Market. Moving away from both groups, I hear behind me, “We’ll get him, boss!”

Looking back quickly, it is those two that I accosted in the alleyway and Ratface with them.

Do not think about it, just run!

With the crowd at my back, I have a little breathing space. Guessing plan B is in order—the back streets of the craftsmen’s district. A place so thick with shops and work areas that walls close in; a great place to get lost in. Saying a quick prayer to the Trinity, I push through the throng.

I run down Route, dodging where I can, barrelling through where I cannot until I make it into the maze of streets. Turn left, jump a fence, run down an alley, turn right and cross another street into—damn it—a dead end. By Mela’s grace, why a dead end?

When will it be my lucky day?

Hefty feet pound the paving stones behind me. The three Dock Boys are close on my tail. They are like a dog with a bone, I just cannot shake them, but at least I left an impression on two of them. Ha, quite an impact! I kneed one and sucker punched the other.

They run down the street, cutting off any retreat, and corner me. The grinning, half-breed brute in the middle is first to speak.

“It seems you took a wrong turn! Gonna pay you back fer that cheap shot from before. Lucky us, you got nowhere to run.” This gets a laugh out of the other two.

“Come on, dung-head, give us your money, and we’ll let you off with just a beating!”

A sudden chill calms me. I look coldly at them. “And if I don’t?” I leave the question hanging.

Ratface responds, with a high squeaky voice to match his pinched rat-like face.

“See, we will kill ya, a little bit.” Now I remember him. I stole that bar wench from under his nose just last week.

Another laugh. Help me, Trinity, these thugs are street jesters.

“So, if I give you money, I get a beating. If I do not, you are going to kill me a little bit. I know this is a stupid question, but how do you kill someone a bit?”

The half-dwarf with the swelling cheek looks at me and draws his knife. Lucky me, the brute will just go ahead and show me. Such a fortuitous day!

“Okay, okay, let's slow this down. You don’t need to demonstrate what being killed a little bit looks like,” I laugh nervously. “I have some of the money. I’m heading off—”

The last thug interrupts. He is about as beautiful as my morning movement.

“Well, dung-head, I don’t think Malik would be happy with a part payment. We will have to bring him your ear, nose, and … say, one of your hands as well. How does that sound? It might pay me back for the pain you caused.”

Yes, now they have all spoken. I wonder if I win a prize … I hope it’s not a stabbing.

Okay, I kicked you in the hammers, but really? With the other two drawing knives, I think to myself; I am such a dead man! This blind alley may well be my end.

A glint of metal—I sense it more than see it. Throwing myself out of the way, the brute still manages to stab me! Not feeling the trickle of blood, I realise it must have been blocked by the Jack of Plate—my incredible armour!

The half-dwarf boasts with his ridiculous-looking beard, “See, boys, he’s quaking in his boots! Dung-head, you got lucky that time—”

Seeing an opening, I lunge, smashing the side of his head with a hammer-like strike. He falls to the ground in a stunned heap. I growl at the other two, hoping to scare them off. They counter my growl with intimidating noises, akin to alley cats fighting over a five-day-old fish.

“You fell for another sucker punch?” I gloat over that white-back.

They are not impressed by that line. Drawing my knife… no time to think. Attack. Ratface jumps over his comrade at me! Foolish. Something the sergeant taught me flashes through my mind: ‘Always have your feet on the ground.’

Moving forward, I take his attack on my forearm and return a straight stab to his gut. That’s right piggy, squeal! If it were not for Ratface, I would not have wasted an ale.

One dead at my feet, the other slumped against the wall; looking down the alley at Mr Third. I point my knife at last. Heart racing, but my knife hand is steady. I show no weakness. I ask him, “So, are you going to use that knife or just stand there pissing yourself? Or have your hammers dropped again?” His face turns bright red, and a vein pops out on his forehead. I do not care if he calls my bluff!

Backing off, he spits at me. “Okay, dung-head, you win this one. But next time I won’t go easy on you!” He turns and dashes away.

Well, that was simple enough. Then again, it was too close. Is this what luck feels like? I assess the cut on my forearm. Needs patching up, but it is not too deep—that’s good. I will find a piece of cloth to tie it off.

Looking at the two on the ground, I wonder what they have on their persons. Rubbing my hands together, I sift through pockets and moneybags. Spoils of war and all; two good knives and ten slips. Not enough to pay off Malik or any more little more to get another room somewhere. Just have to figure out a way to pay Malik without being killed in the process.

A sudden smell burns my nostrils. Nothing quite compares to the smell of a blacksmith’s shop. An unmistakable odour that hangs thick in the air, singeing my nostrils with the distinctly industrial stench of coal dust and molten iron.

Need to move quickly; the longer I stand here, the likelier it is that Morning-Movement will be back with more Boys.