"Come on!" I hurried in that direction, heart pumping in my chest. This was not some rural backwater or small village--this was Veral Ski, one of the largest cities in Korin, complete with its own Shield Corps and a jail. We had to stop Broo Fang Tane before too many people were killed or our visit would be an extended one in a damp hell forever removed from the sun.
I shuffled through the mass of fleeing people as quickly as I could as the sounds of the fight grew louder. Already someone was moaning in agony. I also heard sobs, gasps, and frantic shouts. I pushed through a final line and turned a corner and took in the chaos.
Two men were still, laying at odd angles in a pool of spreading blood. Nearby, another held a left arm that sagged from his shoulder in his right hand; his eyes were squeezed tight and tears leaked down his cheeks. Two others circled a tall, lithe figure who pivoted to keep them both within his line of sight. I breathed a sigh of relief. It was not Broo Fang Tane.
He had a mop of red hair and a beard stuck out like a fan, making his head looked like a plate that framed a brown face with blue eyes and a wide mouth. Blood capped his skinned knuckles. His chest heaved from exertion or rage. He was not wounded. His two opponents wore the uniform of The Shield, basic black trousers and shirts covered with stiff plates of leather. They held two short, thick staves in their hands, but both also had short swords on their belts.
One of the Shieldsmen darted in and lashed out with this weapons and the man didn't even try to evade him. He just pivoted so that his broad back absorbed the blow and then whirled and somehow locked the man's head in the crook of his elbow. He kicked out at the other uniformed man and jerked his captor backward. I heard a loud snap and some of the assembled crowd gasped as the limp man fell to the cobbled street. The remaining guard was shaking off the effects of the kick, but the red-headed killer had time to pick up the fallen Shieldsman's weapons. He twirled one in his left hand and struck the guard's forearm, bringing a yowl of pain as the short staff dropped from a suddenly nerve-less hand. A final chopping blow felled him.
"Someone should stop him," a nearby voice mumbled.
"What was his crime?" I asked the woman, who was bent with age, but whose eyes were clear and defiant.
"He just killed three people. Maybe four," she snapped. "Is that not enough, woman?"
I jerked back, startled by the venom in her response. "I only wondered if he started the fight and if it was worth the outcome."
"Oh. I don't know. I think he took an apple that didn't belong to him."
"Rules are rules and laws are laws," a fat, dirty man put in.
"I think that might be a bit excessive," I suggested, then turned to look for Seymuhr. "You see? We must find Tane before...."
But Seymuhr was not behind me. I heard the crowd gasped and cringed, knowing what I would see: Seymuhr, walking calmly toward the bearded man. He loosened one of his maces from his belt, but carried it upside-down, with his hand near the metal head.
The bearded man laughed, rolled his shoulders and then tilted his head from side to side before settling into a battle crouch. Even with his legs bent, swaying on the balls of his feet, he was taller than Seymuhr, whose diminutive stature caused many to underestimate him. But Seymuhr was solid and heavy with muscle, possessing a strength beyond any man I had ever seen.
The bearded man lunged at him, meaning to slam a short staff into either side of his head. Seymuhr moved faster than I thought he could, ducking under the two blows and closing the short remaining distance between him and the bearded man with a half leap, and buried the handle of his mace into the taller man's groin. The fight went out of his eyes immediately, but Seymuhr flattened him with a crashing blow from his left fist that nearly spun the man's head around. His face hit the street and he moved no more.
Seymuhr tucked the mace back into his belt, dusted his hands off and walked back toward me.
"What?" He asked, probably in response to my slack-jawed gaze.
"I..." The crowd was beginning to disperse, leaving the bodies where they had fallen. A young woman helped the wounded Shieldsman to his feet. The pair staggered off toward the center of town, she trying to support his weight while he cried out in pain. She looked over her shoulder at Seymuhr, but said nothing. A nervous puppy cautiously approached the scene and started lapping up some of the blood. "Nothing I guess. I thought that man looked dangerous."
"He probably was," Seymuhr said. "For most."
"We should continue," I said. "There's no need to be here when the rest of the Shield shows up." I paused, certain I had seen a familiar face at the edge of the crowd but the person turned away and there were too many people in the square for me to be certain. We headed toward the market, but I couldn't help but look over my shoulder, feeling a vague sense of unease
He had a mop of red hair and a beard stuck out like a fan, making his head looked like a plate that framed a brown face with blue eyes and a wide mouth. Blood capped his skinned knuckles. His chest heaved from exertion or rage. He was not wounded. His two opponents wore the uniform of The Shield, basic black trousers and shirts covered with stiff plates of leather. They held two short, thick staves in their hands, but both also had short swords on their belts.
One of the Shieldsmen darted in and lashed out with this weapons and the man didn't even try to evade him. He just pivoted so that his broad back absorbed the blow and then whirled and somehow locked the man's head in the crook of his elbow. He kicked out at the other uniformed man and jerked his captor backward. I heard a loud snap and some of the assembled crowd gasped as the limp man fell to the cobbled street. The remaining guard was shaking off the effects of the kick, but the red-headed killer had time to pick up the fallen Shieldsman's weapons. He twirled one in his left hand and struck the guard's forearm, bringing a yowl of pain as the short staff dropped from a suddenly nerve-less hand. A final chopping blow felled him.
"Someone should stop him," a nearby voice mumbled.
"What was his crime?" I asked the woman, who was bent with age, but whose eyes were clear and defiant.
"He just killed three people. Maybe four," she snapped. "Is that not enough, woman?"
I jerked back, startled by the venom in her response. "I only wondered if he started the fight and if it was worth the outcome."
"Oh. I don't know. I think he took an apple that didn't belong to him."
"Rules are rules and laws are laws," a fat, dirty man put in.
"I think that might be a bit excessive," I suggested, then turned to look for Seymuhr. "You see? We must find Tane before...."
But Seymuhr was not behind me. I heard the crowd gasped and cringed, knowing what I would see: Seymuhr, walking calmly toward the bearded man. He loosened one of his maces from his belt, but carried it upside-down, with his hand near the metal head.
The bearded man laughed, rolled his shoulders and then tilted his head from side to side before settling into a battle crouch. Even with his legs bent, swaying on the balls of his feet, he was taller than Seymuhr, whose diminutive stature caused many to underestimate him. But Seymuhr was solid and heavy with muscle, possessing a strength beyond any man I had ever seen.
The bearded man lunged at him, meaning to slam a short staff into either side of his head. Seymuhr moved faster than I thought he could, ducking under the two blows and closing the short remaining distance between him and the bearded man with a half leap, and buried the handle of his mace into the taller man's groin. The fight went out of his eyes immediately, but Seymuhr flattened him with a crashing blow from his left fist that nearly spun the man's head around. His face hit the street and he moved no more.
Seymuhr tucked the mace back into his belt, dusted his hands off and walked back toward me.
"What?" He asked, probably in response to my slack-jawed gaze.
"I..." The crowd was beginning to disperse, leaving the bodies where they had fallen. A young woman helped the wounded Shieldsman to his feet. The pair staggered off toward the center of town, she trying to support his weight while he cried out in pain. She looked over her shoulder at Seymuhr, but said nothing. A nervous puppy cautiously approached the scene and started lapping up some of the blood. "Nothing I guess. I thought that man looked dangerous."
"He probably was," Seymuhr said. "For most."
"We should continue," I said. "There's no need to be here when the rest of the Shield shows up." I paused, certain I had seen a familiar face at the edge of the crowd but the person turned away and there were too many people in the square for me to be certain. We headed toward the market, but I couldn't help but look over my shoulder, feeling a vague sense of unease
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