The man hit him in the face. Arren fell backward, knocking over his chair. As he scrambled to get up, the two men advanced on him. The foremost of them kicked him, knocking him over again. “That’s for Norbit,” he snarled, ignoring the shocked stares of the onlookers. “You’re gonna pay for this, blackrobe. You think that just because you had a griffin you were special? That you were as good as us? That you weren’t a blackrobe bastard howling at the moon like a dog? You thought that?” He spat on Arren’s tunic. “You think you can live like us and wear our clothes an’ that makes you one of us. Riona shouldn’t’ve taken your collar off, slave.”
It happened in a heartbeat. One moment Arren was lying on his back and the next he had hurled himself straight at the man with a wild scream.
He hit him hard in the chest, and in spite of his light frame, caught him by surprise and bowled him over. The man landed hard on his back, and Arren’s long fingers closed around his neck.
The man hit him as hard as he could, in the face and chest, but Arren did not let go. He held on with all his might, squeezing the man’s windpipe until his knuckles went white. His face, once impassive, had twisted itself into an insane, animal snarl.
The man’s friend came to his rescue after a moment’s frozen shock. He seized Arren by the hair and dragged him off. Arren screamed, half in pain and half in fury. His hand went to his belt and pulled out his dagger, and he whipped around and buried it up to the hilt in the man’s leg, just above the knee. The man bellowed and fell over, blood soaking into his trousers, and Arren turned and kicked the first man in the face, knocking him over again. Then, utterly heedless of the shouts and the people running over to intervene, he started to rain blows down on the man’s face, hard and fast, shouting incoherent curses at him all the while. The man’s resistance quickly gave way in the face of that, and he started to drag himself away, but Arren scrabbled after him and slammed the heel of his boot into the man’s groin. As the victim curled up, screaming, Arren picked up a fallen chair and raised it over his head, ready to strike.
Someone grabbed him from behind and snatched the chair out of his hands. He twisted in their grip and swung a punch at them, but a hard blow caught him on the chin, stunning him, and he sagged to the ground.
A pair of strong hands dragged him away; he tried to break free and resume his assault, and received a stinging blow to the top of his head for his trouble. After that he calmed down a little and allowed himself to be taken out of the tavern.
He was led to a nondescript corner in an alley, and his captor sat him down on a crate.
“There,” said a voice. “Are yeh gonna calm down, or do I have to hit yeh again?”
Arren blinked. He had the strange feeling of having just woken up, and he squinted vaguely at the bulky shape in front of him. “Bran?” he managed.
Bran was still wearing his uniform and had his arms folded. “Yeah, that’d be me.”
Flell and Gern appeared behind him. Both of them looked horror-struck.
“Arren!” Flell exclaimed. “What in the gods’ names?”
Arren rubbed his head. “Who hit me?”
“That was me,” said Bran. “Hope I didn’t hurt yeh.”
“I think I’m all right.”
“Good. Now what in Gryphus’ name was that all about?” said Bran.
“That was incredible, sir,” Gern interrupted. “I had no idea you could fight like that! You would’ve killed that man if Bran hadn’t pulled you off him.”
Bran thumped him on the ear. “Shut up. Arren, what were yeh playin’ at?”
“I’m sorry,” said Arren, suddenly embarrassed. “I—well, he hit me first. He was saying things, calling me a blackrobe. I don’t know what happened. I just snapped.”
“Well, I could see that,” said Bran. “It was a bit hard to miss.” He exchanged an uneasy glance with the others.
Flell laid a hand on his arm, somewhat hesitantly. “Arren, I—”
Arren stared at the ground. “I’m sorry, Flell. I don’t know what came over me.” They were silent, but he knew what they were thinking. “It wasn’t my fault,” he insisted. “I was defending myself. You know