First Quest (Part 2)

Without hesitation, Ismeth pushed open the door and strode inside, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. The interior of the inn was just as squalid as its exterior had suggested: dimly lit, with grime-coated walls and a musty odor that made Brad's senisitve nose wrinkle in distaste.

The Stony-Brokes Inn was a dilapidated establishment with a single, lazy eye. Inside, a round bench occupied the center, and four tables were scattered across the room, with a total of fifteen patrons seated. The stairs to the upper floor were situated at the back left corner. The windows were draped with blankets, and the battered door had seen countless repairs. The regulars glanced over at the well-dressed duo, their white cuffed shirts concealed beneath leather armor and hard leather protection plates slung over their thighs. Their dark grey trousers were offset by the hard-soled pig-nosed leather boots that creaked with each step on the frayed, unpolished wooden floors. Their lion-embossed knight crest on their belt buckles was noticed by the watchful eyes. Neither Brad nor Ismeth cared to wear helmets in their daily travels.

When Brad made eye contact with the innkeeper, he gestured to the man, who forced a smile.

"What will you be drinking, gentlemen?" he asked.

"Ismeth will have malt beer," said Ismeth with a grin.

Brad shot him a disapproving look before turning to the innkeeper.

"We are in search of a man named Corbin. Have you seen him around?" Brad asked.

"I don't know any Corbin," the innkeeper replied, hastily handing Ismeth his order.

"What is your name, brother?" Ismeth interrupted.

"Carlo."

"Come closer, Carlo," Ismeth said, looming over the man who stood six inches shorter.

The innkeeper approached timidly.

"Look at me, Carlo. Confess that Corbin is the blond-haired, centipede-eyed guy at the third table from the right, who is staring us down. Or I'll make you sit on this bottle," whispered Ismeth, grinning as he pointed at the table.

The innkeeper shook his head in terror. They made their way towards the table, Ismeth waving the bottle, Brad's hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The table was occupied by four men, two of whom were burly and two who appeared weak.

Brad fixed a steely gaze upon the thinnest but tallest man, his voice as calm as a tranquil sea. "And you must be Corbin," he said coolly.

"Aye, that's me. What of it?" Corbin responded nonchalantly, lounging back in his chair and regarding Brad with an air of smug indifference. He chewed on a wad of tobacco and spat a stream of brown juice onto the floorboards.

"I am Brad Silverhilt, and this is my comrade, Ismeth Crimsongale, of the illustrious Illuen Knights. All of you should do well to remember our names," Brad said, his words dripping with an air of authority. "As for you, Corbin, you are coming with us."

"Why on earth should I accompany you?" Corbin retorted, his voice oozing with insolence.

"There is a company of dwarves and halflings waiting outside, ready to draw swords. You rented the space to both factions. Is this true?" Brad asked.

"What of it? Why should I care?" Corbin replied with a shrug, clearly uninterested.

Brad's patience was tested to its limits; his neck bulged with a taut rage. He advanced toward Corbin, and Ismeth couldn't help but grin. Brad surveyed the inn and took note of the men carrying weapons. Two men at the table wielded daggers, while others held clubs. At the next table, two men with short swords glared at Brad. But no one seemed willing to intervene. The others lowered their heads, avoiding Brad's wrathful gaze.

"Refund one of the crews, Corbin, and you shall never see me again," Brad said, his voice once again even.

"I do not return money to anyone. It's against my fucking principle," Corbin replied with a laugh, accompanied by his cronies.

Brad had endured enough. His patience spent, he seized Corbin by the collar and launched him with a primal roar at the sword-wielding men at the neighboring table. The impact was sudden and shattering, sending both assailants crashing to the ground.

In the heat of battle, Ismeth's quick reflexes saved the day. With a resounding smash, he shattered a glass bottle on the skull of the club-wielding brute nearest to him.

As Brad had foreseen, the other patrons were already making a hasty retreat, fleeing for the safety of the streets.

But the bald man to Corbin's right was not so easily cowed. He lunged at Brad with his club raised high, only to meet the swift retribution of Brad's boot as it collided with his chin. The bald man tumbled backwards, his balance lost, and fell to the floor with a crash. In a heartbeat, Brad was upon him, delivering two, three, four crushing blows to the head until the man lay still and unconscious. Brad claimed the club and stood up, ready for whatever lay ahead.

