"I don't drink," said Oliver, pushing the drink back towards the musician. It was nonsense, of course. He liked a good draft as much as anybody and had dreamed of often it in the woods. But something told him it wasn't a good idea to drink with this guy.

"Everybody drinks," said the musician, pushing the mug back down the polished counter towards him.

"Well, I don't," he said, and then took another bite of his food, trying to ignore both him and the beer.

The utensils were pretty bare-bones – a short dinner knife and his fingers, which he hadn't had a chance to wash in weeks. It was apparently the preferred way of eating around here, and he'd grown accustomed to it. A little dirt couldn't kill you. At least, not when you had a Second Wind in your back pocket. Although, he pondered, he had no reason to suspect it would cure illnesses – he only knew it helped with injuries.

"Suit yourself," said the musician from his side, and took a pull from his own mug.

They sat in silence for a while. Well, silence in that neither of them was talking. It was noisy, even more people having come in as the night drew down until they were packed like sardines in a tin. If this city had a fire code – actually, no, this building was living proof there was no such thing as a fire code. There didn't even appear to be a back entrance.

"So, what brings you to this fair city?" the musician asked eventually, breaking the fragile truce that they'd apparently managed to establish, in that he would drink in silence and Oliver would continue not leaving.

Oliver kept eating and didn't respond. But still no drink had been provided, and the water he'd drawn from the well earlier that day had been a while ago. And the food was as salty as it had been this morning. Seemed to be their primary means of spicing things.

And he had been dreaming of a beer. Just didn't have the money to spend on one.

The musician seemed content to mind his own business when Oliver didn't reply.

And when Oliver grabbed the beer, sniffed it, and took a sip – altogether too hoppy, and likely watered down – but, by heavens, it was beer – the musician still kept his trap shut. He seemed content to sip his beer and watch the barkeeper, waitresses, and waiter at work.

After Oliver had finished his food and was sitting there, contented and with his thirst slaked, the musician asked again.

"You from the woods upriver, eh? I saw you come in on the log drive."

Oliver looked at him, wanted to tell him to shut up again, but found he didn't have the heart.

"What of it?" he asked instead, then had another sip of beer, finishing the cup.

Instead of responding, the musician turned and waved one of the waitresses over, somehow grabbing her attention despite the packed room.

She made her way over, holding a tray of empty glasses and plates high above her head.

"Another round for my friend and I here," said the musician, once she had got over.

As he said that, Oliver had the urge to stand up and go to his room, almost did so again. My friend, indeed. But it had been a long time since he had had a friendly conversation; even the loggers, as generous as they'd been, held a deep-seated suspicion of any man wandering in from the deepwild.

As if sensing his discomfort, the musician headed him off before he could finish his thought. "Those other inns do like to charge an arm and a leg, don't they?"

Oliver turned back to the bar, toying with his cup. It was neutral enough. Eventually, his mouth opted to respond on its own. "Highway robbery," he said. "Can't believe how much they were asking."

The musician chuckled, turned to scan the room. "This place is the best in town. Cheap, good food – well, food, anyhow – it's a warm place to spend the night."

"I suppose," Oliver agreed with a reluctant chuckle.

After that, conversation trailed off until the next round arrived. Oliver drank deep of the next beer, content to let the conversation wither. Overly hoppy, watery, and lukewarm, it was the best beer he'd had in month and a half days only by virtue of being the only beer he'd had in a month and a half. But he was still enjoying it for just the same reason.

About halfway through his drink, the musician turned to him again and said, "It's just – sorry, there's just something I can't work out."

Oliver waited.

Emboldened, the musician went on. "You look like a soldier," – good heavens, how could everybody intuit that? This was getting a little silly – "but clearly you've no idea what to do with that rusty lump of steel you're carrying around. And you came down from the logging camp, but there's nothing past that until you get to Shadowveil."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Oliver drained the beer in one quick gulp and stood. This was exactly what he'd been worried about. Some people were just too perceptive. He had a loose back story, but it wouldn't stand up to scrutiny.

"Thanks for the beer, friend–" he began, but as he pushed his seat back and reached for his sword, the musician grabbed his right arm, leaned in close.

"You know what that says to me?" he asked, drawing near until his breath was hissing in Oliver's ear. He stank of the sour beer, sweat, some kind of smoke. Beneath the stubble he was younger than he looked. "Deserter."

Oliver pulled away, but as he did so the younger man grabbed his wrist and his sleeve and wrenched the sleeve upwards, exposing his bare forearm.

Oliver yanked his arm free and shoved the musician back, sending him tumbling into the next patron, who was just raising his tumbler to his lips. The musician knocked into him, sending beer everywhere.

Things happened quickly from that point on.

The man stood, large, tanned with dark hair shorn rough and short. As the musician was getting his balance, the other man spun him around and punched him hard in the face, sending him stumbling back into Oliver.

