"That was rude," the brute spat. "Let's try that again. Gents, give her a hand."

The command sparked pandemonium. All four men leaped toward the elf, shouldering each other as each attempted to claim her for his own. With lightning speed the half-elf seized the opportunity and brought his staff down on the head of the nearest thug with a sickening crack. His cries were quickly drowned by the yelping of another thug as he flew through the air followed by his crashing into the table occupied by the firends. Both fiends jumped away, but not fast enough. In his haste to rejoin the fight, the thug wildly swiped at the air, catching a fistful of their cloaks. Flinging himself to his feet, he tore their hoods revealing angry black eyes amid a face of red scales on his left and black scales on his right. A startled shriek left him as he fought to disentangle himself from the pair while simultaneously attempting to slash at them with his dagger.

The rest of the tavern broke free from the spell holding them in their chairs. They hurtled toward the door, little more than a tidal wave of bodies. Some staggered, too in their cups to make it more than a few steps, before catching a shoulder or falling to the floor of their own accord. New cries filled the air over the sounds of spells, staffs, and daggers from the fallen crushed under the panicked mob.

This was the moment Alaric had feared since arriving at the tavern. Wasting no time, he threw himself out of his chair to join the fleeing mob. The sea of heads ducked, Alaric with it, just in time to avoid a splintered chair. Without regard for anything but the safety of the outdoors, he wove his way between shattered tables, around snarling combatants, and over the fallen. Once again, he found himself fortunate for his small stature. A shoulder caught him in the jaw and an elbow in the ribs, but neither was enough to slow his escape.

Then something large and dense slammed into him, driving the wind from his lungs. Collapsing to the ground, he desperately heaved, trying to force himself to breathe. Beside him, the black scaled fiend who had collided into him was already on his feet. With a fiendish swear, he threw himself back into the malestrom leaving Alaric to spasm helplessly on the ground.

Several moments of angry shouts and cries of launched bodies and clanging steel passed before his lungs suddenly expanded. Crisp cool air filled him, easing the burning pain of the blow. Behind him the chaos raged, but the path ahead was clear. The tavern door hung lopsided on its hinges just a few steps ahead. Alaric jumped to he feet, hurtling toward the door with renewed hope. One more step and he would escape before the town guard arrived.

A blood curtling shriek rent the air. Alaric skidded to a halt in the tavern doorway. Safety was within reach but he could not throw himself through the door. For a moment he remained frozen, torn between safety and what he knew he would find if he turned. He swore his mind made. Vowing to never return to The Broken Bottle no matter how much he was offered, he turned to face the inevitable.

Candles and wood fragments littered the ground in splintered heaps. Crimson rivlets dotted the tavern, gleaming in the half light. Dark streams ran from the fiends, propelling droplets into the air with every swipe of their daggers. Knives flashed from their attackers. The half-elf shouted angrily, staff raised high as he chased a panicked thug along the bar. And the elf screamed in the triumphant arms of the brute.

"Got ya," he grinned, eyes shining manically. "We should get to know each other better upstairs. I've got a room we can stay in while my boys straighten tidy up."

With one arm he heaved her onto his shoulder. She shrieked again, kicking and clawing helplessly. Her eyes found onto Alaric, silently pleading. Alaric swore again and charged.

He threw himself into the brute with as much force as he could muster. The blow caught him in the back. Roaring over the din, the brute fell pulling all three of them to the ground in a confused pile. Sharp pain shot through Alaric. His knees smashed into something hard and his arms stung. Something warm trickled over them. An elbow caught him in the ribs eliciting a low groan.

Alaric wasted no time on his injuries. The brute was already pulling himself free of the pile, driving elbows and fists into anything that dared to hold him. In moments he would be back on his feet, angrily searching for the person who had tackled him. As quickly as he could, Alaric rose, pushing off a splintered table for support. Pain flared, white hot in every muscle, but Alaric ignored them. Forcing himself to his feet, he surveyed the scene.

The elf kicked herself free of the brute, quickly rising to her feet, her golden hair matted and her cloak torn. Between them the brute bellowed, wrentching himself off the ground. Splinters stuck to his arms giving rise to thin trails of crimson. A short gash ran down his left thigh. His clothes hung from him in shredded strips. But the fight within still raged, setting his eyes ablaze. He charged Alaric and roared so loud the walls shook.

Alaric quickly drew his dagger, placing it menacingly between him and his attacker. To his surprise, the manuever worked. The brute skidded to a stop feet from the blade. His beady eyes glared at the dagger, then up at Alaric, then back at the dagger. A confident smirk twitched at the corners of his mouth. He inched toward him with confidence of a wild predator.

"I got ya boss!"

One of the thugs charged toward then. Alaric was surprised to see the brute's smirk vanish. Panic tore across his face. A hand flashed through the air pointing behind the thug.

"NO! THE OTHER ELF!"

The half-elf raised his staff behind the unwitting thug. Every hair on Alaric's neck stood on end. Instead of bearing the staff into a crushing blow, the half-elf stopped short. A unearthly heat radiated from the staff in sweltering tendrils. Glaring at the thug with unbridled malice, the elf began to shout.

"FLAMÄE-,"

A bright, angry orange light burst to life as a sphere atop the staff. The heat intensified several magnitudes. Alarm tore through Alaric. He had seen enough magic to sense the danger of the spell. Ignoring her startled shouts, he grabbed the elf by the wrist, yanking her toward the door.

