It was difficult to avoid the inns along the road. There were many, each catering to the traveling merchants and their entourages. It seemed as if the aroma of roasting meat emanated from them all. There were buxom maids in the doorways of many, each tempting Mansel to forget his task and give himself to them. He rode stoically past, forcing himself not to look or respond to their pleas for his attention. On the second night he stopped at an inn to eat his supper. He washed the hot food down with cups of ale, and the more he drank the more he wanted. His usual jovial attitude was nowhere to be found. The more he drank the angrier he became.
Most of the wenches in the inn were wise enough to give him a wide berth. They knew a surly drunk when they saw one. But one young girl was not as experienced. She wasn’t particularly attractive either, which meant she had to work harder to gain the favor of the inn’s patrons and she wasn’t put off easily. She brought Mansel more ale and tried to rub his shoulders. He brushed her off but she came back to refill his tankard, leaning her body against him as she poured. Then she stroked his arm, commenting on the large muscles there. Mansel tried to ignore her, but the ale was kindling a fury that he could barely contain. Everywhere he looked people seemed to be mocking him. The wenches, flaunting and flirting, made him think of Prince Wilam, alone with Gwendolyn, trying to steal her virtue. When the mousy wench ran her cold hand inside the open collar of his shirt, he snapped.
“Leave me the hell alone!” he thundered, shoving the young girl, who was thin and clumsy, across the room.
She fell onto the rough planks of the inn floor. A brutish-looking man helped her up and then turned to Mansel with a vicious look on his face.
“Watch your manners, traveler, or I’ll beat some sense into you.”
Mansel didn’t realize it, but he had been waiting for just such a confrontation. His blood began pulsing through his veins and he could hear the roar of it in his ears.
“Shut up and mind your own business,” he said gruffly.
“Boy, one more word from you and I’ll break that pretty face of yours.”
Mansel stood up. He was tall, his waist narrow, but the muscles of his thighs, chest, shoulders, and arms were large. He still had the sword buckled onto his back. He undid the buckle and looked at the other man, who was even bigger than Mansel.
“Swords or fists?” Mansel asked.
For the first time the man seemed hesitant. The aggressive look on his face was replaced with doubt. He wasn’t armed so Mansel laid his sword across the table.
“Any man who touches my weapon will die by it,” he said in a loud voice.
Then, he lunged forward. It was not the type of finesse that Quinn had taught him. It had none of the careful, patient deliberateness that made his mentor so dangerous. Instead it was an explosion of brute force. His shoulder slammed into the man and sent him sprawling. Mansel roared like a wild animal and jumped forward. Most of the other patrons were now scrambling to get out of the way. The wenches were quick to flee back into the kitchen with the innkeeper.
The shock of Mansel’s attack quickly wore off the big man and he scrambled to get to his feet, but Mansel was too quick. He brought up a hard knee into the man’s face and sent the local sprawling again. A smaller man joined the fray, leaping nimbly onto Mansel’s back and wrapping one arm around his neck and the other behind his head. Mansel felt the muscles tighten and his air was cut off. He reached up and fumbled to find the man’s hands, and when he finally did he wrenched hard. Bones popped, and the man on his back dropped to the floor with a howl. Mansel took a big breath and watched his opponent rise in front of him. The big local’s face was covered in bright, red blood.
“I’m going to kill you,” the man said.
“Do it,” Mansel taunted.
The man rushed forward, but this time Mansel pivoted sideways and waited. The big man threw a vicious haymaker punch that would have knocked an ox senseless, but Mansel swayed to the side and then used the man’s forward momentum to flip him over. It was a technique that Quinn had taught Mansel, twisting his body and flinging his opponent over his hip. The big man crashed to the floor, but Mansel still had the man’s arm by the wrist. He twisted the arm, then brought his booted foot high and slammed it down on the man’s elbow. There was a sickening crunch as bones snapped, ligaments and tendons tore, and cartilage popped.
The man passed out from the pain, and no one else moved. Mansel roared again and kicked over a nearby table. Then he stalked out of the inn, grabbing his sword as he went past it. Outside the air was cooler. Fall was approaching, and he was far enough north that nightfall brought cooler temperatures. The cool air felt good on his skin but did nothing to clear his foggy head. He didn’t even remember what had started the fight, but he felt like moving on was the best thing he could do. He didn’t want to have to deal with locals trying to avenge their friend’s defeat or gain compensation for the injuries he had inflicted.
He led his horse until he was too tired to walk anymore. The fight had winded him more than he expected and the ale made him even more tired. He found a small stream that ran near the road and made camp next to it. He hobbled his horse and then fell asleep on the ground. He woke up a few hours later with a boot in his ribs.
“This him?” said the man standing over him.
The man was holding a torch that made it difficult for Mansel to see. All around him the night seemed pitch black and he could just make out the group of horses nearby.
“Yes, that’s him. He broke Ennus’s arm and crippled Ryker. He’ll never swing a hammer again,” said one of the men on horseback, just paces away from Mansel.
“Get up, stranger,” said the man standing over Mansel.
“Who are you?” Mansel asked.
“My name’s Torrence; I’m the town constable.”
“What do you want with me?” Mansel asked.
“You assaulted some men earlier tonight,” said Torrence. “I intend to bring you back to town. You’ll need to make reparations to the men you injured.”
“It was a fair fight,” Mansel said as he stood up. He was trying to buy some time so he kept talking. “All I wanted was a warm meal.”
He was dizzy, and the alcohol in his stomach was only moments from coming up. He recognized the feeling all too well. His head was pounding and his mouth felt incredibly dry and foul. Still, he knew he needed to somehow get away from the men who had come to hold him to account for injuring the men in the inn. He tried to focus his eyes on the group of horses. Were there more men, or just the one who had identified him, he wondered. He wasn’t sure and it was too dark to tell.
“You’ll have to come with us,” Torrence said, in a tone that showed he expected no argument.
“Sure,” Mansel said, feigning friendliness. “I don’t want any more trouble. I’ll just gather my things.”
“You can leave all that, my men will see to it,” Torrence said.
“I can’t leave my belongings,” Mansel said. “Someone might steal them.”
“Mister, you’re coming with me, and I don’t care if you come peacefully, or knocked senseless and thrown across the back of a horse. Am I making myself clear?”
“Perfectly,” Mansel said.
And then he struck. It was a straight jab right at the man’s face, but the constable had been expecting it. He leaned back to avoid the blow, which is what Mansel had anticipated. He moved quickly, grabbing the grip of the short sword that hung in a scabbard from the constable’s belt. Torrence moved back quickly, not realizing what Mansel was doing, and the sword pulled free of the belt.
Torrence swung the torch at Mansel, but it was a clumsy effort, and Mansel was already spinning away from him. He knew he couldn’t leave his back turned to the other man on horseback. Mansel slashed his sword through the man’s reins, startling the horse so that it reared. The man toppled back, still holding the reins that he expected would save him from falling. There was a third man in the group, but he was on the far side of the rearing horse.