Chapter 16
Bar fight
Walking swiftly and staying to the back streets, away from the market area, it took Anson and Nevin only a few minutes to reach the Hogshead Inn. The structure was a weathered old two-story wooden building, unpainted but of solid construction. The entrance lead directly into the main pub room, where they became the center of attention for the patrons seated at the various tables.
The Hogshead was a fairly clean place but the tables were set with rather flimsy looking chairs, making Nevin a little cautious about sitting. Three of the tables were occupied with customers, some of whom wore the blue uniforms of Antrim Armsmen. Most of these uniforms were rather seedy, suggesting to Nevin that these were probably men of low military rank. A stairway at the back of the room provided access to upstairs sleeping rooms.
Nevin and Anson walked to the table closest to the back stairway, with Nevin taking considerable care to test the chair’s stability. All conversations in the place halted as the patrons watched the two strangers, prompting Nevin to sit with his back to the peering eyes. Conversations around them slowly resumed with all the buzzing focused on a single topic. Eventually, the pair were greeted by the innkeeper, who introduced himself as Grogan. When told that Orris had sent them, Grogan seemed genuinely pleased that his old friend was still alive and had returned to Sartell.
Grogan said he could provide them with a room and two cots, although looking at Nevin he added, “You, Sir, are an oak tree of a man and will find your feet hanging over the end of any of my beds. Er. . .that’d go for any of the beds you’d find around the city, but no offense meant, Sir. We will serve you well.”
Nevin was neither offended, nor amused. He was beginning to grow weary of the distraction caused by his relative large size. Never in his life had anybody paid attention to any his physical attributes. Anson accepted the room offer and Grogan agreed to settle accounts with Orris.
After the innkeeper left them to fetch some food and drink, Anson and Nevin carried on a quiet conversation over their difficulty in getting an audience with King Lucan. Their talk was soon interrupted by a man from one of other tables, an Armsman whose uniform was stained down the front and repaired in several places. Nevin frowned at the man’s sloppy appearance and lack of military bearing, no doubt affected by too much ale or something similar. Though partially obscured by a grizzled, patchy beard, two lengthy scars were prominent on the man’s face, leaving no doubt he was a veteran soldier. His scars flushed red. Even in a seated position, Nevin stared nearly face to face with him. After wiping the back of his hand across his jaw a few times, a nervous gesture while screwing up his courage, the soldier spoke with a gravelly voice that was convincingly unfriendly in tone.
“My mates and I have not seen you two around here before. What is your business?”
Before Nevin could respond, Anson shot back with unusual sternness, “We have no business with you. Be off and let us be.”
“If your business is for Gilsum, then it becomes our concern.” The soldier looked back at his comrades, who responded with contained grins and gestures of encouragement. Buoyed by this reinforcement, he rested his hands on his hips and pouted a retort. “This big fellow here, he is not from Antrim, that is plain to see. Might you be a Gilsum man? Maybe both of you?”
The soldier’s beery breath confirmed his drunken state, plus the tendency to totter with his flourish of bravado. Nevin tried to dismiss this attention. “I assure you that I have never been to Gilsum. As my friend said, our business is a private matter and not your concern. Please go away.”
Looking back again at his two associates, assuring them he was going to follow through with some plan, the obnoxious soldier pointed a finger at Nevin and slurred, “I do not like the way you talk to me, Big One. I think you are a Gilsum man. You would be one of their tall freaks and I wager you are here as a spy.”
Nevin was getting annoyed. “You have had too much to drink and are talking like a fool. Please go back to your own table.”
“I told you I did not like the way you talked to me.” With that, the soldier socked Nevin in the eye, knocking him off his chair. Posing in a boxing stance over the now sprawled tall man, he added, “You do not look so tall from the floor, freak.”
Nevin propped himself up to a sitting position, checking his eye with his fingertips and detecting a trickle of blood.
Anson jumped from his chair and knelt down to examine Nevin’s face. Angered by the attack on his friend, Anson wheeled and faced the aggressor. He dared not risk evoking a spell, and had no time to think of another course of action because he was grabbed from behind by the soldier’s comrades, one of whom said, “Let them have it out, Friend, and we shall not interfere.”
Nevin, still sitting on the floor, looked up at his attacker. Now angry about getting bloodied, he was still going to plead his unwillingness to fight—until the aggressor swung his right foot and kicked Nevin square on the side of the face and sent him sprawling to the floor again. Nevin sat up once more and shook his head to regain his senses. That is enough of that! He leaned forward on his hands and knees, raised himself like a runner in a starting position and vaulted toward the soldier, burying his head in the man’s midsection and sending him flying into the table behind him. Nevin then grabbed the stunned man by his shirt, lifted him off his feet and ran with him toward the door, against which the man collided with such vigor that he slumped to the floor as Nevin let go of his shirt.
“Sorry, Private,” Nevin said, leaning over his barely conscious adversary. “I guess I forgot to open the door.”
Seeing that Anson was being restrained by the other two men, Nevin gritted out, “I would advise you to let go of my friend, or you can join this man—standing up or lying down.”Nevin surprised himself with the fervor of his threat.
He must have been convincing, because the other soldiers immediately let Anson go and backed away. Nevin opened the door with one hand and with the other dragged his groggy opponent by the collar out to the street. The other two men then sidled cautiously out the door, passed Nevin, and left their companion lying half-conscious in the street. As the men took off, Nevin slammed the door behind him and returned to his table.
Nevin’s last fistfight was in high school, a similar encounter with a football player over Nevin’s membership in the photography club. As an adult now, Nevin was shaken at how easily he came to aggressive behavior. It was primitive to behave this way and he was frustrated that he resorted to this solution. He was not proud of himself and sat silently as Anson examined the two rising welts on his face.
After Anson pronounced that Nevin’s facial contusions were minor, Grogan brought their meal of boiled potatoes, carrots, a slab of red meat that appeared to be mutton, and two tankards of ale. The innkeeper seemed unconcerned about the mess and never even acknowledged there had been a fight, except to say he was glad it happened before he served their dinner. The food turned out to be tasty, the vegetables being particularly flavorful, but Nevin did not enjoy the meal. His jaw and cheek were sore, making it uncomfortable to chew. Because of the physical demands from several days of overland travel, however, he was also very hungry so he endured the discomfort. Both men ate their fill, except that Anson avoided the meat, and soon retired to their room for the night.