Chapter 23

Day Nine – Night

Still on horseback, it had become pitch black, with no moonlight to see behind the clouds. Navigating through the bogs and woods took longer than any of them liked, with nothing to help them maneuver the wilds. Mounting his own horse, Zaber suppressed the pain in his ankles as good as he could. Four animals for five – six even – folk wasn’t what they’d planned for. Thyra rode with Torm in the beginning, but at the first opportunity to switch, Buron took over as the more experienced rider. Bitter tears accompanied their getaway for most of the time, but at some point, all of Thyra’s emotions ran dry. All that was left inside her was the feeling of being overwhelmed. Everything happened so quick and she could only think about the words she wanted to share with her mother. The words she missed.

“Alright,” said Buron and raised a fist to make his companions halt. “I think I know where we’re at now.” His gaze shifted left and right along the trail, close to the edge of the woods. “There’s a lumber hamlet to the north and a wayside inn a bit further west. Which are we aiming for?”

“Thyra and Zaber need rest, we shoul–” said Torm, with a yawn slipping in-between his words.

“The inn,” cut Zaber in. “Closer to our goal and wayside means we can get intel on the King’s Road,” commanded the broken veteran. He drove his horse up, next to Breg, who was carrying the captured soldier. They had bound and gagged him when Thyra switched horses. “Are your faces known there?”

Breg nodded. “First or second stop when we’re doing escorts west.”

“Let’s go,” nodded Zaber back. “I wanna talk to that fella here–” He slapped the Margrave’s soldier on the back, hard. “Before I get less angry.”

Torm had remained silent ever since they escaped. Not for his unwillingness to say anything, but for the pain that choked him up whenever he tried. With what Tonna had said last to him and even more so to Thyra. He felt selfish and hated it, but he remembered his own mother for the first time in years. When the other men carried on and the horses galloped away, the boy was last. He still messed up the gaits and fell behind, now more than ever.

Soon enough though, dimly illuminated spots between the dark greenery shone through. There was a stone-based timber house with wooden tiles at the end of the trail. Smoke came out of the chimney, because the nights were still cold. If they followed this path even further, they would reach the King’s Road. By the end of their journey, spring will be at its height. A perfect time to hide in the wild.

“Hooo,” said all of them. Coming to a halt, they quickly unsaddled and Zaber, Thyra and their captive were helped down. Nobody was outside and the window shutters were closed to keep the warmth inside. Dim light shone through the cracks and slits and a gas lamp brightened a slice of wood hanging from chains. A carved target with a real arrow sticking out of it.

“Owner’s name is Glonn,” said Buron, as he handled the horses. “A ghastly and old fella, but he’s one of us.”

The unreasonably tall man handled the knocked out soldier as if he was weightless. Stripped him off of his armor and bundled it up in the well maintained gambeson he wore beneath. Meanwhile Torm was trying to stall Zaber, and Thyra stood next to them with no idea what to do with herself. A frantic gaze on her face was about to boil over.

“Glonn served in the banners of Earl Garnulf as an archer,” continued Buron to brief his friends. “He’ll not ask any questions, but got awfully good ears.”

“I–” stuttered Thyra. “I want to talk to him.”

“Who? It’s late and Glonn’s a cranky bastard,” glimpsed Buron at the rugged woman, fiddling with the reins.

“I want to talk to him too,” said the young woman with newfound breath. “Him.” She looked right at the soldier Breg was bracing like a puppet. When she stepped forward, she was held back by multiple hands.

“No,” said Zaber and Buron in unison. Even Torm had his mouth opened. Each of them looked at the other’s, as if they could read each other’s thoughts.

“You ain’t in the right condition for this,” commanded Zaber and shook his head.

