Exceptions to Reality_ Stories - Alan Dean Foster [73]
While continuing his conversation with Wolfram, Jon-Tom kept the fingers of one hand wrapped around the otter’s belt, thus preventing the frantic Mudge from fleeing. Short legs fought for purchase on the liquor-slick stone floor.
Jon-Tom smiled reassuringly at their host. “Don’t mind Mudge. He’s just anxious to get started.”
“I’m anxious, all right, you bloody great stick-twit!” To no avail, the otter continued his furious struggle to free himself from his friend’s grasp. “Let loose o’ me pants!”
The three-way conversation was interrupted by a violent crash from the center of the floor. Peering out from the booth, their attention was drawn to a singularly unwholesome-looking human and his puma companion. Breathing hard, both were staring down at something on the floor. The human held the shattered remnants of a wooden mace, his snarling companion a club that had been broken in half. The upper, knobbed end of the mace hung from the handle by a splinter. As Jon-Tom tried to see what it was they were concentrating on, their expressions changed markedly.
An enormous dark mass was rising slowly from the ground. As it blotted out a wide section of inn, human and feline began to back away from it. Whirling abruptly, the man dropped his broken weapon and tried to run. A leather-wrapped wrist bigger around than his head reached out and enormous brown-furred fingers closed around his neck, lifting him off the floor. As he ascended he clawed frantically at the grasping digits while his legs kicked uselessly at empty air. Waving the human over his head like a limp flag, the now fully upright armor-clad grizzly reached out for the panicked puma. As he did so, a chair slammed into his back and shattered into kindling. When someone in the crowd took physical as well as verbal objection to this cowardly blow from behind, the inn’s population descended—not entirely unwillingly—into instant and complete pandemonium.
Above it all the immense ursine could be seen clearly, still waving his now unconscious human assailant while bellowing above the increasingly thunderous fray, “Stromagg stomp!”
Mudge was already heading for the back exit, ducking flying utensils and other debris, some of it obnoxiously organic. Their elderly host stayed close to him, equally anxious to be clear of the rapidly escalating skirmish. But Jon-Tom hung back. The otter bawled imploringly at his friend.
“Quickly, guv, quickly! The coppers’ll be ’ere any minute! An’ you know wot that’ll mean.”
Jon-Tom did, but lingered still. “You two go on. I’ll be right there.” So saying, he plunged back into the affray. Shaking his head in disbelief and venting a whistle of disgust, Mudge concentrated on chaperoning their erstwhile benefactor away from the intensifying chaos.
The tall human with sword and duar was largely ignored by the combatants, actively engaged as they were in forcibly removing one another’s appendages and resolving old scores. Jon-Tom had to strike out only occasionally to remain above the fray as he worked his way toward its nucleus. When the enormous bear leaned in his direction, all monolithic chest and pungent fur and glistening teeth, he found himself wondering if this was such a good idea after all. Despite his sudden apprehension, he managed to call out, “Come with me! The police are on their way.”
Absently crushing to the floor with one massive fist an onrushing, sword-wielding wombat, the grizzly’s heavy brows drew together as he considered the offer. “Why should I go with you? I don’t know you.”
There was a commotion near the entrance to the inn. Timswitty’s deservedly feared finest were arriving. “Because I’m offering you a job—I think.”
Whirling about, the sextet of uniformed skunks prepared to put an end to the fighting in a manner only they could manage, by means not even the strongest berserker could defy. Jon-Tom broke into a cold sweat. Still, the bear was reluctant.
“You help Stromagg?