Men at Arms
by Scott Wilson
“There
is no time for arguments. This is the way we are
going to run this caper,” said the sign
hung over the private bar of the Guild of Men at
Arms.
“Nice
motto, hey Ernie,” a large muscular Troll
said to the bartender.
Ernie spat in
a beer glass, wiped it out with his filthy apron
and sat it back on the rack with the other clean
glasses. He looked up at the pale, grey-skinned
creature and said, “Stopped many a bar fight,
that it has. Cyril.”
“I like
bar fights,” said Cyril. “They keep me
reflexes good.”
“Well I
don’t like any sort of fights in my
establishment,” Ernie replied in a sharp
voice that could cut a suit of leather armor like
butter. “Does nothing but kills and injures
my customers and costs me an arm and a leg in
tables and chairs.”
“But it
must be good for business,” Cyril said.
“I mean, you’d get lots of rich
warriors and the like coming here to spend their
treasures and have a bit of rough and tumble to
let off steam.”
“Yes,
well now we get only the members of the Guild in
here, and they know how to behave. Nice and
proper like, spending the same amount of money
and not costing me a week’s earnings in
furniture.”
Cyril chugged
down another ale and tapped his forehead with a
long, boney finger, then pointed at the sign.
“That’s
right Cyril, if you want to keep your job earning
a decent wage in my Guild; you have to remember
who you can disagree with. Now, I’ve heard
that old Sam Tunstell has opened a seedy bar
across town in the red torch district. How about
you have another couple of ales here with your
friend Ernie, then go and test your reflexes in
that bar.”
Cyril smiled,
took the fresh foamy glass of ale from Ernie and
said, “Cause, that’s the way we are
going to run this caper, hey Ernie.”
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