The Windkeeper

"Let's see you try," the young man scoffed. "The only idjit here is the man who thinks I'll let him take anything that belongs to me. What is mine, is mine. And mine it will stay."

"Brave words for a man alone and outnumbered," one of the robbers reminded him.

"That's because you men pose no threat to me."

The leader took a step toward the youth and raised a gnarled fist, a meaty chunk of scarred and rough flesh.

"You just signed your death warrant, you crazy little bastard!"

A short, balding man with only a fringe of orange hair ringing his shiny pate, the third thief's legs were badly bowed. He looked as though he sat astride a keg of ale. His lurching walk would have been comical if it had not been so pathetic to watch. As he'd waddled closer to his victim, the stench of him came rolling across the stables in waves of noxious fumes. His torn and greasy garments looked alive with vermin. "He's about to meet his maker, he is."

"Then let's do it," the blond lad said, shucking off his leather jacket. He threw away the jacket, spat into his left palm, then brought up his sword. Grasping the blade in his left hand, he bent and flexed the tempered Chrystallusian steel, his gaze never leaving the burly leader's face.

With a furious grunt, the leader drew a short sword from the belt of his pants and lunged at the young man, staggering by his victim as the youth had stepped easily away. The thief yelped as the flat of the sword struck his rump.

"You sorry little..." he gasped, rubbing his backside with his free hand. "You'll pay for that!"

The remaining thugs turned their own weapons on the youth, striking out with little or no expertise.

True amusement flitted across the youth's merry, grinning face at the robbers' clumsy efforts to impale him. He met their frenzied, ill-timed attack with offhanded skill; pushing one man away with his foot while sending the other crashing woefully to the ground with a well-aimed backhand.

With a snarl, the leader struck out with his sword while the youth was doubled over with laughter. He managed to slice a thin slit in the billowing cambric sleeve of the young man's shirt.

Looking down at the tear, the youth ceased to laugh and a heavy scowl came over his handsome features. Sighing heavily as he plucked at the rent, he slowly lifted his gaze to his attacker's face. "Well, hell," he said with exasperation, letting the words drop like heavy stones. "This was a brand new shirt." With a low hiss of spite, he lunged forward and engaged his attackers in a shrill clash of blades.

In the shadowed confines of the stable's loft, a watcher peered over the edge and took in the drama. As the one-sided fight lingered on, the watcher followed the exchange of swordplay; keeping a close surveillance on the young man as his opponents clumsily circled him. But then something just outside the watcher's vision nudged that sixth sense most people have when danger is lurking near, and the onlooker's attention turned from the fight to scan the partially opened side door leading to the tavern's kitchens. A search was made for what had caused the sensation of wariness. Seeing nothing immediately in need of attention, the watcher pulled closer to the edge of the loft and finally spied the stealthy approach of a fifth man entering through the sun-darkened doorway.

The innkeeper, no doubt anticipating a quick end to the objective he and his cohorts practiced on a regular basis, had ventured from his establishment as time lapsed onward. Taking in the situation in a glance, he reasoned his own brand of intervention was needed. Easing himself over to a pitchfork leaning against the wall, he crept up to the wicked-looking implement and grasped the handle in his flour-caked paws.

Grossly fat and squat, short legs waddling beneath his long, dirty apron, the innkeeper nevertheless moved with a grace and speed that belied his bulk. His pudgy face was creased in a scowl and shone with sweat as he sneaked up behind the youth.

The sentinel studied the situation with concern and growing anger. A man who would stab another in the back was a coward and as vile as they came.

"I don't think so," the watcher growled quietly through clenched teeth. Silently and swiftly, the watcher drew a thin black blade and expertly flipped it over in a practiced hand so that the sharp blade rested lightly along the palm. A callused thumb eased down the blade until the very tip was held firmly by the heel of a flexed thumb and crooked forefinger.

Intent on disarming--and disrobing--the man who had torn his shirt, the youth saw no real danger in a man advancing on him with only a doubled fist as a weapon. He glanced quickly at the man and then turned his attention back to the robber with whom he was sparring. He had felled the leader just moments before and that mischief-maker now lay huddled against a stall, his greasy red hair plastered with horse droppings from where he had skidded on the floor. A well-timed kick knocked the orange-tufted, bowlegged man's weapon from his hand and a look of shock passed over the robber's grimy face as he scurried after his blade.