“I am… what?” Thyra was at a loss for words, anger painting her face red, as if it was about to combust. “I am what? Not in the right what?” She shook her hands violently in front of Zaber’s chest and arms, nearly toppling him out of Torm’s arms. “Me and my mother have cared for you, tended to your wounds and hosted you in our home.” Her fists were clenched and raised in front of the broken veteran. Touching him ever so slightly, her hands trembled down his chest. Her lips were just as unsteady as her limbs and tears returned to her cheeks. “Don’t. Tell. Me–”

“Punch me,” interrupted Zaber. “I bet you’ve never punched anyone. Start with someone who des–”

The man was right, Tyhra had indeed never been violent in her life. Even as a child. She and her mother had arguments and debates. Sometimes they shouted. But never had she inflicted pain on a fellow man. And never had her body moved on its own like when her knuckles stopped Zaber from speaking. And it damned hurt.

“Stop interrupting me!” she yelled. “And don’t tell me in what condition I am!” Thyra’s sharp mezzo rose up as she shook and rubbed her fist from the pain.

There wasn’t much force behind the punch, as Zaber had moved his head with it. He scratched the scar on his jawline as he turned his face back at the justified anger in front of him. “The boy and I will interrogate the fella. You stay down with them,” said the broken veteran, and nodded towards the bald and the tall one. “Clear your head; be angry,” he added. “Decide what you wanna do tomorrow. Stay with us or stay behind and live your life.”

“You ever got wasted?” Buron butted in and put his hand back on Thyra’s shoulder.

“Uh–” The rugged woman stumbled over her own words, as her face slowly returned to normal. She was still rubbing the pain out of her hand though. “I–, I’ve been drunk with mother–” Thyra hesitated. “When she returned from her travels, she brought wine or spirits.”

“If you ever got wasted is what he asked,” repeated Zaber, trying to support Buron’s attempt at brightening the mood.

“Yes, wasted,” said Buron, smiling as Breg punched out the gagged cavalryman behind them with a grisly noise. “Hammered, rat-arsed,” continued the scrawny man, reveling in the young woman’s confused face. “Not just drunk; blackout drunk.”

“Excuse me?” Thyra’s eyes widened and she shook her head. “Rat-what?”

“We gotta go before he wakes up again,” said the unreasonably tall man from behind, dragging their captive around like he was a buddy.

The duo of apprentice and mentor moved straight away, while Buron grabbed the horses at their leashes and led them to a stable close-by. Thyra’s head was cleared for now, her anger made room for confusion. Everything was still moving too fast for her. Most of their belongings were still with the animals when the group entered the ominously lit Arrow Inn. Buron went in first, with Breg and the soldier following.

The bald man spouted a jolly “Evening,” into the room and walked right towards an old man behind a counter on the other side of the room. A few barrels and plenty bottles were stored right behind him. “We need room for six; ran into roadside troubles. This one got it bad–” said Buron and pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “You good, Glonn?” A slight limp was acting up on his left leg. The taproom was spacious enough to house about a dozen misshapen tables with four to six stools and chairs around them. Candles and a burning fireplace with a big brown bloodhound in front of it lit the place up enough to see into every corner. A dark staircase made from warped planks led upwards and a chute beneath it hinted at a cellar. The night wasn’t young anymore, but three men in sturdy travel-ready clothes were lurking around. Two shared a table and a bottle, one more sitting alone in front of a dirty mug with foam peeking out.

An oil lamp lit up behind the counter, illuminating the wall behind Glonn. Mounted on the wall was a majestic warbow and an axe that wasn’t made to cut lumber. Neither the snoring dog, nor the innkeeper looked harmless. Glonn wore a coif that covered up a scar on his forehead and a warm woolen gugel. He squinted at Buron’s friends, inspecting Zaber and the beaten soldier with much care. “Ya’ got hurt or the usual?” He quipped after an awful amount of time.

“Both,” said Buron and knocked on the wooden counter. “Got much snoozing above?”

“Neh,” grunted the innkeeper. “Big room is free, and a small one for you two.” He pulled two heavy iron keys with wooden markers out and placed them in front of his regulars.

“No need for that.” Buron smiled and only took the one for the big room. “These are friends, not clients,” he said, turned around and threw the key through the room towards Zaber.

