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And with that he tumbles down the steps that lead into the hideout, rolls as he hits hard ground. There is comfort in its solidity, se- duction in its hardness. His sword out, he spins, wanting to take in the entire room, but moving too fast for more than a splatter of sight - a man on the floor there, another one in the chair - Dust falls from the ceiling into his eyes, catches in his throat, and he coughs anticlimactically. No movement or emanation of threat. They are all there. They are not dead. They are asleep. Drool dribbling from mouths to floor, rough hands scratching at noses and groins, snores that sound like tattered roofs about to give way. The would-be warrior says, very softly: I am here to arrest you. 
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None of them hear. One rolls over in his sleep, onto the wet patch of ground he pissed on earlier, and groans happily. The would-be warrior moves with utmost efficiency. He finds a coil of rope, and ties the bandits' hands together, binds their legs, linking each of them from ankle to ankle, like a game he and the other children of the village might have played when they were younger - Now, follow the one at the end! And through it all the thieves snore, rub at their eyes with their bound hands, politely refrain from response. The young man retreats back up the steps, through the tavern, and into the silent street. The authorities must be informed immediately, before the thieves awaken. At the intersection, under the street lamp, a lone patrol guard walks. You!  |
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