NEW TO “THE TRINING” ADVENTURE?  There are summaries beginning with Cha. 2 and continuing to Cha. 12 (Pt. 1).  What follows is a summary of Cha. 12 (Pt. 2):  
I was of two minds whether I should tell Klasco about the three—at least tell him right now. I saw a side of him I'd not seen before, a violent, insuppressible and irrational side. Not a good combination in battle or when outnumbered in a tavern brawl. On the other hand, I didn't want to have him blindsided.

After what seemed interminable wandering through the labyrinth of hallways, we found the Innkeeper's station and secured our room. Then, on the way to the tavern I took a calming breath and told Klasco as conversationally as I could that we might have not seen the last of the three ruffians.

He kept his eyes averted from me. "I should not have let my passions overthrow my reason. I'm fortunate you were there to be a source of sound judgment and to keep me in check."

"But, will you be able to continue on keeping your passions under control if they confront us again in a similar way? Some people are just rude by nature and unrefined. I'll be the first to agree with you that their behavior was worthy of being—uh, corrected. But this is not our time to do it. We have an important mission after our sleep, and I know you agree that we can't sacrifice that mission for a brawl."

"You're right, Brother. Yours is the voice of reason. With your help we'll enjoy an uneventful tankard of ale—I can almost taste it on my lips—have a pleasant meal and then a restful sleep before we resume our journey to Kabeez."

We continued on in good spirits, tracing our earlier steps up and down the halls, following the growing sounds of laughter and voices lifted in not-too-melodious song until we came upon its source and pulled open the door.

The people in the room turned to look at us. We found a vacant table and sat down. I let my eyes roam. Of the twenty or so occupants I counted, only two were females. They wore soiled white aprons with large pockets in the front, so I figured they were tavern maids. That was confirmed when the younger, plumper of the two, caught sight of us and wove around the tables to get to ours.

"What'll you have, gentlemen?"

"I'll have a tankard of ale," Klasco said and waited for me to acknowledge, which I did with a nod, "and one for my friend."

She turned to leave when Klasco added: "And, where can we eat?"

She told us she'd return with the menus and our ale, and we could have our meal at our table. I watched her leave and then continued to look around the room. Four men, occupying the table nearest us, were intent on a rather noisy game of cards. One would toss a card to the center of the table, and then rap his knuckles on the surface in front of him. The one across from him rapped on the table, but didn't throw a card. Another muttered and swore and then everyone tossed their cards to the center. The two rappers were happier with their playing and began to laugh. One of the other two, a man with orange hair and bushy orange eyebrows, got up and left the room.

Four tables were occupied by lone drinkers. Three were actually drinking. One was passed out with his face pressed against the table top.

Beyond some empty tables, in a far, shadowed corner, two of the three men we had almost had a falling out with earlier sat with their ale, and one cradling a bowl, a substance from which he noisily ladled; not all found its target, splashing instead on the table.

The music we heard earlier had stopped when we entered the tavern and was just now on the verge of resuming. It would be performed by two young men, one playing a mandolin, and one a violin-type instrument; a man, slightly older than the other two, I recognized as the probable lead singer in the group. He smiled coquettishly, very intent on gathering every patron’s eye, ours included, before he began. He did that now by tapping out the tempo with his foot on the tavern floor, scanning his audience. The mandolin started and soon the violin made its entrance. The singer strolled between the two, smiling at the one and bobbing with the rhythm of the other, snapping his fingers. He was determined to build some sort of momentum, to raise it to a crescendo until the audience would be ready to burst if the singing didn't begin.

No one was bursting.

With a disappointment, that I believe I was the only one interested enough to detect, he began his song.

To my surprise, Klasco began humming the singer's words. I glanced at him out of the corners of my eyes and saw that he was nodding his head with the music. His eyes were closed. I wasn't prepared to hear him raise his voice and sing the words, almost trancelike:
   
He stood up and sang now with even more animation. The Tavern maid brought our ale and the two menus and I noticed she gave Klasco a troubled look. To me she whispered: "You might want to warn your friend that's not a popular song with everybody. Those that don't like it, hate it. And they won't take a high likin' to him singin' it."

I thanked her, and when she left my eyes skimmed past the table in the shadows. The third thug had joined the other two and all three were watching Klasco.
   
And with the last line of the song, I saw a glint and a blur and before I could focus on it I heard a clangor near the band. The music stopped. Klasco opened his eyes, emerging from his patriotic reverie and looked briefly confused. The tankard probably originated from the table where the four card players sat. The one with the orange hair got up with such fury that his chair fell back and clattered against the floor. He strode over to our table and stood glaring at Klasco. He was broad in the chest and shoulders, perhaps 5 years younger, but Klasco stood a few inches taller, and I had a hunch would be faster.

"Klevin is the name, sir, and I want to be the one to shove Beloved Kabeez back down your throat!"

Klasco looked at me and then smiled back at the man called Klevin. "I didn't know my singing would cause such pain."

"If I let the song finish, you'd be weeping like a woman by now." His card-playing friends chittered with laughter. "And, no one should weep over a Province Council who sends its children to battle for its pink flowered meadows and brown soil."

Did this Klevin recognize Klasco as one of the Council of Twelve? Or was "Council" used like "capital or "County Seat?" I put my hand on Klasco's shoulder. He turned to look at me, but while his attention was averted, Klevin grabbed the tankard on our table and just as Klasco was turning back, he flung its contents in his face. Klasco sputtered, the ale dripping from his face and his shirt-front plastered to him. The other three card players scrambled to their feet. I did the same, but my heart was pounding shamefully in my chest.

Klasco smiled weakly. Before the three could band with Klevin, Klasco's arms shot out and locked onto the front of his aggressor's shirt (and probably some of the flesh beneath it, the way he yelped in pain). In one fluid movement, he hoisted Klevin from the floor and onto the table, his knees banging onto it first, then his belly. From there Klasco grabbed the back of his collar with one hand, the seat of his pants with the other, and scraped him across the rest of the surface, dragging menus with him and overturning the other tankard. Kleven landed face-first on the floor with the rest of his body collapsing in a heap.

One of his buddies rounded my side of the table, so intent on getting to Klasco that he didn't see my fist which came from my side in a round-house, catching him on the hinge of his jaw just below the ear. It was a sucker punch, I knew, but it was delivered as cleanly as the one I landed on Axtilla's jaw that sent her eyes into pinball mode. His legs simply collapsed where they were and his body's momentum carried his torso forward to his belly, so he didn't look unlike Klevin.

The third and the fourth card player, as though by some unspoken agreement took a few steps back. I was feeling a little heady with power when I saw two others stomping toward us, their eyes afire with anger. One wielded a club, which resembled one of the chair legs and the other held a dagger at his side. To make matters worse, the three thugs came out of their shadowed corner, two of them with empty tankards, and were making their way toward us as well. The card players' confidence was renewed and they advanced. A quick tally came up with seven men all intent on making short work of us.

"Klasco?" was all I had time to say.

"Brother …" was his only response.