Just before it landed in Zaber’s open hand, Torm snatched it out of the air. “I’ll handle our friends,” said the boy and winked at his mentor, who nodded at him with a tilted head and raised eyebrows.

Everyone was about to go up, but an, “Ah!” sounded through the taproom from Buron. “Not you Thyra,” he smiled with squinted eyes. “Breg’ll help Snappy Two and bring our stuff up. You and me, we gotta warm up.”

“Huh?” Thyra stopped and turned around. “Yes, sure,” she said. “Let’s get rat-arsed.”

Buron raised two fingers and pointed at the bottles in the back. The old man’s eyes reeked of suspicion and the bald veteran recognized it by meeting them with his own gaze. “You know who’re the scoundrels that tried us? We left them on the road to rot,” said the scrawny man and grabbed the bottles at their necks, between his fingers. He took two mugs with his other hand. “Anything unusual around these days?”

“Neh,” grunted Glonn once more. “Stever, here, walked into a royal caravan. Juicy target for hoodlums.” The old man was in very good shape for his age. He looked over at the lone man in the corner next to the counter. “Was it three?”

Leaning back on the counter, Buron didn’t put much effort into looking believable. “Five on horseback. No scum.”

“Then they ain’t Erhand’s gang,” said Glonn and drew a barely readable note for Breg’s and Buron’s tab. “Doubt it was Franque’s brigands, even Breg would’ve had trouble with them. Ya’ travelin’ Teblen?”

“West, away from Teblen.” Buron shook his head and stepped away towards the table that Thyra picked. “Our friend and his boy got some business to deal with. We’re helping out.”

“Keep an eye out, the dirty Galázian’s hidin’ in the mountains,” said Glonn and pulled out a couple of thick parchments that were adorned with princely seals. “Archduke’s payin’ thirty taler for him and ten gulden for any of his cronies. There’s also a couple of muggers around.”

“We’ll keep that in mind.” Buron limped away and put the bottles in front of his soon-to-be drinking partner. The pair of men on the other side talked about avoiding the King’s Road with all that nobility around, but kept their voices down. The sole man at the fireplace, Stever, was sipping his beer and gave Thyra and Buron an occasional glance.

“This’ made from juniper,” said Buron and sat down. He opened both bottles and filled the mugs. “We’re not sleeping before these are empty.”

The rugged woman took a careful sniff. “Two bottles for three folk?” she asked and leaned across the table to whisper, “How much time do you think he needs?” and pointed upwards with her eyes.

With closed eyes, Buron took the first swig. “Two; Breg’s not drinking with us. Doesn’t like to get drunk in public.”

Thyra paused to think for a while, looking back and forth between Buron and her mug. When she finally built up the courage to shrug off her thoughts, she took one big sip from it… and coughed her throat out right after. With her hand in front of her mouth, the rugged woman tried to watch as she was choking.

“You said you’ve been drunk before,” laughed Buron. “What kind of breast milk was that?”

“S–, sweet stuff,” replied Thyra through the coughing. “Something that tasted good,” she added and stared into her mug. Grabbing her chest and inhaling, the young woman downed the schnapps in one go. “Next,” she said and knocked the earthenware jar on the table in front of her bald drinking partner.

“Way to go, girl.” Buron kept laughing and poured her another one. “I know we got off on the wrong foot, but we owe you. You and your mother,” he said. “I know that, Breg knows and damned I be if Zaber doesn’t.”

The next sip Thyra took was less aggressive, but her entire body shivered from it. “This is the worst day. I–” she drank more to loosen her tongue. “What am I going to do now? I’ve got nothing. Nobody. She was–”

“No, no, no!” interrupted Buron, shaking his head. “Drink,” he ordered and refilled her mug before it was empty. “Another one. Keep the river running.”

She did as told, but the feelings – the pain – just didn’t leave. Sorrow flooded Thyra’s eyes again as she stared into the liquor. Looking up again, she saw Buron’s face distort as he gesticulated at the unreasonably tall man that passed behind her. Breg headed outside, without even stopping by and Thyra had no idea what was going on.

