The door to the inn burst open as it was kicked in from the outside. The man who’d done the kicking stepped through and stopped at attention beside the door, a large man dressed in the green and yellow house garb of a noble house.

  Behind him came a thin wiry man dressed in a brigandine of the same house colors. He held a rapier in one hand and a buckler in the other. Three more men matching the first followed him.

  “Which of you vile creatures deflowered my noble wife!” the man shouted in a shrill voice.

  Sal the inn keeper moved to the back of the bar, resigned to the fact that his establishment was about to be ransacked, and looking to at least survive the event. The guests present looked from the newcomers and to Syril’s table, and then moved quickly to clear the path between the angry noble and those most likely responsible for the anger.

  Syril, Grom, and Ellen all turned to look at Linar. He held his hands in the air beside his face.

  “This has nothing to do with me,” he said.

  “Because you were here all week?” Grom asked?

  “No,” Linar said, “Because that’s not the guy I didn’t kill.”

  “Excuse me,” Ellen said, raising her hand.

  “What is it?” the man demanded.

  “How exactly did this man deflower you wife?” Ellen asked.

  “By laying his filthy hands on her of course!” he said.

  “No,” Ellen said, taking the opportunity to stand. “What I mean is, ‘deflowering’ implies that there was a… well, flower to pluck. Had you not already done so?”

  The man grew red and flustered as he understood what she was saying.

  “I... um… of course I’ve deflowered her,” he said, sputtering. “We’ve done that… loads of time.”

  “Oh!” Syril said, Sorry guys,” Syril said. “I think this one’s actually my fault—sorry Linar.”

  “You!” the small man said, somehow growing shriller. “Kill him!”

  The four arms men advanced on Syril who’d stood as soon as the man had shouted “You!”

  The foes spread out as they approached their booth, splitting up and going around the tables and kicking chairs out of the way.

  “Lord Bosin I presume? We can talk about this,” Syril said. “No need for this to come to violence.”

  “It always comes to violence,” Grom said, resigned and getting to his feet.

  “Shut up,” Syril hissed under his breath.

  “Lord Bosim? You think I’m that over muscled fool?!” the noble shouted.

  Syril squinted, deep in thought.

  “Lord Calingham?” he asked.

  “That snob? How dare you insult me thrice!”

  “Syril, you really have a problem,” Grom said. “I thought you left the married ones alone.”

  “I leave the happily married ones alone,” Syril said so just Grom could hear.

  “Enough!” the lord shouted. “I’m Lord—”

  “Pestimow!” Syril said, remembering it.”

  “Yes!” he said, excited that Syril got the name at first, but then grew angry as the situation came back to him. “You have ruined my wife!”

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  “You were wasting her!” Syril shouted back, unable to resist defending the woman.

  “Are we killing them or not?” Linar asked in a stage whisper, which was clearly audible to the advancing men.

  The men had slowed as their lord had begun talking with the people they’d been ordered to kill, and now paused completely at the casual air of the man they were about to kill and his friends.

  “No killing,” Syril said.

  “Alright,” Linar said, sitting back down. “I’m sitting this one out then.”

  “Last chance to surrender,” Syril said, speaking to the noble standing haughtily in the rear.

  “Die!” the noble screamed.

  Syril drew his flute, plaid a quick melody, and cast a spell to put the men to sleep.

  Nothing happened.

  “I’m not a fool!” the noble shouted. “I’ve given them charms against your seductive magic!”

  Grom and Syril made eye contact, and then they both ran at the men. Neither had a weapon, but this wasn’t the first time they’d been in a situation like this. They were used to facing beasts that could crush them in their jaws or eviscerate them with a single talon. Compared to that, some moderately trained guards were nothing.

  While some guards were competent, a few even good, few were great. Those that were quickly found themselves doing more profitable or exciting work than guarding a noble of low esteem and irritating temperament than this man.

  And besides, if things went poorly, Ellen could always kill these men with a flick of her wrist and save both their lives.

  Grom dropped his shoulder and charged at the nearest man to him, taking him at the waist and bowling him over onto a table. The dwarf recovered from the impact quickly, picked up a stury wooden chair, and threw it at the next man.

  His target raised his blade to try to block the chair, but the weighty projectile only pushed the sword into him, causing a self-inflicted wound to his shoulder.

  Syril took a different approach.

  He grabbed Ellen’s mug and threw it at the closest man, and hummed a tune, focusing on the sword of the second man. The first batted the mug aside, shattering it and sending the pieces to the ground.

  The sword in the back rapidly grew red as heat built up in it and the flunky threw it to the ground, clasping his hand to his chest.

  Syril knew he’d said they weren’t going to kill the men, and he’d meant it, but he needed to use a spell. All his non lethal magic was that of the mind, which were somehow blocked at the moment, which left him with few options.

  They probably won’t die he reassured himself as he began casting his next spell.

  He took another mug, and threw it at the approaching man again. Once more he swung at it, this time however Syril had begn casting a spell, and when the mug broke, he infused the sound with magic, amplifying it greatly.

  A ear blasting crash rang out in the inn, the tables on either side shattering into splinters. The man collapsed, clutching his legs only to realize his arms too were in serios pain. He moaned on the ground, blood dripping from his ears and nose as his mind tried to cope with the pain of dozens of his bones breaking.

  Totally fine, see? Syril

  Grom followed up his chair attack with another charge, this time knocking his opponent to the ground, sending his sword sliding across the inn. He recovered quickly and jumped on the guard, giving him a solid punch to the face. His head jerked back at the impact crashing into the floor for a second that knocked him out.

  By then, the first man he’d tackled had regained his feet, and he pulled Grom off his ally, heaving him by the back of his tunic. Grom was pulled onto his back, and rolled to the side as his attacker tried to stomp on him, crawled under a table and stood up on the other side.

  As soon as he got to his feet, Grom shoved the table forward, hitting the house guard in his waist. As the man stumbled, Grom put his legs behind the shove and ran, knocking the man down completely and pushing the table over him. Then, Grom kicked the nearest legs of the table out, dropping the edge of it on the man, ran up the ramp it created and launched himself onto the nearest table. Now elevated at a height above the other non-dwarves, he ran at the last standing guard, hoping from tabletop to table top.

  When he was in range, he dove, tackling this man to the ground as well.

  While all this went down, Lord Pestimow began to make his way to the door as he realized this would not be going his way. Once his third man had been downed, he turned to flee, only to find the door they’d knocked down was lifted back up into place.

  The hinges were clearly hanging loose so he ran up to it and pulled, but it didn’t budge.

  “I fixed that . Sort of… ” Ellen said. “I hope you don’t mind, it’s just that there was kind of a breeze.”

  He turned to look for a second exit, only to find Syril standing and waiting behind him.

  “So,” Syril said. “Can we talk this over now?”

  ?

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