The pounding continued in erratic bursts, subsiding for brief moments before beginning again. Morgan stood up and silently began to inch his way towards the door. If it were Zanadar or the old man they surely would have said something by now.
He leaned in close to the door. The heavy wood shook on its hinges with each hit, sending small clouds of dust billowing into the room.
"Who's there?" he called out cautiously.
The banging stopped abruptly.
"I am," a high-pitched, nasal voice replied after a moment.
That didn't help him much. Morgan frowned.
"What do you want?"
"You're in my room," the voice whined pathetically.
Morgan let out a relaxed breath and loosened the grip on his mace. It was only the drunk Sascha had warned about earlier. He fumbled briefly with the lock, then pulled the door open slightly and peered out through the narrow crack.
In the dim light of the hallway stood a sickly-looking, wiry man dressed in rags. His sunken cheeks and long, pockmarked face gave him an emaciated appearance. A thin, scraggly beard grew in patches around his jaw, and dark circles sat heavily under his eyes. His dirty hair was matted across his forehead. The man was filthy.
Morgan shrank back immediately, disgusted. The drunk's warm breath was putrid, and his stench was thick in the air.
"You're in my room," he repeated, his dry rasp more agitated this time.
"I'm sorry, but you're mistaken friend," Morgan replied, doing his best to avoid the smell. "This is my room. At least it is for tonight."
"You're in my room," the drunk's voice grew steadily louder. "Get out of my room!"
"I'm sorry," the ranger said and began pulling the handle closed.
The filthy man slammed his fist into the door with surprising force. Morgan stumbled back a step, dropping his mace. He heard it hit the floor somewhere behind him. It rolled back loudly before finally settling.
"No!" he shouted angrily at the ranger, his voice stinging with desperation. "Get out of my room!"
The drunk lowered his head and lunged towards the open entrance. Morgan quickly regained his composure and started to swing the heavy door shut. A sickening thud rattled through the frame and up the ranger's arm as the wiry man collided with the thick wood. He heard the drunk stagger back and fall to the ground cursing. Morgan pulled the door open to see him climbing back to his feet, clumsily attempting to regain his balance. A foamy stream of drool dripped out of the corner of his mouth and down the dirty man's chin.
"Please," Morgan said, "I do not want to hurt you. This is my room, just go away."
The drunk paid no attention to Morgan's pleas. His eyes were glazed with a frenzied madness. He clenched his fists tightly and with a blind rage, charged at the ranger.
This time Morgan was ready. He deflected the first blow and sent the filthy man's fist slamming into the doorframe. The drunk screamed in pain as large splinters painfully dug into his knuckles. The ranger kicked the side of the man's knee causing it to twist and buckle awkwardly. He then took a step back and hurled his fist directly at the drunk, catching him squarely in the jaw.
The wiry man's screams stopped instantly. He toppled to the ground, falling to a crumpled heap at the center of the hallway. Morgan mumbled a curse under his breath and rubbed his hand. He'd swung a bit harder than he had meant to. He sighed and knelt down next to the man. He was not seriously injured, although when he awoke he would not be very happy.
Morgan looked over the unconscious drunk for a moment, examining him. The dim light of the hall made it hard to see his wounds clearly. His jaw was already beginning to bruise and swell - there was nothing Morgan could do about that. The drunk's right hand was smeared with blood. It trickled slowly through his fingers and onto the ground.
Two large splinters had broken from the frame and lodged themselves firmly into the man's knuckles. His hand twitched slightly, and his blood was already beginning to clot around the slivers. Morgan leaned in closely, inspecting the wounded hand. The splinters were not too deep and should be fairly easy to remove. The injury could have been much worse, the drunk was lucky that he was not stronger.
With a skilled hand, Morgan slowly twisted one of the pieces of wood and slid it free from the man's hand. He held the jagged splinter in his palm for a moment. It looked to be largely intact. Nothing had broken off inside the drunk's hand. He discarded the sliver and then carefully removed the second in the same fashion.
When he was finished, he set the man's arm back down on the floor. Morgan sat back on his knees and thought for a moment. "I can't really just leave you here," he said. Morgan scanned the area, his eyes coming to rest on the dark room at the end of the hallway. "You probably came from there, might as well put you back."
The ranger stood up, placed his hands under the drunk's arms and pulled the unconscious man down the hall to the edge of the common room. He could hear snores drifting out of the darkness, it sounded as if there were already several people asleep in the room. He leaned the man against the wall gently. "There," he said, standing up.
Morgan walked back to his room and shut the door behind him. He removed his boots, and then flopped rather unceremoniously onto the bed.
Morning came much sooner than Morgan would have liked. He was awakened by a loud knocking on his door. He sat up in bed and yawned, it was still dark outside. The knocking continued. Morgan slipped out of bed and quietly picked his mace up off the ground. He walked cautiously towards the door, readying himself.
"Who is it?" he called out.
"Its me," Zanadar's voice answered.
Morgan lowered his weapon, relieved. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, Zanadar stood in the hallway. He was already fully armored and carried a fair-sized saddlebag that looked to be about half full. He gazed at Morgan peculiarly.
"Expecting someone else?" the big man asked.
Morgan gave him a confused look.
"Unless that's for me," he said, pointing at the mace, "in which case I'd just as soon go back to bed, if it's all the same to you."
"Oh, that," Morgan replied, looking down at the dark, steel weapon in his hand. "Long story."
"I bet," the big man said with a grin, as Morgan put the mace on his bed and sat down to put on his boots. "Does it have anything to do with the blood on the floor out there and the sickly looking fellow with a swollen face propped up against the wall?"
Morgan cringed. "You knew what happened before you even came in here," he accused.
Zanadar just shrugged and continued grinning smugly.
"How bad does he look?" the ranger asked.
"Oh he looks absolutely dreadful, but you're only responsible for the bruises on his face. I suspect a strong drinking habit and a frighteningly ugly mother are to blame for the rest."
"What about his hand?"
"It's fine, just a few small cuts. How did that happen anyway? Those puncture wounds were oddly shaped, almost like teeth."
"He punched the door."
"...and it bit him?"
"Sort of," the ranger answered as he finished tying his boots.
"Well," Zanadar said, holding up a mailed hand. "I'm glad I wore these."
Morgan snatched his mace off the bed and placed it back into his pack. He stood up and slung its straps over his shoulder. "All right, let's go. Elandar is downstairs waiting for us, I assume?"
"You assume correctly."
The two men walked out of the room and back into the hallway. The drunk still lay against the wall near the entrance to the common room. He was asleep and breathed deeply, wheezing loudly as his chest rose and fell. Morgan shut the door and locked it.
"I hope he's not hurt too bad," he said.
"Don't worry about it, Morgan," the big man replied. "He had it coming anyway, making all that noise."
Morgan turned. "You heard him?"
"How could I not?"
"And you didn't come out to help?"
Zanadar shrugged. "You seemed to have the situation under control. No need for me to get in the way."
"Thanks." Morgan said dryly.
