Son’s mouth went dry as Tcharron and his men stared at him. He tried his best to listen, be aware, and stay calm, but he felt as if the room was reeling, and he willed himself to stand as still as possible.
The oily slave boss continued to examine Son from where he stood. Squinting, he asked, “Do you always allow your servant to carry a weapon?” and nodded toward the scabbard peeking out from under the hem of the boy’s coat. As he did, the men around the bar shifted themselves into a semi-circle behind him.
“It is none of your business, slithery vermin,” Dulnear spoke up, somehow standing taller and broader than before.
Reaching out to touch her husband’s arm, Faymia broke in, “We’re looking for someone, and we need your help.” All of the sound in the room seemed to fade into silence at the sound of her voice. “Please,” she added.
Tcharron chuckled silently in amusement and turned his attention toward the woman. “Well, first you run from me, then your ogre-friend kills my men, and now you want a favor. You really are damaged.”
The former slave took a deep breath and repeated herself, “Please. A child has been taken by a slaver caravan in the south. We must find her.”
The man raised an eyebrow. “A child?” he said. “A child cannot join a caravan unless a parent signs away their life-rights.”
“She is an orphan,” Faymia explained.
“Then what is she to you?” he asked.
“We are her guardians.”
The woman’s words struck Son. He remembered finding Maren alone on the road. He vowed to care for her and keep her safe, and now they were all in peril because of his neglect.
“Not very good guardians,” Tcharron cracked. “Did you sign for her?”
“No!” the woman exclaimed.
The slaver laughed, “Ah, such simple people you are. She cannot sign for herself if she has a proper guardian. What does she look like?”
Faymia cleared her throat nervously. “She is small, has long, dark hair, and is called Maren. We believe she is with a man named Sevuss.”
Dulnear reached inside of his coat and produced a folded sheet of paper. As he unfolded it, he explained, “She is an excellent artist. This is a drawing she made of herself,” and he handed it over to the man.
Tcharron looked at it and smirked. Walking back to the bar, he spoke. “A slave this young and lovely is worth more than ten like Faymia. It doesn’t matter whether or not she was obtained legally.” He then held the drawing over a lantern and set it ablaze. “You will never get the girl back from Sevuss. Go home and forget about her!”
Son could hear the deep growl in Dulnear’s chest before anyone else could. He knew that the sound heralded blood and steel, and all movement in the room seemed to happen as if under water. He could see the man’s left hand reach inside of his coat for the hilt of his sword, so he reached for his as well.
Tcharron’s companions turned their focus on the man from the north as he swiped upward, catching the nearest man’s shoulder and nearly removing his arm. The slave boss himself made his way behind the bar to gather knives to hurl at the warrior.
Immediately, four of the men were upon Dulnear. As Son moved to assist his friend, he felt a throbbing sensation above his left ear and there was a man in front of him holding a broken bottle. Instinctively, he chopped downward at the bottle, sending glass and the tip of one of the man’s fingers to the ground.
Cursing, the man tucked his wounded hand under his arm. Before he had a chance to refocus, a swirling ball of blades and fur removed his leg from underneath him as Dulnear tore through the room like a force of nature.
Glancing toward the bar, Son noticed Faymia inching toward an unaware Tcharron. He began to make his way toward her, but the pain on the side of his head was now encompassing the top and back of it as well. “Here, little runt!” he heard someone yell before the edge of a blade narrowly missed his neck.
The boy turned to his right to see a half-drunk hooligan aggressively swinging a baselard in the air. The pounding in his head beat on like a kettledrum but he held his focus, knowing that the slightest lapse in attention could mean the end for him.
Quickly, Son advanced toward the man, which seemed to take him off guard. He backed up, nearly tripping over the chair behind him. This seemed to irk the man, and he lunged with his sword as he let out a snarl.
Taking aim at the man’s extended arm, Son brought his sword down hard upon it, feeling the blade become embedded in the bone.
The thug let loose a deafening howl and jerked his arm back so hard that he stumbled over the chair onto his back, taking the sword with him.
Without hesitating, Son lifted the chair in the air and brought it down hard over the goon’s head. As he lay there dazed, the boy yanked his sword from the wounded arm and ran toward the bar. Drawing closer, he could see neither Faymia nor Tcharron and his heart seemed to stop beating as the thoughts in his agonizing head went dark and despairing.
Suddenly, a flailing body flew through the air and landed behind the bar, releasing a deep, breathless groan upon impact.
Son and Dulnear arrived at the end of the bar at the same time, peering behind it together. The slaver-lackeys who’d stood so confidently before littered the tavern floor, and their boss was laying beaten and bloodied.
“Where is she?!” Faymia shouted while holding the tip of her sword to Tcharron’s neck.
“I don’t know!” the man insisted.
“Tell me!” the woman demanded.
“I never heard of her before today!” the slaver claimed. “It’s
