Men at Arms

By Scott Wilson

Word Count: 333

“There is no time for arguments. This is the way we are going to run this caper.” Said the sign hung over the private bar of the Guild of Men at Arms.

"Nice motto, hey Ernie.” A large muscular Troll said to the bartender.

Ernie spat in a beer glass, wiped it out with his filthy apron and sat it back on the rack with the other clean glasses. He looked up at the pale, grey-skinned creature and said, “Stopped many a bar fight, that it has. Cyril.”

“I like bar fights,” said Cyril. “They keep me reflexes good.”

“Well I don’t like any sort of fights in my establishment,” Ernie replied in a sharp voice that could cut a suit of leather armor like butter. “Does nothing but kills and injures my customers and costs me an arm and a leg in tables and chairs.”

“But it must be good for business,” Cyril said. “I mean, you’d get lots of rich warriors and the like coming here to spend their treasures and have a bit of rough and tumble to let off steam.”

“Yes, well now we get only the members of the Guild in here, and they know how to behave. Nice and proper like, spending the same amount of money and not costing me a week’s earnings in furniture.”

Cyril chugged down another ale and tapped his forehead with a long, boney finger, then pointed at the sign.

“That’s right Cyril, if you want to keep your job earning a decent wage in my Guild; you have to remember who you can disagree with. Now, I’ve heard that old Sam Tunstell has opened a seedy bar across town in the red torch district. How about you have another couple of ales here with your friend Ernie, then go and test your reflexes in that bar.”

Cyril smiled, took the fresh foamy glass of ale from Ernie and said,”Cause, that’s the way we are going to run this caper, hey Ernie.”