Brent Kohane, Goblin Anthropologist 2

The iron lock squeeked as it advanced.

“What of true, personal liberty? What of equality and brotherhood?” It became a dialogue; the Bull answered the prisoner. “Oh, don't get us wrong. There's no love for kings or tyrants here.” He snorted. “We just don't like you any better.”

The clamps were almost tight when one of the soldiers holding the prisoner's arms down got a little cocky. He reached into the prisoner's pocket, intending to retrieve a coin purse. It was standard practice to remove any potential dangers from the possession of a prisoner before transportation, and everyone know a coin could cause a great trouble. This was no exception.  

The prisoner whipped around violently, forcing the soldier to hobble along after him. He stumbled comically over a chair, his sword hand trapped in the pocket. As the prisoner spun, he leaned forward and raised his arms. This moved the heavy iron clamp to the level of the second soldier's face. It fit with the force of a morningstar. He went down. 

The third soldier nearly finished freeing his sword from its scabbard when the prisoner head-butted him, then, clubbed him with one arm and the hand-irons. For a moment, the prisoner was standing quite alone. The lieutenant had a clear shot.

It was, for the prisoner, one of those terrible moments when you see disaster approaching but lack the time to do anything about it. Muscles just aren't as fast as eyes. The bolt struck him hard in the shoulder. He shouted, and so did the lieutenant, although neither one was very intelligible. 

The officer worked the crossbow's action (it took two pumps to draw the bowstring all the way back) and loosed another projectile. The supposed prisoner was better prepared for this. He ducked, and it sailed over his head.

 Dunique chose that precise, terrible moment to peek up from behind the bar again. The bolt sounded like it a stone in a still cave-lake as it penetrated his skull. By the time the bartender hit the floor, things had radically changed. For one thing, he had a first-hand experience of the first moments of a timeless afterlife his people didn't believe in. Secondly, the lieutenant was now at the center of an unexpected and very angry mob.

The soldiers he had hit, though they were, to a man, back on their feet already, found themselves suddenly preoccupied. Their first duty would be protecting their officer, he was a noble, after all; the prisoner would wait. Well, actually he wouldn't. “You'll not catch Brenton Kohane so easy,” he announced to a room that was no longer paying attention.

The street outside was nearly pitch. Clouds obscured any celestial light. The tiny glass window from the lamp-lit common room of the South Wind shed more shadows than anything. One of the shadows stood over the five soldier's horses. Brent Kohane cursed to himself, they'd thought to post a sentry. The soldier was staring off into space, apparently oblivious to Brent's approach or the commotion inside. Kohane unwound a garrote from his sleeve and moved up quietly. 

He was still several paces away when the soldier turned around. The dusty light caught his face for a moment, and Brent recognized the Bull from inside. They'd played cards twice in Brent's two days in this town, and on both occasions Brent came out ahead. Still, as far as this bull of a man – what was his name? – knew, the games had been honest. What could he possible have against me?

The Bull didn't comment on Brent's attempt at stealth. Instead he said, “Five good steeds, thirty quid.”
 
Kohane laughed and put the garrote away. He clapped the Bull on the shoulder, and handed him a heavy coin purse. “Deal.” Brenton Kohane escaped again.

A few minutes later, three bruised conscripts and a badly injured nobleman representing the glorious army of Maghnahara were tossed without ceremony into the street. Their horses were gone. So was their prisoner. And their weapons. In fact, about the only thing they carried were their shirts and their pride, and neither one was looking particularly stunning just now.

The Bull opened the bulging coin purse in the light of his own home. Inside he found a fifth-quid piece, about twice that again in various other coinage, two old gold-flecked pennies from Yaqlor that looked rather like quid in dim light, four small rocks, and a bank note rolled inside a tiny lead tube. It was made out to a one “Mas. Brethon Kohane, for his valorius servise in the name of the King, in lew of promised estate.” It was for the amount of four hundred pounds silver. That would have been just eighty quid (which are gold coins) before the war, but it could be a good deal more considering the inflation (which mixed-metal coinage was partly responsible for). 

“The next day, the Bull was arrested for forgery, but I was a hundred miles away, with just the two best horses and a good piece of cash. And a new name.  

“Now get on, the lot of you! If your parents catch me telling storied while the sun's burning, they'll have my head! Tomorrow, I'll tell you how I escaped from Dark-King's cavern kingdom!”
 
Brent Kohane slid off the wagon. It was rather too tall to be a wagon, by his estimation, but it made a fair stage. The bed of the wagon was filled with a heavy hide tent, a thing the goblins called a Yurt. They were smelly, but did keep the rain out, and you didn't have to build 'em every time you made camp. And the didn't fall over in the wind. For wandering savage tribes on these endless steppes, they were perfect luxury. 

The Yurt opened, and a middle-aged goblin, the father of one of the children, stepped out. He stood about most of a head taller than Brent, and would have been head and shoulders above most dwarves. He had a sharp face with deep wrinkles, and deeply set, eyes with irises that shifted from deep brown to a navy blue. He sported a bushy beard that would have made the bartender proud, and wore clothing mainly of leather and fur. He'd never cut his hair in his life, but like most goblins it was pretty thin. He had a large bald spot in the middle of his scalp which resulted in an interesting sort of combover pony-tail. By the classification of modern science he was neither Elf nor Dwarf, like Kohane, nor Orc. Thus, he was a goblin. His name was Yurra, of the Mhaerni, theTribe of the Wind.
“Good story, old man. Any truth in it?”

Brent chuckled. “All my stories are true, Yurra.” This drew a scornful look. Yurra was the only one of his family – indeed the only on his his tribe – who knew enough of Brent's language to coverse with him in it. They'd been friends for most of Brent's time here. “Ok,” he admitted, “mostly true. I don't really remember that poor bartender's name. And I don't know what happened to the Bull. But that's just Smith's embellishment.”  
“Wordsmith doesn't translate into Northern, Brent.”

“Neither does 'anthropologist,' or 'journalist,' or 'archivist,' or 'investor.' None of my jobs translate.”
“That is because none of your 'jobs' involve work.” Yurra laughed. “Come on, you need to earn your keep around here.”
“Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you, Yurra.”
“Because, oh noble explorer, I'm the only one who will put up with you.”