Thomas Reid: The Ruby Guardian

It had been about a dozen years since Xaphira had last visited The Silver Fish, and the rathrur hadn't changed much in all that time. It still stank to high heaven, the drink was still watered down, and brawls were still a regular occurrence. For a moment, the mercenary officer wondered if even the patrons were the same since the last time she had paid a call to the place.

Now I remember why I haven't come in so long, Xaphira thought wryly, twisting and easily ducking beneath the first great sweeping punch delivered by her foe. The regulars never were much for welcoming outsiders.

Xaphira saw a second punch coming and sidestepped again, letting the huge fist rush past her cheek before she stepped inside the man's reach and planted a solid jab right into his nose. She heard the snap of crunching cartilage from the blow, but his head did not otherwise move much. The woman danced back out of reach again as her adversary blinked a couple of times. A trickle of blood appeared from one nostril, but he didn't seem to notice.

Waukeen, he's big, Xaphira thought. Why did he pick me?

If anything, the fellow seemed to smile all the more. He took a step toward her, swinging again.

Xaphira ducked to avoid the punch and glanced out at the rest of the room. Everywhere, men and women were scuffling. One stocky woman, still wearing her blacksmith's apron, grabbed a younger man by his collar and belt-a stable groom, judging from his clothes-and sent him flying through the air to crash into a table where several other patrons were laughing. The table collapsed from the blow and sent drinks flying.

Recovering her balance, Xaphira stood upright again and watched as another dock worker grabbed up a wooden bench and lined up for a swing against the back of her own foe. Moments before, the two of them had been sharing frothy tankards and laughing uproariously at the crude song the minstrels had been performing.

Stupid bards, Xaphira thought, grimacing in disgust as she watched the bench shatter across the back of the behemoth in front of her. Half the crowd always loves their songs, and the other half hates them. No better way to start a fight than to let a musician sing. And these two don't even need that much of an excuse, she realized, watching as the big fellow blinked in confusion at the new attack, half turning to see what had hit him. His former drinking partner just let out a joyous shriek and grabbed another bench.

Seeing her chance, Xaphira went very low and launched herself into a roll that moved her out of the corner and past the two dock workers. The maneuver got her out of the immediate confrontation between the pair, but it also put her into the middle of the common room and the fracas roiling throughout it. In one smooth motion, the woman tumbled into a crouch and came up on her feet. She found her balance just in time to spot another body flying through the air directly toward her, a skinny runt of a man with bushy muttonchop whiskers.

Xaphira could not react quickly enough to completely evade the living projectile, though she altered her center of balance just enough to avoid taking the worst of the collision. As the pair of them went down, Xaphira spied the blacksmith back along the skinny man's path, laughing as she finished the follow-through on her throw. Then the mercenary officer and the man were in a heap on the floor of the rathrur.

Grimacing in frustration, Xaphira rolled out from beneath her counterpart and dodged sideways. The man struggled to his hands and knees just as a table came crashing down on top of him. She heard him grunt in pain as the heavy table knocked him flat, but she didn't stay to share in his fate. She kept on rolling until she was well out of the way then sprang to her feet again, looking for shelter from the rapidly expanding brawl. By that point, most of the patrons had either succumbed to the commotion or where in full riot, and platters, mugs, benches, and chairs flew in every direction. Xaphira spotted a relatively quiet corner near the stage. At the moment, it was occupied by the three minstrels, who cowered behind a half wall where a door led into a private section of The Silver Fish. She darted in that direction.

One of the three musicians saw her coming and let out a shriek. He fumbled for something in one of the voluminous sleeves of his gaudy shirt, producing a dagger just as the mercenary officer arrived. The bard clumsily jabbed at the woman, who narrowed her eyes as she shifted her weight enough to evade the ill-aimed blow. Xaphira then drove the heel of her palm against the back of the fellow's balled fist, shoving the dagger right along the path it was already taking, giving it enough extra momentum that she easily embedded it into the wood of the half wall.

"Fool bard," Xaphira muttered to the man, who stared at her wide-eyed. "Don't you know the difference between a tavern brawl and a real fight?" When the terrified fellow didn't respond, Xaphira made a sweeping gesture with her hand out toward the middle of the taproom, where the fisticuffs was still in full rage, though she never took her eyes off her counterpart's. "Do you see anyone else with real weapons in hand?"

The bard gave one quick shake of his head.

"That's right. At the moment, it's just a bunch of idiots having fun the only way they know how. But the moment you draw steel in here, all the rules change. And you're not ready to play by those rules, believe me. Now keep your head down before you get it taken off by a table."

Xaphira turned away from the minstrel and back toward the fighting. Beside her, the musician swallowed hard and shrank back even further into the corner, almost seeming to try to hide behind her. Snorting once in disgust, she scanned the perimeter of the room until she spied what she was looking for.

A middle-aged man stood leaning on the railing of the second-story balcony that ran along the entire length of the opposite side of the common area. He was watching the commotion with a bemused smile on his clean-shaven face, holding a mug of something as he rested his folded arms on the balustrade. His thick, curly brown hair was thinning a bit on top, and his skin was ruddy and wrinkled from long hours in the sun. The laces of his tan shirt were loosened, and the fabric was faded in certain spots, showing the darker outline of an absent breastplate. The blade on his hip showed a well-worn grip, a pair of sapphires set in the pommel. Xaphira remembered it, and him, even after almost twelve years.

Quill. You've hardly changed at all, she thought.

When the man noticed he had caught her eye, his smile deepened, an expression of genuine joy, and he casually raised his mug in a toast and gave Xaphira a nod. The woman returned the smile and began to map out a way to reach him.

Unfortunately, the stairs were on the far side of the room, which meant she would have to cross through the middle of the fight. Her original behemoth of an adversary was still clumsily sparring with his drinking mate, both of them with sloppy grins on their faces. From the look of things, the rest of the room had all but given up tangling with those two, for numerous groaning or comatose bodies had formed a rough ring around the pair. Everyone still standing wisely chose to remain well back of the makeshift barrier.

Shrugging her shoulders, Xaphira stood and began to sprint forward, headed directly toward the second fellow, who had managed to find yet another intact bench and was happily swinging it from side to side, keeping his larger companion at bay. When he saw Xaphira approaching, he set himself and drew the bench back, ready to swat at her with all he had. The mercenary gauged the distance, and when it looked about right and the brawler began to swing, she leaped high into the air.

As Xaphira sailed across the open space toward the two dock workers, she kicked out with both feet, planting them directly on the surface of the bench. The jolt of her weight and momentum reversed the bench abruptly, sending it back into the wielder's face. She had anticipated the shift, and she kicked hard off the bench, sailing to her right and landing on a table.