man behind the bar. Kvothe did not blanch or back away when the man’s attention settled onto him. Their eyes met.
The mercenary’s eyes sharpened again, focusing on Kvothe. The wide, humorless smile reappeared, made macabre by the blood running down his face. “
With an almost casual motion, Kvothe grabbed a dark bottle from the counter and flung it across the bar. It struck the mercenary in the mouth and shattered. The air filled with the sharp tang of elderberry, dousing the man’s still-grinning head and shoulders.
Reaching out one hand, Kvothe dipped a finger into the liquor that spattered the bar. He muttered something under his breath, his forehead furrowed in concentration. He stared intently at the bloody man standing on the other side of the bar.
Nothing happened.
The mercenary reached across the bar, catching hold of Kvothe’s sleeve. The innkeeper simply stood, and in that moment his expression held no fear, no anger or surprise. He only seemed weary, numb, and dismayed.
Before the mercenary could get a grip on Kvothe’s arm, he staggered as Bast tackled him from behind. Bast managed to get one arm around the mercenary’s neck while the other raked at the man’s face. The mercenary let go of Kvothe and laid both hands on the arm that circled his neck, trying to twist away. When the mercenary’s hands touched him, Bast’s face became a tight mask of pain. Teeth bared, he clawed wildly at the mercenary’s eyes with his free hand.
At the far end of the bar, the smith’s prentice finally retrieved his iron rod from under the table and stretched to his full height. He charged over the fallen stools and strewn bodies on the floor. Bellowing, he lifted the iron rod high over one shoulder.
Still clinging to the mercenary, Bast’s eyes grew wide with sudden panic as he saw the smith’s prentice approaching. He released his grip and backed away, his feet tangling in the wreckage of the broken barstool. Falling backward, he scuttled madly away from the both of them.
Turning, the mercenary saw the tall boy charging. He smiled and stretched out a bloody hand. The motion was graceful, almost lazy.
The smith’s prentice swatted the arm away. When the iron bar struck him, the mercenary’s smile fell away. He clutched at his arm, hissing and spitting like an angry cat.
The boy swung the iron rod again, striking the mercenary squarely in the ribs. The force of it knocked him away from the bar, and he fell to his hands and knees, screaming like a slaughtered lamb.
The smith’s prentice grabbed the bar with both hands and brought it down across the mercenary’s back like a man splitting wood. There was the gristly sound of bones cracking. The iron bar rang softly, like a distant, fog- muffled bell.
Back broken, the bloody man still tried to crawl toward the inn’s door. His face was blank now, his mouth open in a low howl as constant and unthinking as the sound of wind through winter trees. The prentice struck again and again, swinging the heavy iron rod lightly as a willow switch. He scored a deep groove in the wooden floor, then broke a leg, an arm, more ribs. Still the mercenary continued to claw his way toward the door, shrieking and moaning, sounding more animal than human.
Finally the boy landed a blow to the head and the mercenary went limp. There was a moment of perfect quiet, then the mercenary made a deep, wet, coughing sound and vomited up a foul fluid, thick as pitch and black as ink.
It was some time before the boy stopped battering at the motionless corpse, and even when he did stop, he held the bar poised over one shoulder, panting raggedly and looking around wildly. As he slowly caught his breath, the sound of low prayers could be heard from the other side of the room where Old Cob crouched against the black stone of the fireplace.
After a few minutes even the praying stopped, and silence returned to the Waystone Inn.
For the next several hours the Waystone was the center of the town’s attention. The common room was crowded, full of whispers, murmured questions, and broken sobbing. Folk with less curiosity or more propriety stayed outside, peering through the wide windows and gossiping over what they’d heard.
There were no stories yet, just a roiling mass of rumor. The dead man was a bandit come to rob the inn. He’d come looking for revenge against Chronicler, who’d deflowered his sister off in Abbott’s Ford. He was a woodsman gone rabid. He was an old acquaintance of the innkeeper, come to collect a debt. He was an ex soldier, gone tabard-mad while fighting the rebels off in Resavek.
Jake and Carter made a point of the mercenary’s smile, and while denner addiction was a city problem, folk had still heard of sweet-eaters here. Three-finger Tom knew about these things, as he’d soldiered under the old king nearly thirty years ago. He explained that with four grains of denner resin, a man could have his foot amputated without a twinge of pain. With eight grains he’d saw through the bone himself. With twelve grains he’d go for a jog afterward, laughing and singing “Tinker Tanner.”
Shep’s body was covered with a blanket and prayed over by the priest. Later, the constable looked at it as well, but the man was clearly out of his depth, and was looking because he felt he should rather than because he knew what to look for.
The crowd began to thin after an hour or so. Shep’s brothers showed up with a cart to collect the body. Their grim, red-eyed stares drove away most of the remaining spectators who were idling about.
Still, there was much to be done. The constable tried to piece together what had happened from witnesses and the more opinionated onlookers. After hours of speculation, the story finally began to coalesce. Eventually it was agreed that the man was a deserter and denner addict come to their little town just in time to go crazy.
It was clear to everyone that the smith’s prentice had done the right thing, a brave thing in fact. Still, the iron law demanded a trial, so there’d be one next month, when the quarter court came through these parts on its rounds.
The constable went home to his wife and children. The priest took the mercenary’s remains off to the church. Bast cleared the wrecked furniture away, stacking it near the kitchen door to be used as firewood. The innkeeper mopped the inn’s hardwood floor seven times, until the water in the bucket no longer tinged red when he rinsed it out. Eventually even the most dedicated gawkers drifted away, leaving the usual Felling night crowd, minus one.
Jake, Cob, and the rest made halting conversation, speaking of everything other than what had happened, clinging to the comfort of each other’s company.
One by one, exhaustion drove them out of the Waystone. Eventually only the smith’s prentice remained, looking down into the cup in his hands. The iron rod lay near his elbow on the top of the mahogany bar.
Nearly half an hour passed without anyone speaking. Chronicler sat at a nearby table, making a pretense of finishing a bowl of stew. Kvothe and Bast puttered about, trying to look busy. A vague tension built in the room as they snuck glances at each other, waiting for the boy to leave.
The innkeeper strolled over to the boy, wiping his hands on a clean linen cloth. “Well boy, I guess—”
“Aaron,” the smith’s prentice interjected, not looking up from his drink. “My name’s Aaron.”
Kvothe nodded seriously. “Aaron, then. I suppose you deserve that.”
“I don’t think it was denner,” Aaron said abruptly.
Kvothe paused. “Beg pardon?”
“I don’t think that fellow was a sweet-eater.”
“You with Cob then?” Kvothe asked. “Think he was rabid?”
“I think he had a demon in him,” the boy said with careful deliberation, as if he’d been thinking about the words for a long time. “I didn’t say anything before ’cause I didn’t want folk to think I’d gone all cracked in the head like Crazy Martin.” He looked up from his drink. “But I still think he had a demon in him.”
Kvothe put on a gentle smile and gestured to Bast and Chronicler. “Aren’t you worried we’ll think the same?”
Aaron shook his head seriously. “You aren’t from around here. You’ve been places. You know what sort of things are out in the world.” He gave Kvothe a flat look. “I figure you know it was a demon too.”
Bast grew still where he stood sweeping near the hearth. Kvothe tilted his head curiously without looking away. “Why would you say that?”
