After the skirmish with Morrison, I permitted the squire a little treat. An iced coffee from a local cafe. The interior is dim, the sound of the various apparatus of coffee bubbling and grinding mixed with the sporadic clicking and clacking of keys courtesy of another patron bent over his laptop.
„Iced coffee for Darius?“
The squire gleefully takes his drink from the counter as the door opens with a jangle.
„You there, scoundrel! I've been tasked to bring you in.“
Short fellow. Fifteen hands. Fifteen and half?
„uhhh by the Mayor and to the Mayor's.“
The squire half scoffs, half laughs. „If the Mayor wants him, she can summon him directly.“
This rankles the interloper.
„unlikely, as she wouldn't have employed me for this task.“
„oohhhh employed. I hope you were paid in full and in advance.“ the squire's jest allows me to maintain my stoic demeanor.
„very well.“ I watch him start to unsheathe his sword, two inches of glistening steel at a mirror polish.
„Not in here.“ I replied.
„Why not, coward. Are you afraid to meet your end in front of two baristas, an accountant and your squire?“
„This is not a place of honor, bro. Take it to the alley so we can watch.“ interjects the barista.
I shrug, my adversary nods.
The other barista flips the sign to closed, locks the front door and instructs the only other patron to be cool. He responded with a schlurp of his black coffee. We all file behind the counter, through the kitchen and out the back door.
„Your loyalty to coin will be your undoing.“ I state.
„This isn't about the coin, scoundrel. The Mayor says she'll grant me priority access to any of the pavilions in the park next season.“
He proceeds to take a position some twenty paces from me, draws his sword and holds, making intense and concentrated eye contact throughout the process.
„Squire, my longsword please.“
Silently, he takes my arming sword and provides me the longsword. Its weight is familiar and comfortable. I can feel its excitement in my grip. Our moment is soon, friend.
The interloper shouts „on your word, scoundrel“
I take a few seconds to adjust my stance, position my sword.
I can hear his sandals clacking off the pavement, the sound bouncing off the walls in rhythmic fury.
Closer. Closer. As soon as he was in range, I lifted my leg, cocked it and slammed it into his chest sending him backwards. As he recoiled, I inverted my grip and hooked the back of his neck with the crossguard, then pulled his face into my knee.
He slumps to the ground, blood pouring from his mouth and nose, still holding his sword. He rises to his feet with a simultaneous upward slash. I deflect it with my left arm and follow up with another Mordschlag, catching him in the temple. I am thankful the only spectators are the baristas, delighting in the brutality of conflict. This is a substantial departure from my normal grace and finesse. I do not like such inelegant brawls.
Another attempted stroke this time parallel to the ground. I step forward, trap both his arms under my left arm, then reach forward, grasp his face and press my thumb deep into his right eye socket and drive him to his knees.
In silent defeat, he kneels. I do not want to kill him. Applause.
„Stand. I do not want you as an enemy. Join me and you shall have the priority access to the pavilions you seek.“ He accepts my outstretched hand, rises. Firm grasp.
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