The rain had settled over Bree like a grey cloak, dripping from the sagging roofs of Beggar’s Alley. The stones were slick with mud and filth, and the thin folk who called it home huddled in doorways, watching warily as strangers stalked the streets.
A new gang had come down from the North Downs, lean men with hard eyes and scars, blade at their belts and cruel grins on their faces. Word spread quick, they meant to bleed the Alley dry, demanding coin from folk who barely had a crust of bread to share.
They found Sharpe before long. He was leaning against the broken wall of a hut, broad arms folded, pale hair falling across his scarred face. The leader of the gang, a bear of a man with a black-toothed smile, spat at his feet.
“Tribute,” the northerner growled. “All of it. This alley is ours now.”
Sharpe straightened, his green eyes narrowing like knives in the dark. His deep voice rolled out, calm but edged like a drawn blade. “You’ve lost your way, stranger. This is Bree, and Beggar’s Alley bows to no foreign scum. Least of all to the likes of you.”
The man laughed, but the sound died quickly when Sharpe stepped forward. He carried no blade, no cudgel, only the fists that had broken countless bones in tavern brawls. The Alley folk pulled back, knowing what was to come.
The fight was brutal. The gang leader swung like a storm, heavy and wild, but Sharpe ducked low, driving a fist into his gut, then a knee up into his jaw. They grappled together and slammed into the muck. Sharpe fought dirty. An elbow to the temple followed by a headbutt that split skin. But the man from the north was no stranger to fighting dishonourably himself, and for long minutes the two men battered one another like beasts in a pit.
At last, Sharpe stood, blood streaking his face and one eye swelling shut. The northerner lay groaning in the mud, beaten and broken. Sharpe spat in the muck beside him, his voice echoing off the alley walls. “You tell your lot this street’s got a wolf in it. Bree’s ours, and I’ll gut the next fool who thinks otherwise. Now, crawl back to whatever hole you’ve come from!”
The gang muttered, dragging their leader away into the night. But before they vanished, the leader turned his head, glaring through swollen eyes. “We’ll be back, gutter-rat. Next time, we’ll bring fire!”
The alley was quiet after they’d gone. Folk peeked from doorways, whispering Sharpe’s name. He ignored them, limping back to his den, a crooked smile tugging at his scarred mouth.
He had won, for now. In the smoke-choked taverns of Bree that night, they spoke of the scarred tough of Beggar’s Alley. The man who fought with his fists and, though outnumbered, turned the odds in the favour of Bree.
