System of the Beast Slayer [litrpg Adventure]
Copyright© 1999 by CaffeinatedTales
Chapter 122
He reached the bakery, and from a few dozen feet off he heard frantic, foul-tempered pounding on the door.
Two men in shabby clothes, each clutching a wooden stave, were cursing in front of the bakery.
“Open up, you deaf lot! Don’t make me set the place alight and burn you, old bastard!”
“We fancy your house, consider it an honour! Get sensible and come out to sign the contract,” snarled a middle-aged man with a fat nose and a long braid, his face all swagger, “chance like this only comes once, every day you stall the price drops a hundred!”
“What are you lot?” A cloaked youth stepped soundlessly up behind them, his dark-gold pupils sweeping over the men and confirming they were ordinary thugs, “what are you doing blocking the house?”
Bulbnose spun around and was taken aback at the sudden presence of the youth. He jabbed his stave forward, eyes slitted and full of malice, “Who are we? People you can’t mess with. Clear off, go buy your bread somewhere else!”
“Mind your age, don’t poke trouble you don’t want,” the other man, red-faced and fat, also pointed his stave at Roy, and noticing the stranger’s odd eyes and cropped hair, his compact, explosive build made him uneasy, “or else ... you’ll suffer.”
Roy shrugged, not inclined to waste words.
A hand reached behind him and came forward, the right palm closing around a training wooden sword. He spun the sword lightly, drew a few practiced flourishes, the hilt settled by his hip, the blade angled up toward the man’s throat.
He assumed a T-step without thinking.
Body slightly bent, muscles relaxed.
Had these been Knights of the White Rose or some other official force he might have hesitated; these were common ruffians, and he could deal with them.
A good chance to test his skill.
“You brat, polite to you, and you still show cheek?!” Bulbnose swore and smashed his stave at the youth.
The stave swept left to right at his chest; instead of stepping back Roy stepped forward against the sweep, the training sword slicing from right to left in a straight line.
There was a crisp crack as blade met wood; the sword checked the stave mid-swing, the guard caught the stave’s tip, and in a flash the blade slid along the shaft and shoved forward—
Bulbnose yelped as if he’d driven his own chest onto the point; the sword found the spot under his breastbone, he screamed and slid back to the ground.
A gust of wind hit the air.
The fat man swung his stave from the side at Roy’s head. He bowed lightly and slipped beneath the blow.
The fat man’s vision blurred, the other vanished for a heartbeat, and as he tried to recover his weapon Roy sprang like a cat, landing without a sound. His left wrist twisted, the hilt reversed in his grip and he brought the pommel up to smash the fat man’s jaw.
Smack.
The fat man clutched at his swelling cheek and pitched down hard, dust spurting. His white, pudgy fingers still gripped the stave; as he tried to rise the training sword was already at his throat.
“Don’t move.” Roy shook his head, his dark-gold pupils turning to the other, still writhing Bulbnose, a warning in his gaze.
Too late; to them all Roy’s movements were slow motion.
With Agility almost twice that of ordinary men, he dodged their blows and found the gaps to thrust his blade in. The unequal fight was over within three heartbeats.
Had their weapons been iron he would have slain both and still not needed to use threats and other methods.
Just as witchers say, when stats crush an opponent there is no need for fancy swordplay, a single cut will end it.
Defeating them brought no satisfaction.
The youth tapped the fat man’s stunned cheek with the training sword and his dark-gold pupils darkened, “Donril, Floris, I know your names.”
“I am Sigeval of Cidaris’s Captain of the Guard, the witcher Dennis Cranmer hired to investigate. If you dare show yourselves at this bakery again,” Roy’s voice turned severe as he threatened, “I will tell him you’re suspects in the recent murders.”
“Please ... Master, don’t say that!” The fat man’s face went white and his lips trembled, “We’ll go, right away, we swear to the Lady Melitele we’ll never bother Old Hark again!”
“I swear too!” Bulbnose flung down his stave in a panic.
“Now get out of here!”
...
A moment later Roy watched the two disgraceful figures bolt from the yard and sheathed his training sword.
He strode to the closed wooden door of the bakery and was about to knock when hurried footsteps sounded, followed by an old, hoarse, familiar voice.
“Master Roy? You out there ... cough ... chased off those two bastards?”
Creak.
The bakery owner’s gaunt, haggard face poked through the door crack.
He wore plain, threadbare grey linen. Months had aged him; his hair and beard had gone bone white, a nest of disorder, his eyes sunken and rimmed with red. His frame had stooped.
He gripped a candlestick in his right hand, clearly ready to use it for defence, but relaxing when he saw who stood there.
“How come you—”
“Don’t ask. If you ask, they’ll say they were burned...” Roy already knew what he was about to say and cut the damned question off, slipping inside while the man stared oddly.
In the dim kitchen they sat opposite each other. Roy looked the place over; the room was bare save a few chairs and an old fixed oven set into the wall.
“Months gone and you’ve aged more than I have. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You look dreadful, like a man with fever,” Roy shook his head and tried to comfort him, “Even if Barshel’s gone, you must look after yourself.”
“Master, thank you for caring,” the old man’s lined face filled with sorrow at the name of his dead son, then he ground his teeth, “Old Hark’s only reason to go on is to find the bastard who drove a sword into my boy.”
“All right. What of those two just now? Why were they hassling you about selling the house?” Roy asked.
Old Hark sighed, “I spent all my savings investigating. I’m flat broke, regular customers have all drifted away, the bakery can’t make ends meet ... so I planned to sell the place and turn it into Crowns.”
“Those shameless scoundrels must have heard the news somehow. The moment I put the house up they came to harass and threaten an old man, trying to buy it for far below market.”
“Dream on!” Old Hark’s cloudy eyes flashed cold. He swung the candlestick in the air once. “I’m no coward. I won’t let them have it; the money’s for investigation, not for them!”
“Nobody’s stepping in?” Roy asked, then realised the point, “Because of the recent murders?”
“You guessed it. The White Rose knights are swamped by the serial killings and have no time for petty extortion. That’s why those scumbags feel bold. If I had a coin to spare I’d hire men to give them a proper beating.”
“Don’t worry, I warned them,” Roy’s pupils went hard. “They won’t trouble you again, and if they do I’ll deal with them.”
“Thanks, Master.” Old Hark gritted his teeth, “When the house sells I’ll give you a reward, but understand, it won’t be much.”
“No need, just glad to help.” The youth refused. It took five seconds; he would not charge for such a thing. They chatted a little more.
“You spent all your savings on this investigation. Did you find anything?”
“My money wasn’t wasted. I did get some leads,” Old Hark said, and a light glinted behind his cloudy eyes, “Do you remember when Barshel disappeared?”
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