Episode III

It wasn’t a fancy bar by any stretch of the imagination: dirty, plain, dimly lit. Frequented by hard-faced men who liked a quiet drink and a nice argument now and then. But the proprietor, Leonard, was also William’s landlord, inasmuch that the latter got a garret to sleep in and the former got a bouncer who was quick enough with his hands to evict any troublemakers. William Quick, by name and by nature.
One look at Leonard’s face across the room told William that it was one of those nights, as he slipped through the low doorway into the gloom. The landlord looked tense. There were plenty of folded arms in the bar and a group of young, heavy-set lads standing up, dominating the room and talking a bit too loudly. Red faces. Rolled-up sleeves. A lot of effing and jeffing. William stood  just inside the door, weighing it up; a couple of regulars looked his way. He thought he heard a snigger but he wasn’t sure. Subconsciously, William squared his shoulders: he’d seen it countless times before: angry lads who liked nothing more than a good scrap, especially if they had the advantage. The sort of boys who liked to assert themselves, maybe stake a claim on some new territory. It’s what you get in cities. What you didn’t tend to get so much in cities were hardened ex-soldiers though.
               For the moment he was content to just watch. Without a care in the world, William strolled right through the middle of the standing group: not rudely, but just to make the point. Reaching the bar hatch, he slouched on the counter with his back to them. It was an old trick of his.
               “Wine please, Leonard. Ta”. William lounged, took a sip and decided to savour a mouthful. Listening to every single noise behind him. The shouting had changed in its dynamic. Perhaps walking right through them had provoked them?... A raised voice said something pointed and offensive; William kept his back to them, watching Leonard’s eyes closely, sipping. There was a scraping sound, on the edge of his hearing; the landlord’s eyes widened and William sidestepped, almost a dance step, as a fist threw itself past his ear: and then he  was twirling to face them, four drunk faces right in front of him, chests puffed out, right there, with no space to move.
               “You alright there, mate?” William said – sweetly, evenly.
               “Come on then – you fuckin’ want some?” said the owner of the (mis-)punching hand: and now things were happening fast. William pulled himself up straight and tall, looked down his nose at all of them, staring them hard in the eye. These boys badly wanted to put the boot into someone: William could feel the Regulars watching from behind them.
               “Go home you lot,” William chided them sternly, almost politely – but not quite. “We don’t want any trouble.”
               “Yeah, well you fuckin’ got trouble now.”
               “Last chance, gents,” William warned. He was itching to draw his sword, but that was the wrong way to deal with this and there was no room anyway: he inhaled, grabbing  his breath, and... The mouthiest of the four shoved him hard on the shoulders – but he was ready and rolled with it, bouncing his foot back against the bar and springing forward, as he rammed his knuckles up into the man’s throat – doing it so fast that nobody had time to blink before William’s other hand slammed into the man’s nose. Immediately, two more of them threw punches – but they were drunken brawlers, whereas William was a highly-trained soldier with twenty-odd years of fighting art inside him, so he didn’t even had to think as he blocked one punch and then grabbed another, spinning the man into his mate: right hand to parry, left hand to hit: elbow to face, fist to nose, knee to groin; and then there in front of him was one uninjured man, suddenly unprepared, unsure of what to do while the other three were reeling. William looked him in the eye and simultaneously threw a tight little punch to his right at the slow-witted assailant who was foolishly having a second try. William kept his gaze on the undamaged troublemaker.
               “Watch”, William told him: and the man just stood still. As another of the foolish, drunk men tried his luck once more with an amateur wallop, William spun him around, and casually broke his arm. There were now three upset men on the floor trying to get their breath and sit up. And one stunned man left standing, still obediently watching, with his mouth hanging open.
               “Right,” William told him: “I did his left arm, so he can still work with the right one. Tell him to splint it and rest it for six weeks. After three weeks, tell him to keep moving it, so the muscles don’t stiffen too much.” The man nodded slowly. “Now, take your mates home and remember not to come back here, you understand?” He watched, arms folded, as the four men picked themselves up and wobbled out into the night. Almost as one, the bar exhaled and William looked down at fresh bloodstains and couple of teeth on the stone floor. Behind him, Leonard sighed and went to fetch his mop.