“Zaber’ll decide what happens next,” said Buron, constantly swigging down on their drink. “He already told you to come with or do whatever. We got a fair bit of coin and he’s not stingy.”

“Why,” uttered Thyra. She struggled to find the right words, but Buron waited for her to collect herself. “Why is he making all the decisions? I know you didn’t–” She halted again and refilled on liquid courage. “I know you have bad history. But I know this even was–” The rugged woman’s face was turning red again, but she wasn’t tearing up. “It was an accident. All of this is an unfortunate accident. But why are you all so obedient to what he says? He’s so single-minded, my mother–” Her chest, throat and face were overcome with constricting pain. Thyra choked up again and tried to wash it down, but it wasn’t going away. “You are going to die, this plan is insane. And I don’t want to die, I want to live.” She struggled through these words and picked the bottle instead of the mug at some point. “But I can’t be alone. I have nothing and–”

“Ever since we ran into him, he was there for us.” Buron reached over the table and guided her hand to refill her mug instead of drinking right from the source. “He showed us the ropes; he knew everyone. He made sure we survived,” said the scrawny man and smiled through his naturally squinting face. “Me, Breg, Asher–” He paused, but was adept in hiding his sorrow by means of drinking. “My father was a drinker, this is the only thing we have in common. Sold me off to get more booze,” continued Buron with a refreshed face. “Breg’s old man was a blacksmith, weapons run in his blood. A giant arsehole, so he ran away. I don’t know much, but if there’s one thing I know–” The bald veteran put his hand on top of Thyra’s, looked into her eyes and took away her mug to refill it. “I trust this man completely. If he needs us, we will do everything we can to help. Because we know he would do the same. And that’s why we won’t fail; that blackhead is as good as rescued.”

“So… I can come with?” asked Thyra after another swig. “I’m scared. I don’t want to be alone.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“We got that boy the same way,” said Buron. “Breg’ll complain about you, but that’s for me to deal with.”

Just as the colossus’ name was spoken, he entered yet again with a load of their belongings. Breg brought them upstairs, where Zaber and Torm were having a nice chat with their new friend. After brief eye contact, the unreasonably tall man and his bald companion were on the same page and continued their current business.

“He’ll be joining soon.” Buron swirled his mug and smelled it before drinking more. “Anything that’d cheer you up?”

“No–” replied Thyra, interrupted by a belch. “I need to be sad now. Mother always said to embrace myself, no matter how hard it is.”

The scrawny veteran ran his hand through the regrowing stubble on his head in bewilderment. The room was well heated and the sweat was building up again, fueled by schnapps. “What? No,” he said puzzled. “No girl, no. You gotta drink, we don’t do sadness at this table,” laughed Buron.

One drink followed another and both bottles were soon half-empty before Breg even came back. He passed Buron and Thyra a couple of times, each time connecting gazes with his friend. But instead of sitting down, he uttered the word “Outhouse,” at them and left for one last time after getting a reassuring smirk and wink from Buron.

“Damned, folk become real different when drunk,” said Buron and leaned onto the table with the same smirk. “I thought you would become more fun, maybe a bit easy when pissed.”

Thyra’s eyes were droopy and her shoulders and head hung low. But that comment made her look up again. “Wha–?” She restrained a hiccup in the middle of the word. “I’m not pissed, I’m sad,” slurred the rugged woman. “And what does–” she continued but stopped. “Forget it, whenever I don’t understand, it turns out to be disgusting. Me and mother got giggly together, great times. I’m hurt, don’t be mean to me.” With each word, her body slouched more over the table, until she rested her head and torso all over it. “Better tell me what you three become, baldy.”

