In The Shadow Of The Beast (16 page)

A large and oafish looking man was laughing
loudly as he roughly manhandled one of the serving girls. With
tears in her eyes she tried to fend the brute off in complete
futility, admonishing with every colorful adjective she probably
knew. All the while he looked on laughing, pulling her hither and
to teasingly as a group of loutish looking men sitting nearby
cheered him on.

The serving girl beat at the brute’s chest
as he pulled her onto his lap, groping at her in a most offensive
manner and cooing drunkenly into her ear.

As Sigourd looked on, he could feel his
blood begin to simmer at the scene before him.

‘
Like I said, colorful
crowd,’ added Jonn Grumble as he sipped on his third
ale.

Sigourd looked on, expecting one of the
nearby patrons to come to the girl’s aid, but all he could see
where timid men looking straight into their ales, too afraid to
stand up and do what needed to be done.

In his minds eye, as Sigourd watched the
scene play out before him with mounting frustration, he was
reminded viscerally of Isolde, helpless as she was manhandled
across the floor of the catacombs by those mysterious brigands who
had stolen her away. Sigourd had tried and failed to save the woman
he loved in that moment, but he would not be found wanting a second
time.

His blood finally boiling over he stood up
from his stool suddenly, the fire of indignation burning
righteously in him. He made to stalk over to the brute when
something held him back.

‘
This isn’t the sort of
attention we’re looking for,’ Jonn warned. Sigourd snatched his arm
away, and stalked across the floor of the tavern to where the
serving girl still struggled with the brutish oaf.

Reaching out Sigourd grabbed the arm of the
girl and pulled her to her feet before spinning her out of harm’s
way behind him. There was an audible gasp from the assembled
patrons, who now looked up cautiously from their ales.

The brute blinked in surprise, hardly able
to believe his own eyes. Behind Sigourd, the brute’s cohorts, three
of them all told, rose slowly to surround Sigourd, who now stood
brazenly before the leader of the pack, his eyes blazing challenge
at the man sitting before of him.

‘
You need a lesson in how
to treat women it seems,’ said Sigourd.

Sitting at the bar, Jonn Grumble rolled his
eyes and put his head in his hands. Now every soul in the place had
stopped with their carousing and had turned to watch the unfolding
drama with cruel fascination. There was not a sound in the entire
place as Sigourd locked eyes with the brute, whose wooden chair
creaked loudly as the man slowly got to his feet.

Rearing to his full height, the brute
towered over Sigourd, fully four hand spans taller than the young
lord, and easily twice as broad across the back.

From so close, Sigourd could see the
intricate threading of red veins in the cheeks of the larger man,
the light sheen of perspiration upon his brow and the glazed,
unfocused look in his eyes. It all served to compliment the
lopsided sneer upon his mouth.

‘
And what would a whelp
like you know about women?’ snarled the brute.

‘
I know that bad manners is
only ever going to get you into trouble,’ said Sigourd.

The brute and his cronies burst out
laughing. They were like a pack of jackals, gathered around the
carcass of their unfortunate prey.

‘
Crawl back to the dung
yard, boy. Before I’m forced to break you in two,’ said the
brute.

Sigourd rocked back slightly, wafting his
hand before him and turning up his nose, ‘Judging by your breath,
I’d say you’re a fellow that knows all about dung.’

The sneer upon the brute’s lips abruptly
vanished, ‘You’re a ballsy little shit aren’t ya...’

Sigourd worked quickly to assess the threat
potential. He knew from the outset that he was walking into a
situation that was only ever going to escalate, his temper had
decided that for him.

But the brute and his cronies had drank
themselves way beyond any chance of making a decent fight of it,
and besides which, they were in need of a thrashing.

‘
...especially for someone
who looks like he just dropped out of his mother’s--’

The brute never got to finish his sentence.
Without warning Sigourd kicked out, driving his foot squarely
between the legs of the much larger man. The brute bent double, his
face flushing even more red than it had and his eyes bulging as if
on stalks.

