Once upon a time, the Drunken Drake closed shop by witching hour like any sane establishment. And then some bloke had the brilliant idea of going 24/7 so they could heroically serve Belmont's drunkards at all times of the day.

  Was a 4 am spree a late night-about-town, or was it getting your day-drinking out of the way first thing in the morning?

  Whatever the case, Arthur wanted to find whoever had dropped that note in the suggestion box and force them to mop up Old Man Baxter's puke for the second time tonight and see how they liked it.

  A light rain drizzled against the roof seams, and a gutsy wind howled through the streets. A street lamp flickered in through the murky tavern windows.

  It was the usual suspects again tonight. A couple of sailors were playing cards. Baxter was lying in his corner as always. Philomena and Philomena Junior were curled up on one of the tabletops. (There used to be more cats around, but it was against tavern policy to tell the patrons what happened to them.)

  It was at this ungodly hour that the creaky door swung open, and a cold wind gushed into the tavern. A dark, hooded figure stood in the doorway, his frame silhouetted against the backdrop of rain. Arthur instantly knew the type. Every night, they would get one or two of these dark, hooded figures, who would spend the whole time sitting in a corner, staring at the other customers.

  "Hail and well met, fair traveler," Arthur said with as much enthusiasm and gusto as he could scrounge up. "Please hang your coat by the rack. Brooding tables are in the corners. Smoking tables are over there — oh, who am I kidding, they're all smoking tables. This place is a real dungheap. What're you having?"

  If the stranger had heard at all, he didn't show it. He fixated on the table of sailors.

  "Excuse me, sir," Arthur said. "The coat rack is over th- What the bloody hell is that thing?!"

  A massive dog the size of a small pony followed in after the stranger. It had shaggy dark fur and piercing yellow eyes like a wolf. No, not like a wolf; it was a wolf. There was a wolf in the tavern.

  "Sir, your friend will have to wait outside,” Arthur said. “We have a no-pet policy."

  "What do you call that then?" The stranger pointed to the cats.

  "Employees. Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to—"

  "I'll only be a second. Just here to take out the trash."

  The wolf sat in front of the doorway as if to block the exit, and the stranger walked toward the three gambling sailors, leaving a wet trail along his path.

  "What're you lookin' at, sweetheart?" said one of the sailors without looking up from his poker chips. "You heard Arty-boy, the brooding tables are over there."

  The stranger placed a hand on the sailor's shoulder. "Had a good game, Mick? You better hope so, considering that isn't your money to lose."

  An expression of fear and apprehension was noticeably absent from the sailor's face.

  "Eyy, Elyas, it's just you. How's Estelle? Sit, join us for a round."

  "Can't. I'm working. As I said, I'm taking out the trash," said the stranger, Elyas apparently.

  Arthur couldn't place the man’s accent. Calencia, perhaps, or some other nation in the Southlands. Maybe the summer isles?

  Either way, he was bad news.

  "Sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you to leave," Arthur said.

  "Not until this son of a wyrm pays what he owes."

  "I don't owe nobody nothing," said Mick.

  "Come on Mick, just pay the guy," said one of the other sailors. "He ain't worth it."

  "Like I said. I don't owe nobody nothing, his mother liked it so much she said it was free."

  Arthur landed a hand on Elyas's shoulder. "Gentlemen,” Arthur said, “whatever this is, I suggest you take it outside before things get ugly.”

  "I'll tell you what's about to happen," Elyas said. "You, boy, will take your hand off my shoulder. You, Mick, are coming with me, and you're going to pay Estelle for every last copper piece you-"

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  Mick jumped and rounded on Elyas with a fist. But the cloaked man ducked, and the punch landed on Arthur instead. Arthur flinched backwards, releasing his grip on the shoulder.

  Everything happened in a flash.

  The table flipped. Cards scattered in the air. The cats screeched and bolted behind the counter.

  The three sailors rushed Elyas, but he was too quick for them. He blocked every strike and dodged every blow, all without throwing a punch of his own. At one point, he nudged one attacker to the path of another guy’s punch, and fist connected with jaw in a bone-crushing crunch.

  This needed to stop.

  Arthur grabbed the nearest weapon-like object, which happened to be a mop leaning by the counter. He swung the makeshift staff at Elyas, who lunged backward to avoid it. One of the sailors saw this as an opening and made a start towards Elyas while another one tried to take a jab at Arthur himself. Arthur slapped his attacker’s face with the mophead and, with the other end, tripped up the guy going after Elyas.

  Arthur positioned himself smack center of the kerfuffle, with Elyas to his north and the three sailors to his east, west, and south.

  "It's been a lonnngg fucking day and I am not in the mood to babysit right now,” Arthur said, “so you guys better start doing what I tell you, or I swear to Greg I'm gonna lose it."

  The wolf got up on all fours and growled at Arthur, but Elyas raised a hand, and the mutt calmed down.