The fourth man, armed with a deadly dagger, had already begun his attack. Ismeth recognized his skill and agility, but he was more than his match. He drew his sword with a graceful flourish, leapt forward with a wide step, and swung with deadly precision at the man's hand. With a sickening thud, poor man's fingers were severed, and the dagger clattered to the ground. He screamed in agony, clutching his mangled hand like a broken doll, but Ismeth was not finished yet. In a fit of irritation, he grabbed a metal plate from the ground and smashed it into the man's skull, knocking him unconscious in one swift, brutal motion.

One of the swordsmen -who had stumbled and fallen to the ground when Corbin was hurled at them by Brad while sitting at the next table- gathered his senses and scrambled to his feet, unsheathing his sword with a fierce determination. Brad charged towards the swordsman with a club in hand, his muscles tensed and coiled like a predator ready to strike. The shabby-haired man met Brad's first swing with his sword, deflecting the blow with a metallic ring. But Brad was relentless, unleashing a second swing with even greater force and ferocity. Each strike landed with a resounding thud, sending the swordsman staggering backwards, his defense weakening with every passing moment. Despite the thick stick's durability, it was no match for Brad's superhuman strength. With one final swing, the bat was about to break, but the swordsman was already down, defeated by Brad's overwhelming might.

As Brad prepared to strike once more, the man's short sword split the stick in two, drawing a wide arc in the air. Without hesitation, Brad aimed a powerful kick at the hilt of the exposed sword, sending it flying out of the man's hands. Lifting the disarmed foe into the air, Brad delivered a brutal headbutt, breaking the man's nose with a sickening crunch, and rendering him unconscious in an instant.

But danger still lurked nearby, as Corbin had silently snuck up on Brad with a dagger in hand. At the last moment, Brad noticed Corbin and reflexively leaned back, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow. The dagger penetrated Brad's hard leather breastplate, but luckily, his Orion locket provided just enough protection to prevent a fatal wound. Lady Illaine, the High Priestess, had insisted that Brad wear the locket at all times, and he was grateful for her wise counsel.

Ismeth, who was engaged in a confrontation with the swordsman from the adjacent table, seethed with anger at the sight of Brad's wound. Until then, he had been jesting and engaging in playful banter with the man, but now he was swinging his machete with wild abandon. Dazed by the onslaught of Ismeth's blows, the swordsman chose to flee, dropping his weapon and sprinting in the opposite direction. Ismeth's fury only intensified, and he hurled a nearby jug at the man's retreating figure. The clay vessel shattered on impact, and the swordsman crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Meanwhile, Brad had regained his composure and landed a ferocious left hook on Corbin's chin. The blow left Corbin reeling, his jaw likely broken and his head throbbing with pain. Ismeth hurried over to his friend, scooping him up off the ground.

"Brad, are you alright?" he asked anxiously, searching for any sign of injury on the big man's chest.

Brad produced a locket from beneath his shirt, revealing a hole in its center where the embossed symbol of the Star of Light had been destroyed.

"I'm alive thanks to Orion," Brad said, his voice a mixture of awe and solemnity.

Ismeth breathed a sigh of relief, his body shaking with laughter and adrenaline. Both men were exhausted, their bodies depleted from the exertion of battle. They sat back-to-back, their breathing gradually slowing as their nerves calmed.

"Don't do that to me again, partner. I nearly shat myself," Ismeth warned, his tone a mix of playful and stern.

Brad grinned, his spirits lifted by the knowledge that he had survived a near-death experience. "Alright, partner," he agreed.

As the knights burst into the inn, Brad and Ismeth quickly gathered themselves and stood up straight, preparing for a stern dressing down from the leader. The knight captain eyed the two with a stern expression.

"You must be the greenhorns sent to me," he stated firmly.

Brad and Ismeth nodded their heads, their postures stiffening as they awaited the impending scolding. The captain surveyed the scene around them, his gaze lingering on the dwarves and halflings scattered on the ground.

"Well done," he remarked with a hint of grudging admiration. "I need tough men who can handle themselves like that. We'll take care of the rest. Come and report to me in the morning."

"Corbin Fisslethin was the one in charge, sir," Brad interjected, pointing to the blond-haired man lying unconscious on the floor. "He rented public land to both dwarves and halflings and deceived them."

The knight captain's eyes narrowed at the mention of the name, his expression growing even colder. "We'll handle it," he stated brusquely. "Now get out of my sight."

As Brad and Ismeth exited the inn, they could hear the cold-eyed captain, Byron Stonecold, laughing heartily under his thick mustache. Accustomed to dealing with the most incompetent men sent his way, the captain seemed positively delighted by the sight of the six vagrants lying unconscious on the ground.