To the untrained, the difference between a master swordsman and a novice is nearly imperceptible. Yes, a fancy-seeming pirouette, spinning a sword around your body, or tossing the blade from hand to hand might impress a crowd at the circus, but a true master knew that in a contest of blades, a violent game where death was the loser‘s reward, it was a matter of inches. A twist of the wrist, a shifting of position, the placement of a foot, altering the balance point of the blade; subtle variations that were often too small to be noticed without extensive training.
So when Garruth defeated the five men who had attacked him, the spectators were not as impressed as they should have been. It looked messy, maybe even accidental; but the truly initiated would have appreciated the level of control he had asserted over this make-shift, tavern battlefield.
He had come to this shit-hole of a tavern in this shit-hole of a town because a posting on the wall in the tavern of a slightly less-dunged little town three leagues to the north made it sound as if there might be a need for Garruth’s particular abilities. Instead he found only another filthy tavern filled with muddy, sweaty patrons. He had arrived low on food, even lower on funds, and entirely out of patience. Finding out that the job-posting had been a joke in no way improved his mood; and being accosted by a group of local ruffians, trying to extort money which he did not have from him, made him increasingly prone to belligerence.
But it wasn’t until later, after a vain attempt at reconciliation with the brutes by mentioning his reasons for coming into town - and being told that they were the ones who had posted the fake job as a lark the week before - that Garruth became violent. The thug nearest to him drew his rusty sword and swung it as hard as he could at Garruth’s head; but the warrior ducked underneath, pulling his own sword out of the sheath he kept strapped to his back, and slashed quickly but viciously across the man’s chest. The blade did not bite too deeply, but with Garruth’s precision it did not need to. He then spun quickly and parried a blow from the second thug, slid his own sword down the other man’s blade and, after feeling it make contact with the hilt, twisted his wrist upward, neatly disarming his enemy; with his other hand, he threw a tankard of foamy ale into the face of the third attacker, who just nearly managed to avoid the projectile. Before the brigand could reposition himself for another strike, Garruth took two quick steps towards him, cutting off the range of the man’s attack. So when he raised his arm back to level a massive blow at the mercenary, Garruth simply leaned forward and locked the attacker’s arm underneath his own, and smashed the pommel of his sword into the brute’s face.
He then turned round again quickly and parried a second blow from the fellow he had disarmed just a moment ago, who had apparently re-armed himself in the interim. He parried the man’s third wild advance, but this time rather than wait for another he took one step towards the sword arm of his assailant; the common thug, not being very well trained in close-quarter sword battles, did not compensate by moving back at all, and sealed his own fate: when he tried to bring his sword downward on Garruth’s head, the traveler swung his own blade in a wide arc to meet it, but at such an angle that it drove the other man’s sword into his own leg. He then smashed the flat of his blade against his enemy’s face. This all occurred in no more than thirty seconds.
The remaining two stood apart, swords drawn but wary.
“I‘m willing to put up my sword if you are; so far as I know I haven’t killed any of you yet. But this is your last chance to escape with your lives intact.”
“Fuck you,” the uglier of the two said as he spat - as Garruth considered that, in relation to his still remaining companion, this brigand’s success in out ugly-ing the other was a rather significant accomplishment. “Get behind him.”
Garruth smiled, a chilling one with very little mirth behind it. They seem to think that I’ve had never had to fight two simultaneous enemies before. The man that had circled around behind him struck first, but Garruth danced out of the way of the swing, which took him very near the other assailant. So he drove the man before him back with a quick feint towards his mid section; predictably, the thug leapt backwards. He was now out of range of the attack, but also too far from Garruth to prevent what next happened to his companion.
He turned and, as the brigand began his swing, Garruth attacked sooner. He just managed to get his sword inside the arc of his enemy’s attack; his foe’s blade rang out as it clashed harmlessly on the top of Garruth’s outstretched sword, which plunged into his neck. Garruth then grasped the handle of his sword with both hands and pulled it out forcibly; a fountain of blood spurted upward even as the body collapsed to the floor, head still slightly attached by a flap of skin. Garruth now faced the last of the thugs alone.
“You killed him, you son of a bitch!”
“You chose this, not me.”
They circled one another slowly, sword points held low. The tavern had, by this point, been mostly emptied of patrons; a few huddled fearfully behind the bar next to the tavern owner.
The oaf cast a few desperate feints towards Garruth, but they were easily deflected. He then lunged forward, hoping to thrust the thick of his blade into Garruth’s chest, but the mercenary took two quick steps to the side, smacking down on the top of his opponent’s blade. The force of the blow and his own over-reaching momentum cause the bandit to stumble forward, sword scraping on the ground; he had taken two uncontrollable steps before he was within Garruth’s grasp. The expert swordsman grabbed the back of the brigand’s tunic and pulled him closer, even as he drove his sword upwards into the man’s chest.
His sword stuck clean through the back of his enemy, Garruth kicked him off with a foot; the man gurgled as the sharp steel slid out of his lungs. He struggled back up to his knees and then fell down again, blood spewing out of his chest and mouth. Garruth watched him struggle for a moment, and then stabbed the sword through his heart; the man died almost immediately.
He then wiped his blood-soaked sword off on one of the table cloths, and looked around critically; two dead, three wounded, possibly two of whom would die. He then set about rummaging through their belongings and found on their leader a pouch full of gold. He took that with him and exited; no one in the tavern seemed interested in contesting his right to the coins, and he had found it best in such situations not to ask too many questions about property rights.
He did not feel at all guilty for what he had done to the men; his keen, perceptive eyes had studied them all very well before they had attacked him. They were deserters, former members of some local military force, who had obviously decided that the Service did not allow them to adequately apply those skills they had held in such high regard, so they set out in search for a tiny little hamlet to terrorize; thus they had ended up here, posting fake announcements at the taverns of the other, nearby hamlets. As Garruth saw it, he had done these people a favor; and, since "to the victor went the spoils" - as well as the fact, again, that he was near broke - he felt that he deserved the money he had scavenged. After all, mercenaries have to eat too.
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