"LITENÊR!"

Alaric threw them into the street. He threw his hands over them and rammed his eyes shut. A brilliant orange light exploded around them. Heat seared the back of his cloak, but he dared not look. He held the elf firmly against the ground. A deafening shockwave tore over them. The ground shook. Then the heat and light slowly faded to a dull glow and all he could hear was the ringing of his ears.

Alaric cautiously lifted his arms and opened his eyes. He rolled off the elf with a groan. Patrons and shocked onlookers lined the street around him to watch hungry flames tear through The Broken Bottle. The ringing in his ears gave way to panicked shouts and terrified screams.. Guests of the inn on the second floor escaped their rooms by jumping from windows. At the base of the tavern the half-elf stared opened mouthed at the chaos.

A shriek from his left made Alaric jump. He snappped to the sound of the disturbance to see the brute and his thugs bowling over a lady in a pale blue dress. They hurtled into the darkness of a distant alleyway without a backward glance. Before Alaric could utter a choice insult after them, another shriek pierced the night. A young woman in tattered clothes pointed a shaky finger at the front of the tavern. Two figures obscured by smoke and dust strode through the flames. The fiends, cloaks torn and severely charred but otherwise unscathed, emerged from the blaze. Their dark scales glinted wildly in the flickering light. Shouts of 'demon' and 'hellspawn' quickly rose over the confused scene.

Alaric knew better. Fiends possessed a natural resistance to heat thanks to their scales. They were no more demons than he was. Even if he had been ignorant of the abilities of fiends, he would not have wasted time announcing their presence. Urgency was of the utmost importance if he was to maintain his reputation and his freedom. He jumped to his feet then extended a hand to the elf, still sitting on the ground transfixed by the blaze.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

The elf shook her head.

"We should go," Alaric said. "The guard will be here any minute and I would prefer not to spend the night in jail."

Instead of taking his hand, the elf stared back at him. A strange petrified look distorted her elegant features. His confusion was answered a moment later by the unmistakable feeling of cold steel pressed against the back of his neck. In the reflection of the her eyes, Alaric could barely make out a mass of gleaming silver.

"Not so fast," a confident yet youthful voice rang out behind him. "Put these on."

A pair of manacles appeared in the dirt at his feet followed by an identical pair landing beside the elf with a muffled thud and a plume of dust.

"But-," the elf protested.

"Quiet!" the soldier ordered. "Whatever the reason I don't want to hear it. Put the manacles on."

Reluctantly Alaric complied, fastening the manacles with a chorus of metalic clicks. There was still a chance he would not see the inside of a cell. All he needed was a distraction large enough to give him time to pick his restraints. He kept a short strand of metal wire in breast pocket for such an occasion. The fiends could provide the needed distraction especially with the crowd drawing around them shouting insults and raising fists. If he could just convince the soldier they were a greater threat than the elf and himself, he would be free.

"Those three as well," the soldier said.

Alaric twisted his head careful not to brush against the sword at the back of his neck, to see the soldier pointing at the fiends and half-elf. He was shorter and less muscular than Alaric had expected. The guard was of average build and only a few inches taller than Alaric. Covered from head to toe in shining plate armor, he held his sword confidently between them. Through the slit in his helmet Alaric could see a pair of narrowed hazel eyes boring into him.

A second soldier surged toward the remains of The Broken Bottle. He was stocky and wore the same armor though his had dulled with age. With every stride his armor clanked and jangled alerting the crowd to his presence. Alaric watched with some surprise as they parted without command to let him pass. In mere moments he had returned with the fiends and half-elf manacled at the end of his sword.

"The buildin's comin down sir," he huffed. "I think everyone made it out though."

"Clear the perimeter and let it burn. There is no saving it at this point," the smaller guard ordered. "Take witness statements. And see if you can find a healer in the crowd and Solëir. He might be able to ressurect the tavern."

"You have this lot?" the larger guard asked.

"I have them," he affirmed.

The larger guard nodded then hurried off shouting commands into the crowd.

"March," the smaller soldiered ordered.

Alaric and the elf waited for the fiends and half-elf to procede to the front of their sad column. Keeping pace with the others to avoid suspicion, Alaric snuck glances at the torchlit buildings and alleys to either side, searching for an escape. Finding none, he sized up his captor. Despite his more youthful appearence, the guard escorting them was in charge, an oddity in a small town where seniority dictated rank. The younger guard must have done something or known someone to find himself in charge of his more experienced colleague. Unassuming though he was, something about his casual demeanor and confidence made Alaric doubt the former. It was likely he possessed magic of his own which he had put to use earning his rank. Such abilities would make escape unlikely. For now, his only option would be to bide his time and wait for an opportunity to present itself. A sense of unease stole over him, growing with each step as the chance for escape dwindled.

Whenever onlookers gathered to gawk at their procession, the guard dismissed them with a single, authoritative command or wave of his hand. None seemed able resist his will. The ease with which the guard controlled the townspeople annoyed Alaric. Even if he managed to escape, there would be nowhere to hide. Anyone who took him in would be sure to sell him out to avoid the wrath of the guard. His annoyance quickly shifted to anger. Of all the places to meet what had possessed him to agree to The Broken Bottle? And where were Wolfrick and the client? They had better have a very good reason for not showing. He would have to be sure to charge extra for the inconvenience.