enjoying the round of complimentary mescal, “to enjoy our drinks. I am an eccentric and a cripple, and the others here are of no significance to Shoukyoku. Return to your masters. Inform them that Runner's Rest is abandoned.” The hermit, or rather Sabaku the deserter, raises his glass to the roughians who join him in a little cheer.
The officer is more than perturbed at this unexpected counter offer. The outlying rabble near the farthest reaches of Shoukyoku's border typically don't resist the Imperial Legion; those few rebels who do stand up to fight are immediately crushed by the Empire. The officer expected resistance today, but prior to embarking on the menial task of converting a tiny thieves' den, he had resolved to simply sacking the tiny settlement and razing whatever remained of little value. The newly discovered prospect that delivering Sabaku the deserter to the Emperor would land him a lucrative promotion to a comfortable position in the Imperial City was too much for the officer to give up without a fight. “I cannot comply with your request, deserter,” the officer snarls. “I will make you kneel before the seat of the Emperor in front of all to see! They will fill my lap with riches and parade me through the streets of the Imperial City!” The officer is lustfully committed to this vision of his immediate future, and speaks from his perceived position of power, “Your friends here shall not be slain for harbouring a traitor...”
“BAH! I am sure that must be good news,” exclaims Fat Pint in confusion and relief.
“...they'll be placed in irons and live out their days in servitude at the work camps out east,” the officer sentences them to a life of hard labour as slaves. “But you, Sabaku, I'm sure the Emperor will want to make an example of you, and I have my doubts you would survive his judgement. Guards! Seize the crippled traitor! I expect the rest of this rabble to struggle even less than the cripple against the might of the Imperial Legion.”
The two soldiers draw their swords and slowly converge on the smiling traitor, eager to exploit his weakness if he dares to resist. The hermit leans heavily on his knotted staff, maintaining a shaky balance. The toughs look worried at the prospect of servitude until death, but they remain seated. Fat Pint is behind the bar and takes a number of slow steps away from the hermit. The barkeep shares a look with his daughter and motions for her to move towards the front entrance. Moonshine's heart is racing, she can hear her pulse beating in her ears. Her face is flushed, and she shoots back the bottom of a glass of mescal and contemplates gulping back what's left in the pitcher as she slips through the shadows around the officer and page, avoiding their notice.
Sabaku the deserter leans heavily on his staff as the two soldiers approach him, swords drawn at the ready. “You're under arrest, traitor! Surrender, or we'll have to hurt you,” one soldier commands as he manoeuvres to grab Sabaku, taking one hand from his sword. At this, Sabaku strikes! Deftly, he uses his staff to hold his body aloft as he kicks the soldier square in his chest with a series of bicycle kicks, landing comfortably on his feet, cradling his staff in his arm. The other soldier advances drawing back to strike with his sword, but Sabaku bends backwards, stretching the staff over his shoulder, reaching out to strike his aggressor twice – the first strike planted firmly into the soldiers nose, breaking it, while the second strike is a calculated blow to the throat which sends the soldier flying backwards, tumbling over barstools until his backside hits the floor. The first soldier has regained his footing after that series of firmly planted kicks and attempts charging Sabaku, screaming “AAAII-YEEEE!” His sword is raised above his head with two hands, and, as he charges forward, Sabaku effortlessly braces his staff by his foot and lets it fall forward. It falls into the centre of the oncoming soldier's abdomen, knocking him to his knees, breathless, and the staff makes a wooden clacking sound as it comes to rest on the floor.
The officer looks cheated. “You merely feigned injury, traitor! You are truly dishonourable,” the officer's voice indicates that his confidence wavers. “Guards! Get in here,” he screams to the guards outside and draws his sword, hoping to hold Sabaku at bay until his men arrive.
Sabaku draws his katana, bringing the hilt high near his ear with the blade pointing straight towards the officer's face. He holds the sword with a controlled ease. The blade is set to kill but Sabaku is willing to negotiate, “You can still walk away. Take your lackeys, return home and tell your masters this place was empty. You can live with that shame and they will believe such a lie.”