“See, now we’re talking,” said Buron, delighted. “Me? I get fucking nasty. Zaber becomes an unbearable sadsack, before he gets really excited to start all kinds of shit and loosen up.” Stopping for a brief glimpse at the ceiling. “Our friend Asher–” Buron held up his mug for a toast. “He tried to rope you into his stupid schemes. Came up with all kinds of horseshit. He always did that, but it was more obvious when he’s shitfaced; cunted.” Even with less weight to him, and the same amount of liquor inside him, Buron’s speech held up remarkably well. But he had to wipe his neck and forehead over and over, smirking like an idiot.

“You really–” Thyra was about to say, but the door behind her slammed open. Startled, she turned around and saw three men marching in.

A man in a blemished hauberk, damaged and rusted in several spots. He was short with a prominent belly, but strong in build. A round, bearded face with a crooked nose like Breg’s, broken more than once. Of his two companions, the one walking next to him was his spitting image, only younger, with nothing but peach fuzz covering his chin and upper lip. He and the third one were wearing ill-kept padded jacks and coifs. The last one had a wild beard that overgrew most of his face. Each of them had several knives on them, as if they were collecting. On bandoleers, their belts and even in their boots, without trying to hide any. All wore a gruesome, used, hatchet.

While Buron’s eyes shifted between them and Thyra, the young woman regained her composure and remembered what she was about to say. “You–”

“Beer for me boy!” yelled the mailled man through the entire room, attracting everyone’s gaze. “He has become–” A dramatic pause followed, waving over the young man that could only be one or two years younger than Torm. “A man!” He flailed his arms around like he was presenting cattle on a market and his son played into it with swaggered steps across the room.

Their bearded companion laughed aloud and slapped the kid on the back. “Like a stallion! He pumped, he dumped, and it was over in two minutes!”

“Sit ya’ arse down, Erhand,” grunted Glonn and gathered filled mugs on a tray. “I got folks sleeping upfloors. Take ya’ malts and shut it.”

“Eeex~cuse me, your highness,” exclaimed Erhand and got the tray over to a free table close to the counter. His two companions were already sitting down when their leader turned around. “Oh, look who we got here,” he said. “You’re also about to become a man – finally?” His laughter was as raspy as it was dirty when he looked at Buron and Thyra. “Where’s ya’ sweetcake?”

“I said shut it, Erhand,” ordered the innkeeper. He may have been old, but the way he moved and that his eyes exuded authority were impossible to ignore. If one knew what to look for, not even Glonn’s bent over posture could make him harmless.

The company of outlaws fell silent, for now, but the youthful one among them stared directly at Thyra. When their eyes met, he winked at the young woman showing her shoulders and neck freely. “Hello there,” he uttered in passing and waved faintly. The walking beard did so too, but directed it at Buron with another laugh.

“What’s–” Thyra dampened her voice and leaned further towards Buron. She took another sip before continuing though. “What’s their deal?”

Turning around and squinting at the new customers, Buron also caught the eye of the man next to the fireplace. He and Erhand’s gang were only separated by a giant sleeping dog. This Stever had an intense stare to him, focused on the scrawny veteran. Buron looked back at Thyra, and refilled each of their mugs. “Forget them,” he said. “A local menace; highwaymen too successful to be ignored by the commonfolk, but too small for the liege to act.”

“Highwaymen?” Thyra’s eyes widened. The schnapps had come into its full, miraculous effect and her face was trapped in an ongoing smile. “Like The Hanging Forest Hoodlums?”

“So…” Buron also leaned forward, coming awfully close to Thyra’s face. “You really gotta stop with that booktalk,” he said. “This makes you look really stupid; like the boy.”

A chair squeaked over the floorboards. “What you saying about my boy, bugger?!” yelled Erhand.

Buron lowered his head annoyed, sighing and grunting. Both his hands were firmly placed on the table to push himself up. Thyra saw a flash of pain rising through her drinking partner’s face. It forced his eyes shut when he lifted himself up. When he reopened them, he stopped and sat down instead. With a relieved face, the entire taproom fell silent, as an imposing figure stood in the door with cracking knuckles. Most doors were not high enough for Breg to enter without ducking.There was rarely a way to do it without being noticed.

