The big man was forced to bend over, grimacing in pain. Then he jerked his arm roughly out of the innkeeper’s grip. Kvothe had half a moment to look startled before the soldier’s elbow caught him in the temple.
The innkeeper staggered backward, trying to gain a little distance and a moment to clear his head. But the soldier followed close after him, fists raised, waiting for an opening.
Before Kvothe could regain his balance, the soldier stepped close and drove a fist hard into his gut. The innkeeper let out a pained huff of air, and as he started to double over the soldier swung his other fist into the side of the innkeeper’s face, snapping Kvothe’s head to the side and sending him reeling.
Kvothe managed to keep his feet by grabbing a nearby table for support. Blinking, he threw a wild punch to keep the bearded man at a distance. But the solider merely brushed it aside and caught hold of the innkeeper’s wrist in one huge hand, easy as a father might grab hold of a wayward child in the street.
Blood running down the side of his face, Kvothe struggled to free his wrist. Dazed, he made a quick motion with both hands, then repeated it, trying to pull away. His eyes half-focused and dull with confusion, he looked down at his wrist and made the motion again, but his hands merely scrabbled uselessly at the soldier’s scarred fist.
The bearded soldier eyed the stupefied innkeeper with amused curiosity, then reached out and slapped him hard on the side of the head. “You’re almost a bit of a scrapper, boy,” he said. “You actually stuck one on me.”
Behind them, the blonde soldier was slowly getting to his feet. “Little bastard sucker-punched me.”
The big soldier yanked the innkeeper’s wrist so he stumbled forward. “Say you’re sorry, cully.”
The innkeeper blinked blearily, opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then staggered. Or rather, he seemed to stagger. Halfway through the stumbling motion became deliberate, and the innkeeper stomped down hard with the heel of his foot, aiming at the soldier’s boot. At the same time he snapped his forehead down at the bearded man’s nose.
But the big man merely laughed, moving his head to the side as he jerked the innkeeper off balance again by his wrist. “None of that,” he chided, backhanding Kvothe across the face.
The innkeeper let out a yelp and lifted a hand to his bleeding nose. The soldier grinned and casually drove a knee hard into the innkeeper’s groin.
Kvothe doubled over, first gasping soundlessly, then making a series of choked retching noises.
Moving casually, the soldier let go of Kvothe’s wrist, then reached out and picked up the bottle of wine from the bar. Gripping it by the neck, he swung it like a club. When it hit the side of the innkeeper’s head, it made a solid, almost metallic sound.
Kvothe crumpled bonelessly to the floor.
The big man looked at the bottle of wine curiously before setting it back on the bar. Then he bent, grabbed the innkeeper’s shirt, and dragged his limp body out onto the open floor. He nudged the unconscious body with a foot until it stirred sluggishly.
“Said I’d give you a kickin’, boy,” the soldier grunted, and drove his foot hard into Kvothe’s side.
The blonde soldier walked over, rubbing at the side of his face. “Had to get all clever, didn’t you?” he said, spitting on the floor. He drew back his boot and landed a hard kick of his own. The innkeeper drew a sharp, hissing breath, but made no other sound.
“And you . . .” The bearded soldier pointed a thick finger at Chronicler. “I’ve got more than one boot. Would you like to see the other? I’ve already skint my knuckles. It’s no bother to me if you want to lose a couple teeth.”
Chronicler looked around and seemed genuinely surprised to find himself standing. He lowered himself slowly back into his chair.
The blonde soldier limped off to reclaim the purse from where it had fallen, while the big bearded man remained standing over Kvothe. “I suppose you figured you had to try,” he said to the crumpled body, giving him another solid kick in the side. “Damn fool. Pasty little innkeep against two of the king’s own.” He shook his head and spat again. “Honestly, who do you think you are?”
Curled on the floor, Kvothe began to make a low, rhythmic sound. It was a dry, quiet noise that scratched around the edges of the room. Kvothe paused as he drew a painful breath.
The bearded soldier frowned and kicked him again. “I asked you a question, cully . . .”
The innkeeper made the same noise again, louder than before. Only then did it become obvious that he was laughing. Each low, broken chuckle sounded like he was coughing up a piece of shattered glass. Despite that, it was a laugh, full of dark amusement, as if the red-haired man had heard a joke that only he could understand.
It went on for some time. The bearded soldier shrugged and drew back his foot again.
Chronicler cleared his throat and the two men turned to look at him. “In the interest of keeping things civilized,” he said. “I feel I should mention that the innkeeper sent his assistant out on an errand. He should be back soon. . . .”
The bearded soldier slapped his companion on the chest with the back of his hand. “He’s right. Let’s get out of here.”
“Wait a moment,” the blonde soldier said. He hurried back to the bar and snatched the bottle of wine. “Right, let’s go.”
The bearded soldier grinned and went behind the bar, stepping on the innkeeper’s body rather than over it. He grabbed a random bottle, knocking over half a dozen others as he did so. They rolled and spun on the counter between the two huge barrels, a tall, sapphire-colored one slowly toppling over the edge to shatter on the floor.
In less than a minute the men had gathered up their packs and were out the door.
Chronicler hurried over to where Kvothe lay on the wooden floor. The red-haired man was already struggling into a sitting position.
“Well that was embarrassing,” Kvothe said. He touched his bloody face and looked at his fingers. He chuckled again, a jagged, joyless sound. “Forgot who I was there for a minute.”
“Are you alright?” Chronicler asked.
Kvothe touched his scalp speculatively. “I’ll need a stitch or two, I suspect.”
“What can I do to help?” Chronicler asked, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
“Don’t hover over me.” Kvothe pushed himself awkwardly to his feet, then slumped into one of the tall stools at the bar. “If you want, you can fetch me a glass of water. And maybe a wet cloth.”
Chronicler scurried back into the kitchen. There was the sound of frantic rummaging followed by several things falling to the ground.
Kvothe closed his eyes and leaned heavily against the bar.
“Why is the door open?” Bast called as he stepped through the doorway. “It’s cold as a witch’s tit in here.” He froze, his expression stricken. “Reshi! What happened? What . . . I . . . What happened?”
“Ah Bast,” Kvothe said. “Close the door, would you?”
Bast hurried over, a numb expression on his face. Kvothe sat in a stool at the bar, his face swollen and bloody. Chronicler stood next to him, dabbing awkwardly at the innkeeper’s scalp with a damp cloth.
“I might need to prevail on you for a few stitches, Bast,” Kvothe said. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“Reshi,” Bast repeated. “What happened?”
“Devan and I got into a bit of an argument,” Kvothe said, nodding at the scribe, “about the proper use of the subjunctive mood. It got a little heated toward the end.”
Chronicler looked up at Bast, then blanched and took several quick steps backward. “He’s joking!” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “It was soldiers!”
Kvothe chuckled painfully to himself. There was blood on his teeth.