The Tales of the Wanderer Volume One: A Book of Underrealm (The Underrealm Volumes 4) Garrett Robinson (poetry books to read TXT) 📖

with muscle from his work at the anvil. He pushed back his chair with a jerk, the tavern filling with the screech of wood on wood. Most conversations around them hushed, unless the speakers were too drunk to notice the sudden tension in the air.

“I do not take kindly to insults,” said Ciaran.

Mag looked quizzically at him. “No one does. That is why they are insults, you steer.”

His face went beet red. “Enough. I would have accepted an apology if you had groveled. But not now. Come outside, and I will beat remorse out of you.”

Mag’s blood was up. Duana was nowhere to be seen. So she gave him a fierce smile. “I am no bard, and so I cannot describe how amusing such a threat is, coming from you.”

Now the people around them were getting nervous, that curious tension that always surrounds a bar fight. They did not wish to see anyone get hurt—at least, not too badly—but there is still something thrilling about seeing two foes knock the stuffing out of each other. And never is that more true than when a grudge has long been fomenting.

“Outside,” growled Ciaran. “Now.” And he strode out the front door.

Mag lifted the hinged panel that locked off the bar and began to follow him. But just then, Duana came out from the tavern’s back room. She saw Mag heading off, and then she noticed that Ciaran was no longer in his chair.

“Where are you going?” she asked Mag sharply.

Mag glanced back at her. “One of our customers asked for my services.”

“Mag!” said Duana. “Let it go. You have better ways to spend your time.”

But customers were hurrying out after Ciaran, eager to see the fray. Mag gestured at them, and then at the emptying tables in the room. “Do I? There are no customers to serve. I will not be a moment.”

She stepped through the front door. Ciaran waited in the street for her, hands clenched to fists at his side. He had rolled up his sleeves, revealing hairy forearms. His face was an ugly squint. Mag stepped up to him, and the contrast was striking: this smallish young woman before a hulking brute of a man. Some of the crowd’s enthusiasm died.

“I shall give you one last chance to apologize,” said Ciaran.

“And I will let you swing first,” said Mag.

Then her face went dead. The light faded from her eyes. It was her battle-trance, and it chilled the villagers of Shuiniu to see it. Even Ciaran seemed stricken for a moment, and he hesitated.

But then he glanced around, seeing the villagers, knowing they were witnessing his doubt.

He swung for her face.

Mag grabbed his wrist and twisted. Her hand drove into his armpit like a knife. Ciaran cried out in pain as he doubled over.

Mag’s fist pummeled his cheeks, his nose, his chin. She did not strike his barrel chest. Why bother, when thick muscle guarded him like armor? Only when he bent and twisted, trying to escape, did she hit his kidneys with punishing savagery. She knew where to strike to hurt him the most, all the places that can break someone no matter their size.

Ciaran cried out again and again, more plaintive each time. It was not long before he sounded more like a child than a hale and hearty smith.

She did not draw out his suffering. After beating him nearly into submission, she caught his wrist once more. Pinching the nerves, she sent him reeling off balance. With a sweep of her leg she tripped him. Even as he fell, she levered him over her shoulder. Screaming, he flew three paces to land in a heap among the crowd. He struck a few of the onlookers, but they did not seem to mind.

The crowd had murmured before the fight. When Ciaran had thrown his first punch, a few had cried out in excitement. But during the beating, everything had fallen to deathly silence. Now that silence reigned for a moment longer.

And then, all at once, the crowd burst into shouts and cheers. Some gathered around Ciaran’s fallen form, trying to help him back to his feet. Others clustered around Mag, talking all at once.

Such was their excitement that not one of them noticed as her battle-trance fell away. For a moment, her eyes flickered with something like fear: the deep uncertainty of one who finds themself in a strange place, disoriented and alone.

None of the crowd saw it, but Duana, watching from the tavern’s front porch, did. Her eyes filled with concern, even as Mag moved through the press to the door. Duana took hold of her arm.

“Mag,” she said quietly. “Are you all right?”

A moment passed before Mag could force an uncaring smile. “Am I all right? Look at him.” She tossed her head at Ciaran, and then she gently pulled her arm from Duana’s grasp to go inside.

It was the first time Mag ever fought another person. But of course, it was not the last.

“Wait,” said Sun. “That cannot have been her first fight.”

Albern raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Can it not?”

“Of course not!” cried Sun. “Where did she learn how to do that? And … and her battle-trance. You told me you experienced something like it in Tokana. But you wondered what horrible fate could have befallen Mag that led her to discover it. You are telling me it happened by chance during some barroom brawl in a town no one has ever heard of?”

Albern shrugged, annoying her further. Not only did it seem he had no answer, but he seemed not to think an answer was terribly important. “She had no idea where it came from—the trance, or her skill at fighting.”

Sun took a deep breath, and then another. “I am not asking about her, at that time,” she said. “I am asking you, now. Do you know where her ability came from?”

That only earned her a grin. “You have sharp ears, and a sharper wit.”

“That is no answer!”

Albern raised his arms as