Rising tide - Mel Odom [128]
Aysel left the floor, his foot tearing free of the floor with the knife still in it.
Jherek brought the big sailor down hard on the floor. Aysel reached for him, but Jherek slid away. As the big man hobbled to a standing position, grabbing dazedly at the knife impaling his foot, Jherek grabbed a broken chair leg from the floor and swung it from his shoulder.
The chair leg crashed into Aysel's temple with a dulled smack, turning his head.
Incredibly, the man remained standing for a moment.
Jherek watched uncertainly, fighting to sip his breath past the broken feeling in his ribs. If Aysel continued fighting, he wasn't sure he had anything left. Still, he kept his grip on the chair leg, then Aysel fell, pitching face forward onto the floor. Sawdust gusted up when he hit.
Kneeling with difficulty, Jherek felt the man's neck, relieved when he found a pulse. He'd never killed a man in anger before, and after the close call today, he knew he never would. Challenging Aysel's affront to Sabyna's honor had been a natural thing for him, something he knew he'd never be able to walk away from, but next time, he promised himself, he'd have a clearer head.
Hurting all over, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, Jherek stood. He surveyed the tavern, surprised at the destruction that had been wrought. Aysel's companions were unconscious as well, laying tumbled in the wreckage.
"Now, by Tyr," a grizzled old man at the front of the tavern crowd shouted, "that was a damn fight!"
Several of the other tavern goers loudly agreed. They came around Jherek and pounded him on the back.
Jherek's knees buckled from the impact and he almost went down. The man caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and laughing at how expended the young sailor was.
"Gave 'em all you had, didn't you, boy?" the old man asked.
"Aye," Jherek croaked, "maybe more." His vision still swam and his injured eye had swollen totally closed. Despite the pain that filled him, he felt proud. His cause had been just, and he'd won. At the same time, he realized how prideful and arrogant that thought was. He didn't think Malorrie would have approved. Madame litaar would have given him one of those reproachful looks that Jherek had always felt could have peeled paint.
The old man took part of Jherek's weight and hauled him to the bar. "A man willing to fight like that against such odds, I'll stand him to a drink. Even if I have hold him up at the bar!" The rough men around them broke into laughter.
The bartender thumped a tankard of ale in front of Jherek, then pointed at the serving wenches. "Go through their pockets," he told them, "and take enough gold to pay for the damages." He looked at Jherek. "House rules: loser always pays the damages… one way or another."
Jherek struggled to cling to his senses, but he didn't reach for the ale. Still, it felt good to be standing among the rough crowd, momentarily accepted as one of their own. He felt guilty too. The fight wasn't something to be proud of.
"Drink up, boy," the old man said, slapping Jherek on the back. "It'll wash the blood out of your mouth and prevent infection. Hell, you drink enough, you won't even feel the pain."
The crowd laughed, yelling enthusiastically.
Jherek shook his head politely, then regretted it instantly when a new wave of pain fired through his skull. It felt like pieces of it were missing. "Don't drink," he said.
"What?" the old man asked.
"I said I don't drink," Jherek replied.
The old man passed the knowledge on to his comrades flocked together at the bar. "A fighting man always drinks," the man said, turning back to Jherek.
"Can't," Jherek said, thinking quickly, not wanting to offend his newfound friends. "It's my belief."
The old man drew back in wry surprise. "Now there's a piss-poor god for you-one that doesn't allow a man an honest drink now and again." He suddenly slammed his sword arm across his chest in benediction. "May Tyr protect a warrior who speaks his own mind so carelessly."
"No offense