The Norseman followed Larson's stare. He leaned forward, his arm extended. "It's good you've noticed these hands." The muscles bunched into a fist. "In a moment, they'll crush your head like a leaf."
Larson remained unmoving. "I'm not worried about those hands. Size and competence are two different things. Otherwise, you'd be able to get women by other means than force."
The Norseman gathered breath.
Before he could speak, the bartender shouted to the Norseman's blond companions. "You'd best hobble your friend or the three of you will no longer be welcome here."
One of the other Norsemen responded instantly. "Sit down, Alsvithr. You've been thrown out of enough taverns. We won't be able to get a drink between here and Forste-Mar.''
Oblivious, Alsvithr lunged.
Larson tensed to meet the attack.
But before Alsvithr could reach the elf, his companions caught him by either arm and dragged him back to the table. Howling, Alsvithr struggled against his friends. "Cowards, let me go. What's one bar?"
The bartender tossed aside a cleaning rag and stepped around the counter. "One bar's important when it's the only one that'll take your business." He fixed his gaze on Larson. "And you, stranger. Sit down, or I'll let Alsvithr kill you. The girls expect this sort of thing. It comes with the job." He turned back to his work, muttering, "All women are whores."
The bartender's words stung Larson. Silme's no whore! The Norsemen ceased to bother him. He took a menacing step toward the bartender.
The bartender whirled to face him.
Gaelinar's voice cut over the hiss of the fire. "Allerum. Sit down right now!"
For a rebellious moment, Larson refused to move. His attention jumped from the bartender, whose fingers crept toward some weapon behind the counter, to the red-faced Norseman, to the Kensei. The look on Gaelinar's features warned that he would brook no disobedience. Larson retrieved his drink and spun back toward his companions.
Alsvithr's mumbled threat barely penetrated the silence. "His mother must have been a whore for him to take this so seriously. I'd have smashed the bony bastard."
Larson's self-restraint shattered. He whirled. A snap of his wrist splashed beer over Alsvithr.
Surprise crossed Alsvithr's sodden features, immediately replaced by an anger which echoed Larson's own. He ripped free of his companions' hold.
The bartender raised a club and rushed down on Larson. Before he had taken two steps, a shuriken embedded into the wood a finger's breadth from his hand. Gaelinar's warning followed. "Get back!" Shocked, the man obeyed.
Fists clenched, Alsvithr charged Larson. His blond companions advanced behind him.
Larson fought back the red curtain of anger which clouded his mind. Mug still in his hand, he threw a punch which caught Alsvithr across the jaw. Metal folded in Larson's fingers. The larger man staggered. Larson pressed his advantage. He tensed for another blow just as Gaelinar's fingers tightened around his shoulder. The Kensei lodged a foot behind Larson's heel and spun the elf into the table behind him.
Larson's chest struck the edge with enough force to drive the air from his lungs. He blundered into a chair and crashed, with it, to the ground. Rising to a crouch, he watched Gaelinar face off with Alsvithr. The Kensei spoke softly, but his tone carried the confidence of a man used to mastery. "This fight is over."
Blood trickled from Alsvithr's nose. "Step aside, old man!" he screamed. "Your stupid friend dumped beer on me. He hit me in the face. No one does that to Alsvithr and lives!"
Gaelinar held his ground, his manner deadly calm. "This fight is over. Sit down."
Alsvithr aimed a wide punch for Gaelinar. The Kensei's expression never changed. He caught the Norse-man's meaty wrist and effortlessly spun him into his companions. One's back struck the table, lifting the side several inches. Half full mugs tipped and rolled; they hit the floor with a ringing clangor, splattering beer across the planks. Alsvithr regained his balance quickly. His sword leaped from its sheath, and he rushed down on Gaelinar.
Larson surged to his feet, hand clamped to his hilt. He had barely begun to draw the blade when Gaelinar's ka-tana whisked silently through the air. It sliced through Alsvithr's sword as if through a twig. Two feet of worked iron fell to the ground at Alsvithr's boots while he stared, incredulous, at the stump of his mangled sword.
Gaelinar resheathed his katana in the same motion. "This fight is over. Sit down, or next time I take your wrists."
"Sit down," repeated one of Alsvithr's companions urgently. He gathered up the dented mugs.
Alsvithr grumbled something unintelligible, but took his seat. He slammed the broken haft to the tabletop so hard a crack wound along the wood grain.
Gaelinar turned and threw Larson a look of outrage more severe than any reprimand. "Move." He caught Larson's arm, spun him, and herded him toward the table where Taziar sat, watching. Larson knew he would pay for the incident with strained muscles and bruises at his next sword lesson. But, oddly, he did not care. He marched toward the table in quiet resentment and dropped into the chair across from Taziar.
Gaelinar glanced over at the bartender, washing the damaged mugs with unexpectedly calm detachment. "I imagine we'll have to leave?"
Taziar took a gulp of his drink. "We're staying the night. Where I come from, an incident like that would have earned you all a few nights in the dungeons. But here I've noticed people get forgiving when you give them enough money."
Larson slouched, arms folded across his chest and eyes locked on a spidery beer stain on the table before him. He knew he had earned every bit of derision his companions could voice. But the same unreasoning anger which had compelled him to incite the fight also made him unwilling to listen.
Gaelinar spoke without emotion, but Larson sensed the subtle threat beneath the Kensei's outward serenity. "You've shamed your honor, and mine as well. This is not the way you use the skills I've taught you."
Larson remained sullenly silent. The fire danced as the Norsemen opened the door and made their exit from the tavern.
Gaelinar's hands twitched, like the warning rattle of a snake. Before he could speak, Taziar interrupted. "What in darkest hell is the matter with you, Allerum? You respect life. It's not like you to start a fight which could get people killed."
Remorse poked through Larson's fury long enough to make him realize he had inappropriately translated frustration into violence. His anger had nothing to do with Alsvithr or his companions or the tavern. "She lied to me, damn it!" His vision glazed, and he fought away tears with an effort which reawakened hostility.
"Who lied to you?" Taziar pressed.
"Hel." Larson raised his voice and met Gaelinar's stare for the first time in days. "It's been more than a week since she promised to free Silme. Where is she? Damn it, where is she?" His fist crashed to the tabletop, scaring away the serving girl who had arrived with the food.
"Calm yourself." Gaelinar's words were a command. "Have patience. Give Silme time to find us."
"Time? Time!" Larson screamed. He raked dirt-streaked fingers through his hair, and a twig fell into his palm. "I've got her rankstone, remember? She knows where we are. She would be with us if she could. For God's sake, Gaelinar. She's Dragonrank. She travels instantly."
Taziar added helpfully, "I've never known anyone to return from the dead before. Maybe it takes time. Maybe she has to regain strength or reorient herself."
Larson shook his head. He could not say why his companions were mistaken, he just knew something had gone wrong. "I've killed. I've shared thoughts I can hardly bear myself. I've gone to Hel twice. I've defied and fought and threatened gods for her. I'm not giving up Silme now. Promise or not, I'm going back to Hel. If she doesn't deliver Silme right into my hands, I'm going to rip Hel apart fragment by rotting fragment." He shredded the stick in example.