Standing alone, facing the fierce figure of Sabaku the deserter, the officer contemplates leaving now with his tender skin unblemished, but once four additional soldiers shuffle in through the blanketed doorway, his confidence returns. He looks to his page for support and can see that he's also dreaming of reaping the rewards that would come with Sabaku's capture. Fat Pint has managed to back himself into a corner behind the bar. Moonshine has her back to the wall near the entrance but is within a few steps from the page. The soldiers have filed into the bar, standing with the table of roughians between them and their target. The officer feels a rush rise through him as he deems the odds are in his favour, and he leaps forward letting out a feeble cry, “Get the traitor, men! HIE-YAAH!” The tall officer charges forward with his sword raised high above his head.
In the short moment it takes for the officer to fly recklessly across the barroom floor, sword held aloft, a flurry of events take place. As the foot soldiers try to rush past the toughs drinking at the table, one suddenly stands up, feigning a stretch and an exaggerated yawn, tipping his stool in front of the crowd of soldiers, tripping the first so that the others stumble on top of him. The roughians look at their friend who stood up, as if he had taken some momentous action. The standing tough looks to his seated friends, saying “Well, he did buy the last round.” This clinches it for the drunken roughians, who take this opportunity to pounce, fists flying madly, onto the clumsy Imperial soliders. These men are wanted for one crime or another in the surrounding lands, and each of them surely resent any representation of authority. Not only is releasing their aggression on soldiers who mean to arrest and enslave them a worthwhile act of self-preservation, it is also one of their most treasured pastimes. Meanwhile, as soon as the officer lets out his wail and breaks into his charge, Moonshine spots the young page draw a throwing dagger and pull it back. She could not tell whether it was aimed at her father or Sabaku, nevertheless she smashed a thick clay mescal pitcher across the page's head, sending him crashing to the floor. Proud of her accomplishment, Moonshine still recoils from the violence, slipping back into the shadows near the entrance. She looks to her father for direction, but he only stands in awe of the violence surrounding him. Although the Cactus's Prick has been the venue for innumerable barroom brawls, Fat Pint has never been confronted with the Imperial Legion threatening to make him a slave of Shoukyoku.
The sounds of shattering pottery and the erupting scuffle mingle with the tall officer's weak cry as he continues his charge, sword held high above his head. Sabaku maintains his stance, his sword blade stretched out before him, aimed straight at the officer's face. From the officer's perspective, he cannot accurately judge the length of the blade before him. He is slightly distracted by this, failing to notice the exposed timber ceiling beams. As he charges forward, he lunges to make a lethal strike against the patient deserter. Sabaku stands ready to strike as the officer's sword hacks into the timber beam above his head. Sabaku takes a firm step forward and with a quick, short swipe with the tip of his sword he slices the officer from his chin to his brow, violently tearing through the his flaring nostrils, knocking his winged helm to the floor. The officer lets out a cry of pain, and Sabaku steps back, adopting a more relaxed posture, lowering his sword so its tip floats just above the floor. The wings of the officer's helm clang as the hit the dusty floor.
“My face! You cut my face,” the officer cries. The toughs continue to beat on the prone soldiers. Moonshine still looks to Fat Pint for encouragement, direction, stre
ngth, anything, but she finds none in the face of the barkeep, who is still in shock envisioning the repercussions that must follow assaulting an officer of the Imperial Legion.
“Leave and live, Imperial dogs,” Sabaku the deserter issues this ultimatum, “or threaten us again and suffer the consequences.”
The officer has his hands covering the wound on his face and blood spills from between his fingers. He takes his hands down, flicking blood from his hands onto the floor with a splatter. “Traitor,” he says, “Sabaku the deserter.” He pauses a second, reaching towards the hermit-warrior with one of his bloody hands. Then he abruptly shouts, “I'll still receive a parade for your corpse!” With those final words he snatches a dagger from his belt with his other hand, slashing wildly and lunging for Sabaku's throat. Sabaku must have anticipated the officer's aggressive intentions from the tone or rhythm of his voice because he merely twitches his wrist, angling his sword upwards, holding the hilt near his groin, so that the tip pierces the officer's chest as he blindly thrust at the so-called
Sabaku, the Deserter Vol. 0: "Showdown at the Cactus's Prick" Page 2