Crusade - James Lowder [80]
The Sembian mercenary watched the two Cormyrians for a moment, then asked, "What do you think you're doing?"
"Looking for someone of the nobility," John offered. "It's a Cormyrian tradition that the nobleman of the greatest lineage or the highest ranking officer in the taproom gets the last drink from a cask or wineskin."
"If there were any officers in this place, you'd not be giving that wine to them," the dalesman snapped, making a feeble grab for the skin. Mal slapped a hand over the man's thin face and pushed him back in his chair.
As Mal was dealing with the dalesman, the mercenary snatched the wineskin from his hand. "The person who bought it gets to decide what to do with the last swallow," he said loudly. A few heads turned toward the table.
Mal swore and stood up. As he leaned forward to grab the skin from the Sembian, the mercenary drew a dagger and held it to Mal's throat.
"No weapons!" the barkeep cried, then ducked into the back room. A few men and women drew their swords. One or two made for the door.
Mal slowly sat back down and slid his hand around his tankard. The Sembian's evil grin only made his scar turn red and, if possible, more ugly. He handed the wineskin to the dalesman. "You bought it, archer. It's yours."
As the dalesman smiled and uncorked the wineskin, Razor John reached for his own dagger. He certainly didn't intend to fight over something as ridiculous as a mouthful of cheap wine, but he wasn't about to let someone attack him either. "Let's go, Mal," he rumbled, taking a step away from the table. "This isn't worth it." When his countryman didn't stand, John looked down in amazement.
Mal sat hunched over his tankard, which he gripped tightly in his left hand.
Beneath a tangle of blond curls, his broad, thick-boned face was caught somewhere between an expression of bewilderment and rage. "Damn Sembians," he muttered. "Damned dalesmen. I should've known better than to drink with merchants and farmers."
"At least this wine's going where it belongs," the dalesman said happily, He pulled the cork and upended the wineskin. The last of the red liquid poured onto the dirty floor, startling a few insects. Before the wine had drained through the widely spaced floorboards, the tan-clad soldier repeated a short, ritualistic prayer to the God of Agriculture.
A few people at nearby tables laughed. The Sembian mercenary stood, slack-jawed and staring. Mal, his alcohol-numbed brain only now registering what had happened, cursed again and stood. His dirty, sweat-soaked clothes clung to his muscular form like a second skin.
"No hard feelings," the dalesman said, offering his hand to Mal. "You've got your traditions; we've got ours."
John saw Mal tense his arm, but the realization that he was going to lash out came to the fletcher too late for action. The warrior swung with his left in a vicious backhanded slap. The dalesman, his reflexes dulled by wine, couldn't get out of the way of the tarnished tankard. With a dull clang, the heavy metal mug hit him square in the face, shattering his nose and more than a few of his teeth.
The dalesman hit the floor with a muffled thud, his blood mixing with the dregs of the spilled wine. The skitter of a dozen swords leaving their sheaths underscored the muttered curses and oaths.
Mal, the tankard still dangling in his left hand, stared dumbly at his victim.
"Get up," he said roughly, kicking the body with his mud-caked boots.
With a gasp, Razor John dropped to his knees. He put his ear close to the dalesman's bloody mouth. "He's not breathing." A few tears began to well in the fletcher's eyes. "You idiot!" he screamed. "You killed him over a tankard of wine!"
The Sembian mercenary took a step back and sheathed his dagger. "The generals'll hang you for this. They'll not let murder go unpunished."
The dented, bloodied