‘
Look out!’ shouted the
girl whom Sigourd had rescued from the hands of the brute. Without
thinking Sigourd ducked to his side, a heavy studded mace missing
the back of his head by a hair’s breadth. One of the brute’s
thuggish cohorts had taken the opportunity to swing his weapon
clumsily at the exposed back of Sigourd, the force of his swing and
the subsequent momentum generated nearly dragging the man off his
feet. The barbaric looking device, cruelly studded about its dull
surface, slammed into a nearby table, crunching into the wood and
flipping glasses and other crockery across the room.

Someone screamed from amongst the crowd as a
drinking stein struck them across the head, and an instant later
the entire tavern was a mad, seething mass of flying tables,
chairs, fists and feet.

It was as if some spell had fallen over the
patrons of the bar, instantly seizing them with the need to do harm
to their neighbor in a mad frenzy of brawling.

Somebody grabbed Sigourd from behind,
pinning his arm to his his back to hold him immobile as the mace
wielder came about for another try. Sigourd could only look on
helpless as that mace was raised high and swung back far, and knew
without doubt that the next object that solid iron ingot would
connect with was going to be his head. A direct hit with such a
weapon would pulp Sigourd’s skull and whatever was contained within
as if it were a watermelon.

Time seemed to creep to an almost standstill
as Sigourd watched that mace rise higher and higher, his world
seeming to consist only of that cruel studded iron ingot. He waited
for it to begin the inevitable descent toward him, gathering
unstoppable speed before the blow landed and banished Sigourd to
the after realm. He closed his eyes that he would not have to stare
death in the face, and inwardly cursed himself, feeling a coward
for not wanting to witness the moment of his own demise.

The blow never landed. There was a second,
softer crunch, followed immediately by a muffled thud as if
something heavy had just hit the ground. Sigourd opened his eyes to
see that the mace wielder was lying unconscious at his feet.
Standing over him was Jonn Grumble, half a shattered ale mug in his
hand and a wry grin upon his lips. He winked once playfully at
Sigourd before suddenly he was clattered brutally from behind by a
stool across his back, driving the wild man to the floor.

Sigourd drove his elbow into the sternum of
the assailant still gripping him from behind, noting with
satisfaction the sound of something cracking deep inside the man’s
torso as the point of his elbow was driven home. The assailant
staggered back, allowing Sigourd to spin off the balls of his feet
and drive a thundering right hook into the side of his face,
dropping the man instantly.

Sigourd pushed his way through the press of
heaving, brawling bodies and managed to look back at the madness
that had engulfed the tavern. From where he stood he could see Jonn
Grumble, fending off one of the working girls with an oversized
turkey leg as the woman set about him like a banshee, trying to
tear strips off the wild man. They were but a pair amongst dozens,
wildly throwing themselves and each other about the place.

And then it happened again, the same as
before. The sudden rush of warning, flooding Sigourd’s awareness
like ice in his veins. The sense of immediate danger ringing within
him.

Sigourd’s reaction was instant, and so
blindingly quick it surprised even him. He twisted, his hand
darting out to catch the wrist of the brute who was in the act of
stabbing downwards with a curved dagger, attempting to catch
Sigourd unaware with his vicious attack.

Sigourd held that wrist immobile for long
moments, even as the brute, much taller and broader than his young
opponent, struggled feverishly to bring the blade down. The two men
stood immobile, locked together in the middle of the tavern as all
around them the brawling raged on.

The brute was hardly able to believe his
astonished eyes as he looked on at the boy before him, fully half
his size yet seemingly possessed of a strength far greater than his
own. Try as he might he was unable to either force the blade into
Sigourd’s chest or pull his wrist free.

And then, with a sound like eggshells
cracking the brute’s wrist snapped like matchwood in Sigourd’s
hand. Both men looking up in horrified amazement at the sickening
occurrence.

It took Sigourd a few moments to realize
fully what he was seeing, and instantly snatched his hand away in
shock. It had never been his intention to cause so grievous an
injury to the malodorous brute, even if he had known he was capable
of such inhuman strength.