The musician windmilled, falling. Oliver took a step back, got his balance, caught the musician, pulse roaring in his ears, feeling the jitter already, arms and legs rubbery.

The musician was shaking in his arms, and for a half-second Oliver thought he was crying, until he got his balance and took a step to the side, glancing back at Oliver, and Oliver realized he was laughing, blood dribbling down from a split lip and outlining his teeth in red.

He was still smiling, but it was a manic smile now, something wild, maybe a little feral in his eyes.

The other patron took a step back, knocked his chair over, didn't seem to care. He reached his feet, almost as tall as Oliver and a bit broader in the shoulder. He had cauliflower ears, a missing tooth, and a scowl that said murder.

Cauliflower Ears had a friend who grabbed him, held him back, was saying something to him that Oliver couldn't catch.

Oliver glanced at the musician, who was still chuckling. He was about a foot and a half smaller than Oliver, scrawny, stood like his idea of fighting was getting knocked down. Completely outclassed. And he had a death wish, clearly, since he wasn't bolting for the door. That was his problem, not Oliver's. In fact, it might have been a solution for Oliver.

He turned to go.

Cauliflower Ears knocked his friend away with one brawny arm, surged forward, grabbed the musician by the collar, dragging him forward. The musician went limp, eyes widening and smile faltering but not going. He had guts, Oliver had to give him that.

Oliver took a step away, paused, would have left, only he knew how this would go. Also, it was kind of his fault. He stood there, fists clenched.

A voice in his head told him to leave it, that somebody else could handle it. Visions flashed through his eyes – the armored soldier shrugging off his tackle, another soldier nearly beheading him with a strike faster than the eye could see, the harpies – even over the noise of the room he heard a dull smack, like a guy laying into a side of beef, and he couldn't help himself but glance back to see the musician on the floor, the other guy winding up for a kick.

It would be murder. Nobody else seemed to notice, seemed to care. It was happening too quickly.

Then the guy's friend was at his side, pulling him back, saying something else to him. Oliver relaxed, started moving through the room towards the door, keeping an eye on them. It was under control. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he realized the friend was pointing at him.

Time to go.

He elbowed his way through the crowded room. In moments he was at the doorway to the hall, where the flight of stairs led up to the second floor and his room. He glanced back upon reaching the doorway. The thug and his friend were almost on him. He wouldn't make it to his room.

He raised his hands, set his feet. "Look, I don't want any–"

The big guy didn't even stop to listen, came in swinging with a wild haymaker that was more enthusiasm than technique.

Oliver stepped back, let the swing miss. "–trouble", he finished, then clenched his jaw since there was no point talking.

The friend was listening, but not the big guy. He took another swing, moving fast, but not too fast. Oliver ducked. The big guy decided a headlong rush was the right move. Oliver wheeled to the side, gave him a shove as he went by to help him run himself into the stairs. The man was clearly drunk.

The friend at this point seemed to decide that things were past recovery, so as Oliver regained his poise he came in with an imbalanced punch, quick and ineffective. From his stance and speed, was obvious he wasn't a Body practitioner, so Oliver took the punch on one raised arm and stepped into his reach, grabbing him behind the neck and kneeing him below the belt. He collapsed and Oliver followed up with another knee to the face, putting him down hard.

The first guy was just getting up when Oliver turned around. He planted a foot on his back and knocked him back onto the stairs, then stomped on his ankle, hard, bearing down with all his weight, looking for the tell-tale crunch of bone and ligament giving way.

It never came. Instead, the guy howled, turned and whipped a mean backhand at Oliver. Oliver knew he couldn't take a hit like that, threw himself back barely in time. He chanced a split-second glance behind him — the other guy was still down — and then the big guy was on his feet and surging forward.

Oliver saw with relief that he was moving slower, favoring his injured ankle, but he was still coming in quick. Oliver feinted to the guy's right, forcing him to step on the injured ankle, then easily dodged the off-balance follow up punch, keeping his distance. Without looking, he stepped over where he remembered the guy on the floor to be as he backed up further, and was right.

In a moment he would be in the crowded room, could maybe use the other patrons for cover, put a few bodies between him and the drunk.

His opponent advanced, picking up steam. Oliver realized that in backing up he was about to bump into a table, but couldn't take his eyes off the man. He'd hit too hard.

His next backstep carried him into somebody as he stepped on a foot, hard. They responded with a grunt and a powerful shove that sent him stumbling right into the path of the big guy.

Oliver wasn't wearing military-issue plate armor this time, so the punch that hit him in the side actually lifted him from his feet, sending him stumbling further into the crowd.

He knew immediately that a rib, maybe two had gone. Pain spread from the area, but he forced his body to keep moving, stumbling back as he struggled to regain his balance.