The Parting Glass

2. Of Prison

Bree's markets were always busy at Noon. The streets are always full of merchants, merchandise, travelers, visitors, and, worst of all, pickpockets. Flambard hated it, watching the children and young adults move through the crowd and silently pull coins, bracelets, and other baubles of value from unsuspecting victims. Flambard had been ordered not to intervene unless the traveler noticed. Until then, he would watch and cringe as he saw the younglings move through the crowd. His thoughts wandered as he swung his sling around but mostly focused on his younglings. How grateful he was that the Guards had hired him. Hobbits here in Bree were often thought little of if anyone noticed them.

As a fight broke out near a vendor, Flambard jumped down from his elevated view of the square and southern street, his leather squeaking against his arm guard, wet from the misting rain that had been moistening the area all week.

"Outta thee way," he yelled, shoving through the big folk that had formed a circle around the fight. A few wouldn't move, so he grasped the pocket of his sling and brought the leather strings across their backsides. They moved then, normally with a yelp and a curse directed at him.

"Outta thee way, Guard comen thru!" He shouted again, now swishing the leather straps of his sling back and forth, striking everyone in his way, as it sounded like the fight escalated. He could see it now, it seemed that a shorter person in a cloak and hood was either trying to get out of the crowd or stir them up. The latter happened more often than not, Flambard growled his breath and plunged into the tussle, his sling flaying this way and that, his voice raised over the noise of the brawl, many moved away now that the officials had arrived.

The shorter happened to be a dwarf, his cowl pulled low over his head, shadows covering his frightened face. Flambard stood at the edge of the fight, digging in his pouch for a stone to sling at the fighters. The other two were big folk, who didn't appear to know what they were doing; the dwarf sure did though!

Flambard raised his sling and stone, whirling it over his head as he watched the three attack each other. He loosed it at the dwarf, who fell onto his back. The other two, however, did not back down from fighting, they continued to barrage the dwarf.

" 'AY," Flambard yelled at them, running around to face them. "I said stop," he added as he loosed another stone as he moved, this one found its way to the bottom of the man who was barraging the dwarf, he stopped with a sharp shriek and a quick movement to feel the damaged muscle. The other dropped the dwarf, he had been holding him in a way so he couldn't fight back. Not that he would, he was out cold.

The one with the bruised backside sneered at the guard hobbit, still rubbing his bruise.

"Oi, let us handle this monster, he's too big fer ye!"

"By the authority of-" Flambard was stuck by the second man, who stood above him with a mocking sneer. Flambard landed on his elbows and knees, his head reeling from the strike.

"I remember you," he growled. "You're the one who took my woman!" Flambard cringed. He remembered this bloke too. He had been a part of many thefts, armed robberies, and other crimes, while his partner was his wife. When the Guard had enough evidence to convict them both, the Magistrate gave the man a plea deal, which he gladly took over whatever sentence the Magistrate would have decreed. The woman, however, wasn't as lucky. She was sentenced to ten years in prison, and two years of community service after that.

The man gave Flambard a powerful kick to his ribs, knocking what little breath he had out of him. Flambard cringed, his stomach threatening to leave through his mouth as he rolled across the cobbled streets. When he stopped, Flambard reached into his pouch, grabbed his little whistle, placed it on his bloody lip, and blew a long and clear note, followed by two short ones. As he took a deep breath to repeat the call, the second man kicked the whistle away from him and smashed his hand against the street, giving a horrible crunch.