(This story takes place between ‘Safe Guards’ and ‘Steel Echoes.’)
“’ey now,” Bolt said cheerfully. “I ‘ope there’s nae problem ‘ere!”
Jeers and laughter withered suddenly on seven tongues. The lone Konjon centaur among the raucous septet swallowed, gagged, and belched on the taunt he’d been about to spew. More orderly patrons stared at the massive shape which seemed to have annealed from the air of the tavern doorway. His shock of white-gold hair brushed the bottom of the dangling sign over the entrance as he ducked in, setting it swinging. The sign bore a legend of a piebald clown leaning against a post, head down, blissful smile on his painted mouth. Below were the words “Jester’s Rest.”
The brigands’ eyes darted from one end of Bolt to another, trying to find some part of him that did not exude invulnerability. Most perplexing to them was the maroon-and-gold harness which strained around his fore torso, especially the bejeweled gold bars glittering on his shoulders. They’d heard the tales of course. The news had spread. Embron had a new Lord, a mad Lord who’d defied ages of tradition by putting into positions of authority creatures which were not aerin! The Captain of the City Guard was a human, a Phoenix-Touched Kandaler no less! And yes, the largest damned Tantareli centaur you ever saw as a Lieutenant! Unthinkable!
But here he stood.
Tev Thaen had enough Terin blood to share that breed’s husky build and earthy hue. He’d also been a denizen of Shenn’s wildlands too long to be cowed by size alone. Keenly aware of his fellows’ eyes on his back, he stepped up to the massive Tantareli and locked eyes with him. “The only problem,” he said in tones of deliberate, even menace, “is that my friends and I can’t pass the doorway. What assistance can you offer for that, Guard?”
Bolt twisted his fore torso and surveyed behind him, as if to verify that he was indeed in the way. “Hunh,” he grunted. “What ye know about that?” He swiveled back around to grin at Tev. “I can ‘elp with that easy ‘nough,” he assured him. “Just’s soon as I ‘ear from th’ owners o’ this fine inn that yer bill is square.” He shifted his gaze past Tev, catching the bartender’s eye in an inquisitive manner. A slight sideways jerk of the bartender’s head told him all he needed to know. “Ah,” he told Tev. “Seems yer tab’s been called due.”
“So now the City Guard are collectors?” Tev sneered. His fellows took inspiration from his bravado, squaring shoulders and puffing out their chests. Meanwhile, the other customers began discreetly making room for the fight which was surely imminent. “Stand aside,” Tev advised Bolt. “You’re large, but there are seven of us. You haven’t your Mad Lord, your Phoenix-Touched Captain, or your horde of tame shapeshifters behind you. In case it had escaped your notice, you’re just one outnumbered pony.”
Something dangerous flashed behind Bolt’s mismatched eyes, but his smile lost none of its neighborly charm. “I’m movin’,” he announced. “I’ll be waitin’ just outside.” With that, he backed out of the doorway. Tev led the brigands out of the tavern. None of them hid the fact that they were readying a variety of weapons. The other customers and the staff clustered to door and windows, but stayed safely inside.
Not a minute later the brigands retreated, helping each other limp across the tavern’s small lot to their mounts. Nervous laughter serenaded their evacuation from some of the braver tavern patrons.
Bolt ducked his fore torso through the doorway. He swung one arm in an effortless underhanded toss, sailing a purse across the tavern. The bartender caught it deftly. “That should settle their tab,” Bolt told him. “Whatever’s left ye can call a tip.”
“I suppose you expect thanks.”
The caustic observation came from the barmaid. The pretty human with the honey-colored hair had made a token attempt to collect payment from the brigands when they’d decided to leave, but stopped just short of gaining enough of their attention for them to break pace. When Bolt had blocked the doorway she’d been standing in the middle of the tavern with hands on hips, staring silent daggers into the backs of the brigands’ skulls. Now her rancor was turned toward the Guard Lieutenant.
Bolt looked down at her quizzically. “As ye like, Maiden,” he answered. “’S not why I stepped in.”
“Good!” she snapped. “Because all you’ve accomplished to to ensure those outlaws will come back after you’ve gone, to avenge their pride. The least you could have done was kill them!”
“Janica!” the bartender shouted. There wasn’t much resemblance between them, but the tone of his voice made it clear theirs was more than a simply professional relationship.
The barmaid turned to him. “What?” she challenged. “I’m saying nothing more than you have in times past, Father. The difference is only that I dare say it to his face!” She rounded on Bolt again. “Well?” she demanded. “What will you do? Shall we lay a pallet in the back so you can be comfortable until they return? Or having done your duty you are now on your way back to the city, while we must live with what you’ve left us?”