Both of Erhand’s companions twitched back and forth on their chairs. Stared down by the unreasonably tall man. Nervous glimpses between them were only interrupted by the commanding voice from behind the counter.

“By the Stars, Erhand,” said Glonn and punched the counter. “If you and your boy and your inbred cousin-brother ain’t sittin’ ya arses down, I’ll pick Lynna from the wall and…” He didn’t finish, but everybody knew.

“F–, fine,” mumbled Erhand and sat his arse down. “We’re not starting anything here. But you better think of an apology, bugger, for when we run into each other in the wild.” Half of his words were spoken into the foam of his beer, avoiding Breg’s looming presence.

The unreasonably tall man straightened his beard with both hands and fixed his unruly, long hair, both like salt and pepper. Wandering over to the table his companion and the woman occupied, he unsheathed his seax and laid it open for everyone to see. Buron had pulled a chair for Breg to sit on, but was sidelined for now. “Need a drink first,” he said and walked by. Straight towards the counter, no dodging or circumventing any furniture. If something stood in his way, he pushed it to the side, causing more squeaks to fill the room. Erhand’s bearded cousin was ever so slightly in his way. He got barged into and pushed to the side by Breg’s sheer mass. No words of apology, nor eyes of acknowledgment. When the son was about to open his mouth, he got kicked beneath the table to shut up.

“Water,” said Breg, standing tall in front of the counter. “Got some broth?”

Glonn looked just as irked with Breg as with the outlaws, but didn’t say anything. He turned around, and dumped a mug into a bucket of water. “Broth’s cold, and it’s too late for heatin’ it up.”

“That’s good with me,” said Breg and grabbed the mug. “Give me a second mug with cold broth, please.”

A tired grunt was all the confirmation the unreasonably tall man got from the innkeeper. Meanwhile, the man with a beard for a face had shifted his seat closer to the table. The pair of strangers, the sole drinker, as well as Erhand and his companions fell silent while Breg walked back.

Erhand picked his teeth with his nails. Every once in a while he looked out for the giant, but broke the silence of the room by punching his son’s arm. “Don’t be so fucking hushed,” he laughed raspy. “You got your dick wet, let’s celebrate!”

A tremble shot through Thyra’s body. “Erugh,” she gagged, interrupting her next sip. “Do really all men talk like this?”

Trying to overshadow the laughter of the other table, Buron was about to choke on his own drink. “No,” he coughed. “No; really. Only the worst.”

“What’re you talking about?” asked Breg when he arrived. He sat down on the chair that Buron had prepared for him, close-by to his bald companion. Placing both mugs down, he drank from the broth first.

“If all men are swine,” grinned the scrawny veteran, chinking mugs with Breg.

“Yes,” replied Breg with a curt nod.

The rugged woman grunted out a giggle, grabbing her mouth shut in response. It took a while, but her drinking and thinking slowed down, her cheeks glowing in a rosy red. “Buron said only the worst.” She looked back and forth between the two veterans. “But who are the nice ones? It for sure isn’t any of you,” she joked, which made Buron smile. He had succeeded in his plan.

An explosive, “Hah!” sounded through the inn. “You said it, not me!” yelled Erhand’s son. “She was a screamer, what a broad.”

“And she ain’t the only one,” replied the cousin-brother, turning his head towards Buron and Breg in a way that was subtle and not at the same time. All the men were laughing.

A deep growl blew through Breg’s beard and he downed one of his mugs and brought it down with a loud knock. The same hand that grabbed the mug formed a fist onto the table and Thyra looked concerned at the colossus. Face down, he inhaled and exhaled for everyone to hear. Up until Buron placed his hand on top of his companion’s fist and linking eyes.

“It’s alright. We’ll get rid of him tomorrow and then we can stay outside,” said the bald man softly, and rubbed his companion’s hand.

Another, yet unknown, voice sprung from behind them. “At least,” said the lone man next to the fireplace. “At least she wasn’t a sinner.” Stever toasted his beer through the room at Erhand’s gang.