  "Alright, kid, you want me to do what you say?" Elyas said. He removed his cloak, unveiling what was underneath: leather armor and more weapons than a gnoll hunting party.

  Arthur got his first good look at the man. Dark eyes, dark complexion, slick dark hair, dark everything, really, and a misshaven jawline framing a wry smile.

  Elyas took his dripping cloak and hung it, gently, on the coat rack. "There. You happy?"

  "It's a start," said Arthur. "Now put it back on and leave."

  Elyas drew out his rapier instead and pointed it at Arthur. The three sailors backed off until they were practically hugging the wall.

  "Okay, I'll give you the money, man," Mick said. "You're insane, the both of you."

  "Not just yet," said Elyas. He turned back to Arthur. "I like your moves, kid. Let's see what you're made of."

  He swiped the rapier, and Arthur parried it with one end of the stick, then swung around with the other. Elyas was waiting for it. He ducked out of the way and thrust a counterattack. Arthur only barely blocked it this time.

  "Quick reflexes, solid form," said Elyas. "Let's see how you deal with this."

  He pressed the attack, and it was all Arthur could do to react defensively. He blocked, dodged, and parried, but he was being forced backwards step by step. He couldn’t find an opening.

  Damn it. If only he had his sword instead of this discount quarterstaff. Actually, It felt more like a glaive or halberd because of the weight of the mop head. Arthur adjusted his stance and style accordingly and resolved to counter back. He launched the forms and techniques he'd been practicing nonstop over the past several years of his life.

  Dog crosses the courtyard.

  Fisherman casts his net.

  Heron returns to the nest.

  Almost to his surprise, he had Elyas on the defensive and was backing him into a corner. With one last strike, he hit Elyas on the wrist, causing him to release his weapon. Before it struck the ground, Arthur kicked it on the hilt, sending it flying straight into the wall.

  "Excellent. You're even better than I thought," Elyas said. "Now let's try something else." He drew two scimitars and flourished them.

  Arthur backed off a bit to strategize.

  With two shorter weapons, he’d try to get in close. The left is his offhand, so he'll mainly be striking with his right and—

  Elyas threw the left scimitar at Arthur. Arthur swerved at the last moment, but Elyas was already on top of him, swinging the other blade in a downward arc. Arthur did the only thing he could do at that moment and blocked it with his mop. It was no military grade weapon for sure because it easily snapped in half.

  Arthur's next move was clear. He turned tail and ran, the swordsman hot in pursuit. When he reached the opposite wall, Arthur kicked over the mop bucket, and soapy water spilled over the floor.

  Elyas jumped out of the way and onto the bar counter just as Arthur jumped onto a table himself, putting him within arm's reach of the rapier stabbed into the wall.

  "Color me impressed, kid,” Elyas said. “You can think on your feet."

  "Do you ever stop talking?" Arthur said.

  Elyas smiled.

  In all the commotion, the three sailors tried to run out the front door, but the growling wolf stopped them short. They backed into a corner and cowered while the two swordsmen continued their battle on the table tops.

  Elyas's comments had gone from complimentary to instructional as he tutored Arthur on how to use his own rapier. Parry this, feint, direct attack, parry again, counterattack, on and on it went.

  Arthur was learning swiftly, but more importantly, this was the most fun he’d had in months. They leaped from table to table, not bothering to hide their thrill, until they found their way back to the bar counter.

  "Bravo, boy! But I have one more lesson to teach you." Elyas reached under the counter top and pulled out... Philomena Jr! He threw the fluffy cat directly at the rapier.

  Arthur dropped the blade and caught the pussycat with both hands. When he looked up, Elyas's scimitar was mere inches from his nose.

  "And that concludes today's lesson," Elyas said.

  One of the sailors started clapping before Mick shot him an eye and shut him up.

  "Hey, that wasn't fair," Arthur said.

  "All is fair in war. In peace too." Elyas sheathed his scimitar and picked up the rapier. The cat leaped out of Arthur's arms and ran for the stairs.

  "You scoundrel,” muttered Arthur. “You have no honor."

  "Contrary to popular belief, there is no honor on the battlefield. Not while you're in it. Honor is for the tales people tell long after the battle is over." Elyas hopped down from the counter and picked up the scimitar he had thrown, which had split a table in two. "You're good, but don't let it get to your head. You've got plenty to learn."

  "Does this mean we can go now?" A sailor asked.

  "Arthur!" Bellowed a voice from above.

  Heavy footsteps barreled down the staircase like thunder.

  The color drained from the sailors’ faces. Arthur’s life flashed before his eyes. Even the wolf had his tail tucked between his legs.

  Tilda, cradling Junior in her arms, reached the bottom of the flight of stairs and gazed upon the wanton destruction to her tavern. "What in Greg’s name is going on here?!"

  Old Man Baxter jolted awake in his corner. "What's all the ruckus about?”