Hadrian had already guessed that from how he had stood with his right leg forward. Now he knew for certain because the swing wasn’t a jab or a feint. The big boy had put everything into that punch, expecting to end the fight right there.
Hadrian turned sideways and guided the blow away from his face with his left hand. He caught Bull’s wrist and twisted it slightly to roll the elbow up. Then, bracing with his right, Hadrian snapped his opponent’s arm backward at the elbow.
Pop!
Hadrian heard, as well as felt, the joint give.
This was followed by a bellowing scream as Bull stumbled forward. Hadrian let momentum do the work, and Bull slammed into the table still laden with porridge. Bowls shot into the air, wooden legs severed, and the table collapsed as Bull crashed into it.
Clem took a step forward as Hadrian backed up. “Wait!” Hadrian held up his palms and then pointed at the debris. “You might want to pick up one of those table legs. Makes a good club, don’t you think?”
This made Clem pause for a moment. Then he glanced at the floor where Bull was rolling in the spilled porridge, whimpering and clutching his twisted arm. Hadrian hoped that if Clem took a moment to reflect upon the torment of his friend it’d be enough to make Clem—and everyone else—think twice. It didn’t. But Clem did take Hadrian’s advice and picked up a broken table leg.
The first swing was wide. Hadrian took a step back anyway. The second, a backswing, was on target and Hadrian ducked, taking another step back. Then another. By the time they reached the oak post where Brett and his friend had been talking the night before, Clem was getting tired. Swinging that table leg as hard as he could was difficult, and sweat glistened on the orange-clad man’s forehead.
Hadrian waited for the next swing, and this time he stepped inside and guided his opponent’s hand. Easy to tell that the loud thwack! was Clem’s hand rather than the table leg hitting the post. The man dropped the club with a cry and jerked his hand to his chest in agony. Regardless of what else it might have done, the post had skinned Clem’s knuckles. Blood smeared the front of his nice tunic, leaving two faint streaks.
Hadrian thought this would end the fight, but the father who had remained behind had opened the door, and Brett, followed by two others, entered. Apparently, the wife was no more innocent than the husband.
All three charged Hadrian, arms spread for a waist-high tackle.
Hadrian stepped behind the pillar, ruining everything. He also picked up the table leg.
Brett went right, the family man went left. The third didn’t know what to do, so he just stopped in front of the post. They hadn’t seen Hadrian pick up the leg, and Brett still hadn’t seen it when Hadrian clubbed him in the forehead. Brett’s mouth made a wide O as his head snapped back and his legs crumpled under him. The father of two had intended to grab Hadrian’s arms from behind, but Hadrian was standing too close to the post for him to easily get both arms around. Didn’t matter. Hadrian brought the table leg back, punching into the man’s stomach with the splintered end. The jagged teeth cut through his shirt. Porridge Dad let out a whoosh of air, folded, and collapsed.
By this time, Wagner had come around the bar to join the fray, and Clem had recovered enough to have a second go.
Hadrian dodged around the post and moved back to the center of the room, where Bull was howling on the floor, lying on his back, his knees up as he rocked from side to side. Hadrian snatched another loose table leg off the ground.
The remaining three men—Gill abstained from the fight, choosing instead to watch from the cellar stairs—came at Hadrian more slowly this time. They fanned out, trying to circle him. Wagner wrapped the towel around his knuckles, and the three shuffled forward, jabbing and swiping, some with open hands and outstretched fingers. Maybe they were trying to catch hold of him; Hadrian wasn’t sure, but they looked ridiculous, like children. None had any training, much less experience.
They drugged me. Stole from me. Might have killed me.
The last one was unlikely, but he needed something. He was starting to feel like he was beating up on kids. When fighting skilled soldiers, Hadrian could anticipate moves. These people were erratic and foolish beyond prediction. They were so inept he might accidentally kill one. Not having his swords was a benefit; these imbeciles would probably impale themselves.
Hadrian cracked Brett on his reaching wrist. He howled and fell back. Thinking this provided an opening and not realizing Hadrian now had two clubs and was proficient with both hands, Clem lunged in. The second table leg caught him across the bridge of his nose. Blood erupted. Hadrian swung at Wagner then, who managed to jump out of the way but lost his balance in the effort and fell, slamming into another table, cracking it badly as he went down.
“Stop!” Scarlett Dodge stood in the doorway. She wore the same fetching patchwork gown, which looked out of place in the morning light. In her arms, she clutched three familiar swords. “Damn it, Brett! I told you to stall him, not fight him.”
She threw the three blades on the floor, where they clattered on the stone.
“Hey!” Hadrian yelled.
“What? You threw my friends on the floor!”
“His swords are worth more,” Royce said. He appeared from the shadows at the bottom of the stairs, hood up, arms folded. No one had seen him come down. Everyone still able to, shifted away.
“Royce, I thought I told you to wait upstairs,” Hadrian said.
“You took too long. I got bored.”
“What are you doing?” Wagner asked Scarlett as he got to his feet. “Declawing the cat, remember?”
“Yeah, that was last night and before I knew this cat doesn’t need claws to kill you.”
“We almost had him, Dodge,” Porridge Dad said, still bent over and rubbing his stomach. “He was getting tired.”
“He’s had more sleep than any of you—trust me.”
“I’d rather have gotten drunk and suffered a hangover. You want to explain what happened last night?” Hadrian asked.
“Not really.”
“I’m afraid we’re going to insist,” Royce said, and began to slowly cross the debris-ridden room. “Miss Dodge, is it?”
“It sure as bloody Mar isn’t Missus.”
“Watch your mouth, girl,” Wagner snapped. “No need to blaspheme our Lord’s name.”
“Sorry, but he brings out the worst in me.”
“I think Miss Dodge needs to take a walk with us,” Royce said.
“She ain’t going nowhere with you two.” This was said by Bull Neck, who still lay on the floor, cradling his wounded arm.
“I’m afraid she is,” Royce said. He drew out a folded parchment and held it up. “Can you read?”
She stared at the parchment. Shock spread across her face. “You’re—you’re…” Scarlett couldn’t manage to say the word.
“Royal constables,” Royce said. “Keepers of the peace.”
“That’s not possible. You were in the Diamond, for Maribor’s sake.”
“You think I whipped this up last night?”
“Sure, why not?”
“Ask Sheriff Knox or Chamberlain Wells. You can even talk to Lord Fawkes—he’s the king’s cousin. He ought to know if the king’s signature is authentic.”
Wagner growled. “I don’t care who you say you are; she’s not going anywhere with you two.”
“It’s okay, Wag,” Scarlett said.
“It ain’t.”
“It is.”
“These two ain’t no royal constables.”
Scarlett sighed. “If it’s true, they could kill me in the name of the king, and Sheriff Knox would buy them drinks. And if it isn’t, they can still murder me and disappear. If they wanted me dead, you’d already be picking out my box.”
As she said this, Hadrian buckled on his two swords, then hefted the big one onto his back.
“Besides, how exactly do you plan to stop them?” She pointed toward Hadrian. “He pummeled all of you black-and-blue with two table legs. What do you think he’ll do with those? And don’t forget what I told you last night about him.” This time Scarlett pointed at Royce.