“What makes you think that?”
Christoph shrugged. “You’ll see.”
A bit of his former sullenness seemed to have returned to him. Solomon disengaged his hand from the boy’s and held it out.
“Thanks, Christoph. I appreciate the help.”
Christoph stared at the offered hand for a moment, then reached out and shook it in a firm grip.
“Remember. Lunch, and the story of how you got over a plague rat bite.”
“I remember. I’ll be back in a few and we’ll go.”
He smiled again and began to cross the street.
“Hey, Solomon,” Christoph called when he was halfway across. Solomon turned back. “Watch your back. They fight dirty.” The rest of the kids were standing upright now, watching him, anxiety on their faces.
“Thanks,” Solomon said again. He grinned. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
He could hear rough laughter as he approached the door, which stood open, letting a small amount of light into the interior. Solomon stepped into the doorway and paused, letting his eyes adjust.
The noise died down briefly, then swelled again as most in the bar glanced his way, then ignored him, much as everyone in Dunfield had done ever since he arrived there.
The inside of the place was no surprise. A long, rough wooden bar spanned one wall, with a haggard bartender working behind it. The man was portly, but with the loose flesh that comes of not eating well or regularly. There were no women, only men scattered about the room, all in various stages of inebriation. Some laughed and pounded on tables, a few sat by themselves glowering at the rest and one was snoring loudly, his head down on the table, a spilled drink pooled under his cheek.
And there, sitting with his back to Solomon was the man who had attacked him and stolen his items. Solomon’s sword was buckled around his waist and stuck out behind him as he sat in a rickety chair, lifting a mug to his mouth.
His companions were the two who had helped him, and it was they who first noticed Solomon’s approach. Their eyes widened, their mouths opened in “o’s” of surprise and then he was there.
“You have something of mine,” Solomon said quietly.
The background noise in the bar died down completely.
To his credit, the man with the sword didn’t appear to be remotely frightened. Solomon imagined that was what came from a long career of bullying those weaker than you and finding no resistance.
“Don’t know who you are, friend, but I got nothing of yours. Now, move along and I won’t turn around. Cause if I do, it’s not going to end well for you.”
“The sword. You took it from me when I was incapacitated. I want it back.”
Now the man did turn, and his eyes did open wider, but a wicked grin split his face.
“Well, look who it is! I have to admit, friend, I’m surprised you’re still standing. How’d you do it? You should be dead, by now. If I’d known you wouldn’t be… why… I would have helped make sure of it!”
He burst into laughter and after a moment, the other two at the table joined in. No one else in the bar did though, and behind him, Solomon heard someone rise and walk quickly to the exit.
“Last chance,” Solomon said. “Give it back, as well as my pack and other possessions and I’ll walk out of here and leave you be.”
The man seemed to consider, then finally nodded. “I can see the sense in that. No need for me to try to get the upper hand on someone who got over a plague-rat bite. Never been done before that I know of. Now… stay calm, friend, I’m just getting up to unbuckle the belt…”
But of course, the man reached for the hilt of the sword instead. Solomon’s left hand clamped over his before the blade was a quarter of the way out of the sheath. He looked into the man’s eyes, shook his head, smiled, and punched with his right.
His blow caught the man in the stomach, directly under the ribs, lifting him from the ground. Solomon didn’t want to kill him but saw no reason to be gentle either.
The air exploded from the man’s lungs and he collapsed to the floor, retching. The other two at the table rose and started around toward Solomon. He straightened and grinned at them.
“I’m ready when you are. What do you say? Winner gets the sword?”
One of the men glanced at their leader, curled on the floor and unable to breathe. He reached out and tapped his compatriot in the arm, then put his hands up and began to edge away.
“We don’t want no trouble,” he said through a trembling grimace. “We never really liked him anyway…”
No, Solomon thought to himself, I would imagine you didn’t. He was just your best bet at taking advantage of others.
For a moment, he considered teaching these two a lesson also, but let them go. One of them, he noticed, as the man began circling the table, had his pack hung on his belt. Solomon simply pointed and raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, yeah, right…” the man muttered as he tore it loose and tossed it on the table. “Most of it is still there… except for some of the money… but he still has some of that…” The man pointed at the shuddering man on the floor.
Solomon nodded and watched the two of them go. Then he looked around the room. Everyone who was left was watching events unfold with various degrees of nervousness or amusement. The bartender was taking the opportunity to have a drink himself and watched Solomon with no apparent malice.
He turned back and squatted