“Oh, damned she was,” replied Erhand amused, returning the toast. “But in the good way! Tell him, boy.”

“You say it, pap’,” said the boy with foam sticking to the fuss above his lip. “But who knows, the way that one dresses–” He already sounded tipsy. “Maybe I can score twice in one night? How much–” Another kick beneath the table interrupted him.

“Heh,” exclaimed the man with a beard for a face and fiddled out a coin from his belt to hammer it onto the table. “I’ll pay for it, Esh–” Another kick and an intense stare from Erhand followed.

Thyra had never heard anything like this. Her mouth stood open and her face changed into a different kind of red. Choking up again, she felt another knot in her chest, different from the one that befell her on the way here. “What–” she uttered and looked at Buron and Breg. “Why–” continued her befuddlement. “Did I do something?”

But there was no reply for her. Breg’s face had darkened even more and his breath went faster and faster. Until the squeeze on his hand changed.

“Hey,” said Buron to gain his colossal companion’s attention. “You do you,” he smiled.

Startling Thyra, Breg burst out of his chair and stood to full height. While Buron emptied the bottle into his mug, his drinking partner was incapable of averting her gaze from what was about to happen. Even without running, the unreasonably tall man’s legs were long enough to carry him quickly. The bearded man was looking back at the table he ridiculed earlier. The commotion and glimpse he caught was too late though, as the chair beneath his bottom was ripped away by a kick. As the furniture was catapulted through the room, a damp “Fffu–” accompanied the highwayman’s fall.

“Shit!” yelled Erhand, as he watched his cousin-brother disappear under the table. His hands twitched and beer was splattered over himself and the wood. A hook hit his son on the cheek, flinging him from his seat towards the counter. Erhand tried to reach for one of his knives, but Breg was faster, hardened by many battles. The highwayman’s wrist got grabbed and pinned to the table, twisting it over his body to make him cry out loud.

Breg's breath could no longer be heard, and he spoke not a single word. With a strong pull, the unreasonably tall man overwhelmed the foulmouthed gang leader and moved him around like a marionette. Before Erhand could think to reach for a blade with his other hand, the pummeling had already begun. One punch after another, held in space at his twisted wrist, Breg kept going. One, two, three times. Blood spilled over the table and the bandit’s body went limp over the table.

There was no time to lose for the giant. The hairy cousin wasn’t hurt yet, and about to recover from the shock. Kneeling on the ground, Breg saw him draw steel, ready to ram it into his calf.

“That’s it, bugger,” grasped the bearded man. “You’re dead!” These were his last words for the evening, as his head was stomped onto the ground. Knocked once by the tall man’s boot, then again when he hit the ground.

Stepping further towards the last one left, rolling over the floor, Breg showed no sign of mercy. Stonefaced, he looked down at the boy, knowing he was no kid anymore. At his age, the veterans had seen it all. And that was the way he would treat this whimpering piece of…

“I–” uttered the boy, with an ill-maintained dagger in hand. “I’m sorry!” He looked up the counter and tried to heave himself up on it. “Glonn? G–, Glonn?!”

“You’re a man now,” said Breg grizzled and blew some of his wild hair out of his face.. He picked up the chair he kicked away with one hand, as there was no need to get closer to the blank steel in that boy’s hand. No matter the scuffed gambeson the giant was still wearing.

Two thrusts to the face, and one kick out of spite to the ribs later, and there was still whimpering to be heard. All customers except Buron had frozen. Thyra’s face was painted in disbelief. The innkeeper looked angry but did not intervene either. Though he had moved closer towards the axe and bow that hung behind him.

Buron turned around on his chair, sweaty and squinting with a smile. “I am so sorry, Glonn,” he said, looking at his partner who was still breathing in heavy enmity. “Our friend Zaber’ll pay for their tap, we–”

“Wait,” interrupted Breg. Holding up his hands to stop anyone from moving, he turned around and faced the sole man next to the fireplace. “I ain’t done.” He passed by the snoring dog, who smacked his lips, and stepped in front of the man in his sturdy traveling clothes and beer. “Got anything to say?”