Every single eye in the tavern was fixed on the barmaid looking up trying to stare down the centaur. The only sound was the pip pip of the foam on mugs of ale.
Bolt gazed speculatively at Janica. “This yer family’s place, innit?” he said. “’S not just a job, ‘s yer home too.”
“What of it?” Janica retorted.
“Ye love it?” Bolt asked.
Her lips curled in a sneer. “If I didn’t, would I still be here?”
Bolt nodded. Suddenly his gaze was direct, his left eye blazing with cerulean intensity. “So whyn’t ye fight fer it?”
Janica blinked. “Me?” she squeaked. Then her wit caught up with the question, and her sneer reasserted itself. “What do you expect of me?” She waved a hand at the doorway and the road beyond, dust still settling from the brigands’ exit. “Scoundrels they may be, but they’re also professional fighters! What chance would any of us have against them?”
Bolt’s smile said in silent eloquence I thought you’d never ask! He turned and pointed at a patron, another human with the muscles and callouses born of long hours in a field. “Wot’s yer name?” he asked.
The man blinked and stared. “M-Mishaiel,” he managed.
“Mishaiel,” Bolt echoed jovially. “Thanks fer volunteerin’.” He crooked his finger at him, beckoning. Mishaiel exchanged questioning looks with his tablemates and found no credible reasons to refuse the conscription. He took a heartening pull from his beer, then stood and approached.
“Grab her blouse,” Bolt instructed.
Mishaiel’s face said I’d as soon stick my hand into a fire! Janica’s expression was similarly scandalized, staring at Bolt with fresh indignation. “Don’ tear anything,” Bolt clarified, “and don’ grab more than cloth. Apologize first, if it ‘elps.”
Mishaiel turned his eyes to Janica. He managed to hold her eyes for a moment before his own dropped to one side. “’M sorry,” he murmured, reaching a blocky hand toward her bodice.
Janica favored him with a small smile, the bulk of her ire still bent toward the Tantareli. “Go on,” she told him. Patrons and staff were transfixed. Even the bartender, presented with the spectacle of a Guard encouraging the fondling of his daughter, stood his place and watched.
Bolt inspected the handful of fabric which Mishaiel had managed, assuring himself that it was both substantial and chaste. “Right,” he pronounced his approval. “Now you,” he said to Janica. “Put yer hand over ‘is. Nay, yer wrist like so, thumb there, fingers there. Right. Feel that?”
Janica’s brow knit as she studied the angle of her arm and positioning of her fingers. “I think so,” she allowed, indignation tempered by curiosity. What was the Guard playing at?
“Now you,” Bolt told Mishaiel. “’Ang on. Not so hard as you’ll tear anythin’, but like ye don’ wanna let go. Got it?”
Mishaiel nodded mutely. In his deepest private heart he replied Let go? Maid willing, I’d love nothing more than to grab more! He prayed to the Ladies that all present would interpret the flush of his cheeks as embarrassment and nothing more. Janica was all honey and flowers, and always smelled of fresh soap.
“Right,” Bolt approved. “Now Janica, turn yer arm like so.” He mimed a motion, downward and twisting.
Janica complied. With a cry of surprise and not quite pain, Mishaiel let loose of her blouse and collapsed to his knees, his hand held securely between her thumb and fingers. The tavern let loose a collective Ah of surprise and appreciation. The more roadwise chuckled in appreciation.
Janica stared at her hand gripping Mishaiel’s. Her muscles sang in memory. So easy! she marveled. One moment his hand had grasped a handful of fabric. The next, he was totally at her mercy.
“There ye go,” Bolt pronounced approval. “Yer basic no-ye-dinna hold. ‘Gainst anythin’ yer size or a little better, gives ‘em one choice: behave ‘emselves, or get their arm broke.” He leaned down and down, until his face was level with Janica’s. “Question now, Maid,” he rumbled. “Whatcha gonna do with it? I kin give ye th’ skills. ‘S yer home. But if ye’re nae willin’ t’ bleed fer it, how much love can ye really claim?”
Janica stared down at Mishaiel. The brawny farmhand supported his imprisoned arm with its other, reducing the strain of her effortless grip. The memory of Tev Thaen and his ilk flared ugly in her memory.
She looked up at Bolt. “Teach me.”
The Tantareli’s grin was wide and happy. “Atta girl.”