Spilled Ale

The five sat at the rear table of the inn. Expert eyes took in everything; the barmaid collecting their order, the exits, and the position of the other patrons; this last part made all the easier by there only being one other group present. The twelve or so men that eyed the newcomers with equal scrutiny.

“Come here, honey,” the apparent leader said, making a grab for the barmaid as she carried the tray toward the newcomers.

“Leave me be, Reabo,” she snapped, veering expertly out of his reach.

“Mind your manners, sir,” Moonhawk said from the far table, her words were gentle; her eyes were anything but.

“Mind your own business, stranger,” Reabo said.

“You just made it my business. The barmaid is carrying our ale, I’d hate her to spill it due to your carelessness.”

“You’d kill over spilled ale?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Moonhawk said. Granted, that other time the ale had been spilt by a poorly aimed dagger. Being the helpful sort, Moonhawk had demonstrated the correct method of throwing with deadly accuracy. She didn’t see much point in elaborating the tale at this moment however. “Besides, who said anything about killing? I intended to teach you a lesson, and I have found that the dead do not learn very much,” she added.

“This is our town, we do as we wish.”

“Thing is, the townsfolk kind of want it back. That’s what they hired us,” Moonhawk said, “the way I see it you have two choices, leave or die.”

“You fools are out of your league,” Reabo said, drawing his sword.

“It wouldn’t be the first time for that either, but times are hard,” Moonhawk said with a smile. “Even we have to take the easy ones now and then,”

(word count 297)