“Uhm–” Stever sought eye contact with Glonn, who nodded towards Breg.

“Girl.” Breg demanded Thyra’s attention, loud and clear.

This day was so much, too much that the young woman didn’t know if she should respond, stand up, or had done something wrong. The schnapps had mixed her emotions all into one. Grieving, saddened, insulted, confused, angry. None of them were new, but everything at once on this starforsaken day was just…

“Y–, yes?” she whispered insecurely when Buron poked at her hand that was grabbing onto the mug. “What?”

“Come over here,” ordered Breg, still imposing himself onto Stever.

Scared of the consequences, Thyra’s body moved on her own. What she just saw was unlike anything, she had ever read in a book. She remembered what Buron had said before, that Breg wouldn’t like her. But she didn’t think he was out for her either. As soft and silent as she could, the rugged woman lurked behind the unreasonably tall man and nestled her arms around her chest.

“Break his nose,” said Breg and stepped aside. He put a hand on Stever’s shoulder to keep him in his chair. The man was petrified like a woodland critter, trying to blend into the background.

“I–” Thyra gulped and put a hand in front of her mouth to not throw up. “What?”

“Punch him,” repeated Breg, and his grab became real hard. “If you ain’t; I will.”

Thyra blinked twice, wiping her forehead off some hair, and chuffed. This man had been mean to her. Or had he? She wasn’t sure who was the sinner this man had been talking about. But he had been mean to someone. He didn’t know what Kraken-like day they’d been through. So… yes. Yes, this man deserved a good knock on the head. He really did.

Remembering the pain in her fist from before, Thyra slapped the man so hard that the loud ‘clap’ made the dog open his eyes. With four fingers imprinted on Stever’s cheek, her work had been done. Thyra’s palms were robust and full of calluses from a life of work in the marshes. Staring at her hand, she remembered…

“That’s it,” commanded Glonn. “Enough’s enough. Ya’ will go to sleep now. No roars, no moans, no screaming. A single loud noise and I’ll kick ya’ out.”

Stever gulped once and kept quiet, pressing the cold mug against his cheek. He avoided all glimpses and sunk into his chair.

“You said it,” replied Buron from the other side of the room. He emptied Thyra’s mug and picked her bottle with the last fillings inside up. “Night’s over, let’s go.” He grinned and faltered when he stood up, sweating all over when he limped away. Drinking on so nobody could call him a liar without two empty bottles.

When Breg and Thyra got on their way upwards too, the bloodhound stuck his head out to sniff around. The rugged woman was delighted, her entire head gleaming from the thrill and schnapps. Giving the dog one rub over his head, his nose found its way to Breg’s hand and licked it gently. The unreasonably tall man waited for a moment and let the animal do its thing. When they walked away, it tried to stand up, but couldn’t anymore. Breg paused to stroke its giant ears and head once, calmed down.

“Ya’ can be glad his ears don’t work anymore,” said Glonn, embittered. “Unlike mine.”

The three made their way to the first floor and the taproom was relieved. The room Zaber and Torm had been occupying was straight down the corridor with four doors total. Only a stifled snoring from behind one of them accompanied them. Thyra got exhausted from the few steps, and braced herself against the walls to walk straight. Same for Buron.

“I had a tavern brawl!” exclaimed Thyra when she opened the door without a knock. She stumbled inside and held her mouth shut for a moment, before pressing a finger on her lips. “Pssht. No noises, Glonn’s angry.”

Behind her, the door was pushed shut by Buron from outside. Covertly looking left and right, he grabbed Breg at his salt and pepper beard with two hands and pulled him down. Lips on lips, he braced himself against his colossal companion, while both their eyes closed. A full owl’s hoot in length went by before their faces separated, but their eyed did not, longing for each other.

“You heard the man,” said Buron with his permanent grin, watching Breg smile and straighten his beard. “No noise.”