The shattered wrist flopped back against the
forearm, the hand dangling at an unnatural angle quite beyond that
which nature had intended.

The brute clutched his shattered forearm to
his breast, almost as if he were afraid that if he did not his hand
might fall off entirely. He was too shocked by the suddenness of
what had happened that he didn’t even have wit enough to cry
out.

Not another soul in the tavern had witnessed
the aberrant feat of strength, except one. Still sitting in his
relatively quiet corner of the tavern, the only oasis of calm
amongst the greater madness within the establishment, the old man
sat beneath his cape and hood, still taking the occasional sip from
his tankard of mead.

He had observed with great interest the
entire exchange, and had raised an eyebrow at the youngsters
strength and considerable impetuousness.

For his own part, Sigourd’s head was
swimming with his immediate concerns. How was it possible that he
suddenly possessed such power that he could shatter a man’s forearm
with his bare hands? And what of the strange sensations warning him
of imminent danger? It was all too much for Sigourd to conveniently
dismiss as mere happenstance. Something was happening to him that
he could no longer deny. He just had no idea what it was.

Suddenly, the brute let out a protracted
wailing, the sound cutting across the din of the tumult in the
tavern and causing all within to cease the attempted maiming of
their fellow patrons and turn in surprise to see whom had cause to
make a sound of such anguish.

That wailing brought Sigourd out of his
reverie instantly, and he realized that he and Jonn Grumble aught
not to linger here a moment longer. Jonn was right. This was not
the sort of attention that they neither wanted nor could
afford.

Diving back into the crowd, Sigourd caught
Jonn about the belt buckle, tugging him backwards out of the melee
as he valiantly fought off two drunken sailors who had apparently
mistaken him for someone they believed owed them money.

Sigourd pulled both Jonn Grumble and himself
through the crowd as the brute continued to wail.

From across the room there came a tremendous
bang as the front door to the tavern came crashing in. The door
went flying off its hinges, allowing not only the weak sunlight
from outside to wash suddenly in, but also the half dozen or so
members of the city’s soldiery who streamed in through that
shattered doorway. Their staffs and batons fell mercilessly about
the hastily scattering patrons of The Dirty Dog.

Sigourd and Jonn Grumble wasted no time in
heading toward the back of the tavern. Finding there a back door
which they didn’t hesitate to kick open, they emerged into an
alleyway behind the place.

Strewn high with the waste of the tavern and
other buildings that lined the alleyway, there was an almighty
stink about the place of rotting garbage and animal waste. Both men
held their hands up to their faces to cup their mouths and noses so
that they might filter some of the wretchedness from their
nostrils.

‘
What happened back there?’
asked Jonn Grumble through his hand mask. ‘That great lump was
screaming like a bloody stuck pig!’

Sigourd shook his head, giving the only
answer he honestly could, ‘I don’t know. He was behind me and
then...’

Sigourd was at a loss to explain what was
happening to him. He could barely reason it to himself let alone a
relative stranger, even one as stalwart as Jonn Grumble appeared to
be. Sigourd’s heart hammered like a drum in his chest, the
intensity of the last few minutes in the tavern still churning
inside him.

At that moment more of the soldiery came
around the side of the building, three or four of them, weapons
drawn. Undoubtedly they had been set the task of ensuring that none
of the brawling patrons escaped the city’s justice, and here were
two of them in the act of fleeing the scene of the disturbance.

‘
Stop, or you’ll hang!’
shouted one of the soldiers as they rounded that corner and laid
eyes on Sigourd and Jonn Grumble at the other end of the alley. The
companions didn’t need further encouragement to pick up their heels
and make a break for the main street.

Sprinting between crooked buildings and over
collections of filth piled high, the cobbles that lined the alley
beating painfully against the soles of their booted feet, Sigourd
and Jonn Grumble hit the main street and dived amongst the bustling
throng of the market stalls.

They ducked and wove between patrons, and it
was back to shouldering and barging their way through the browsers
and barterers, who would shout foul obscenities at the fleeing
pair.