The Tourney.

The man that bounds from the shattered doorway stands six feet tall with sandy blond hair and deep set blue eyes. His face, a mass of scars and stubble, looks at Henry without feeling; his eyes dead despite the gravity captured within speak of a harsh life.

Henry takes two steps backwards, his feet feeling suddenly unsteady. With both hands held outwards from his chest he grasp a steel rod, perhaps filched from a fence of some other such device, on the end a barbed hook rests, like that of a fire poker.

The large German thuds onto the sidewalk, his heavy leather boots slap down with a clap. Lowering his shoulders he glowers at Henry, the heavyset eyebrows furrowing and shading his eyes with a deep shadow,

“Well little man I see you have come prepared.” The fellow manhandles the English language.

“This old thing, a trifle!” Henry jovially whips back, his face displaying a smile of sorts, some small uncertainty on the corners.

As if meeting at high-noon the two men stand silent, London sits idle around them as if the breathing city can feel the tension about to erupt. A woman bustles past, her skirt sways, a flower in the wind, her face displays all of the wisdom of someone who knows what’s about to take place.

“Your move old man!” the German says impatiently.

“Right ’o” Henry utters suddenly whilst dropping the shaft of steel, the thing bounces and clatters to the cobble road with a church steeple din.

Noise bounds around the open space, an orchestra of sound, every roll and totter of the bar causing more noise to abound. As it settles into a stone groove the opposing ally’s erupt with an explosion of projectiles; white stone, black coal, broken pots and discarded brick spin through the air in parabolic arcs that glint and twinkle in the sunlight.

On noticing this rain of stone the German stumbles backwards and manages to gather himself on the stoop under the small awning. The barrage of projectiles crash onto the frail umbrella cover like hail on an iron roof, several shards break through to harmlessly bounce off the mans shoulders.

Laughing loudly the fellow bellows out, “Ha you wish to destroy me with stone, I am like the river!”

“That makes no sense you oaf!” Henry barks back with distain.

“It means I will always find a path, you snooty English fool!”

Taking one step down the man begins to approach Henry again, this time with a little more trepidation. Two steps down and the hail comes again, he quickly ducks back under the awning for shelter, unknowingly another volley has been launched from the side, this time more true than the others. Five shards impact the man’s face from either side, each one liken to meteor striking the earths surface.

Stumbling backwards he grasps his head while the thunder strikes the roof again, this time more penetrate and crash down onto him.

Stepping backwards he falls against the doorframe, a thick stream of blood wells down his face, looking up from the haze he sees Henry bound up the steps like a gazelle, each step driving him forwards.

With arm drawn back Henry uses his speed and muscle tension to drive the blow home, striking the Germans jaw like a hammer, all of his forward momentum adding to the thump.

With his face pushed to the side into the doorframe the man slides down onto the stoop like a viscous liquid, his feet and legs crumple below him.

Standing over the man Henry looks to either side, his guardian angels wink back in acknowledgment.

With a subtle stride he walks into the house.

The sound of fighting rumbles down the hallway as Henry advances into the room; several pictures lay broken on the floor while the carpet is spattered with shards of wood from the exploded door, broken glass and other paraphernalia cower against the skirting boards.

Taking slow deliberate steps he makes his way to wards the din, ahead he can see the shadows dance and play in the evening light.  

Over the heavy thuds and breaking things Henry can hear his friends talking to each other as if in the middle of a tourney.

“Nice thrust Albert!”

“Why thank you chap, learnt that little jab at the college.”

“Well a worth while lesson I’d say.”

“Can I give you a hand with that lad?”

“What about your boy, aren’t you a little pre-occupied?”

“Momentarily.”

Henry steps from the hall into the fray as Alfred delivers the decisive blow to the young man’s face, laying him cold on the floor. Another body lays blooded by the fireplace, the crimson liquid drying to a crust from the heat. Tom and Alfred square off against the last man, each one with fist held high, the combatant dances from foot to foot.

As Henry strides into the room another fellow stands and turns as if to flee from the scene, freezing in his spot his eyes lock with Henry’s, the two stand like statues rooted to the spot, their feet immobile, their breaths held deep in their diaphragms.

“Well I suppose my exit plan has failed.” The man says in broken English.

“It would seem that way, how’s about you take a seat chap?” Henry says advancing on the man with fists raised.