Chapter 1

"Hey boys, there's the runt!"

Halo groaned inwardly as he saw the neighborhood heavies striding toward him. Why couldn't these idiots understand that short people weren't any different from tall people? Except for, of course, the short/tall part. That they didn't deserve to be harassed anymore than they did?

He considered running, but his deliberations took too long. Before he knew what was happening, he was surrounded by a pack of heavies.

"Hey runt, what are you doin', walkin' on meh street?" He had a dirty face and numerous scars on his bare arms, chest and face. His pants were raggedy and were held up with a goat hair belt. He smelled like a goat too. He had a heavy country drawl and it was obvious his education had been neglected.

"Your street, good sir? Why, I thought this was a public street." Halt attempted to be cordial.

"Ye, this is meh street, and no runt ain't gonna walk on it."

"So I have permission to walk on it then?" Halt noted the use of the boy's double negative.

"No! What're ya, dumb as a rock?"

"No, I certainly am not."

"I dun know 'bout that, runt." The heavy's cohorts chuckled. They obviously had a terrible sense of humor.

"I personally don't care if you know or not, because I know, and the fact that I know should be enough to convince me that I'm not as dumb as rock," Halt stated.

"Say wha?"

"Look, I don't understand you and you as hellfire sure don't understand me, so why don't you just let me go?" Halt hoped that this slightly weak logical explanation would be enough to get his rear end out of trouble.

Of course, the heavy's next words squelched those ambitions. "Na! We ain't gonna let you go, runt! Why'ould we do that?"

"I might not taste so good...?" Halt muttered.

"Eh? What does that have to do wid it, runt?"

"Don't you have any sense of humor whatsoever?" Halt tried to throw his weight around a little. He'd learned from his experiences that if you acted like you could throw your weight around, how ever slight that weight might be, people would believe you actually could.

"I got me a sense of humor! An' runt, we'll get ya for sayin' I don't got no sense of humor!"

"I never said such a thing!"

"Ye, you did too!"

"Then what are we arguing about?" Halt loved having fun with people who often used double negatives.

"Whateva! Get 'im boys!" The heavy strode up to Halt and threw a sloppy uppercut at him. Halt leapt back and whirled on his heel. Then he brought up his foot and kicked the nearest human being. When his foot connected with something soft, he set down the kicking foot and brought his other foot around a little higher.

Halt heard a satisfying grunt as the heavy went down underneath his double kick. He leapt over his fallen opponent and raced toward the town square.

"Cm'here, runt!"

"Not a chance..." he murmured as he skid through the town square, which was empty since it was quite late at night. He tripped over some chickens, who then squawked unpleasantly and made quite a ruckus, jumped onto a crate, and leapt through the air toward the edge of a roof. In mid-air he realized that he might not be able to hold on to the ledge when he reached it, but he cast that thought away. He was in mid-air now, and if he fell he would fall into a pit of angry crocodiles.

His hands grabbed the edge of the roof. He pulled himself up using his strong, wiry arms and swung his legs up onto the roof. He looked down at the angry mob. They were all jumping up and trying to get at him. Halt laughed audibly and settled back onto the warm roof tiles. One of the heavies, one with no front teeth and a huge scar on his cheek, attempted to duplicate Halt's move. One hand latched onto the edge of the roof, and the other tried to reach up and grab onto the edge as well. Well, Halt liked being alone on the roof, so he stomped on the guy's hand and sent him crashing back down to earth. All the while he said nothing, but the sneer on his face said it all.

Suddenly all of the boys went quiet. Some shuffled their feet, others became fascinated with the floor. They couldn't stop looking at it. The leader and one other heavy, however, stood defiantly straight.

Halt was confused. What had caused the sudden change in mood? Then he saw it: or rather, him.

It was a Ranger. He had been sitting on a bench near the local tavern and had been calmly watching the display. Now, however, he had stood up and had started slowly moving toward the heavies.

"C'mon boys, it's one Ranger! Lez beat 'im up!" Obviously the leader knew nothing about Rangers.

The other boys, inspired by their leader's confidence, walked up behind him and glared at the Ranger.

Come on boys, don't do this. The Ranger, Crowley, thought to himself. He really didn't want to have to hurt these boys. He knew what drove their kind. They weren't exactly intellectual giants and were probably often picked on by people smarter than them: so they'd improvise. They'd become bullies, heavies, brutal barbarians so they can hold their own in the world. In the end though, they end up broken in the most run down parts of society. It was pathetic.

Crowley was a master at not showing his emotions though. He kept his eyes grim, his mouth in a straight, rigid line.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he said in an even but deadly tone. When he drew his longbow and knocked an arrow, Halt fully expected the group to run away. Instead they laughed. They laughed.

"That lil' ol' bow don't scare us. Tat's a hunter's weapon. Lez see ya hit one of us wid dat thing! Lemme show ya a real weapon!" He drew a dagger from the sheath at his hip. A detail that Halt hadn't noticed before. It was beautiful, ornately crafted: but it wasn't fit for poking rats. From Halt's viewpoint, he could see the blade was thin, and wasn't made for fighting.

"Where did you get that?" asked the Ranger.

"I stold it! Whatya gonna do 'bout it, Ranger?"

Crowley sighed and put down his longbow. He didn't want to hurt the kid. "Tell you what," said Crowley, "fight me one on one. You get your dagger, I'll fight with my hands. If you can get me to yield, I'll let you keep the dagger and I'll leave you alone. If I win, however, you give me the dagger and I report you and your cohorts to the authorities. If you refuse to duel me, then I'll just shoot you all full of arrows and save me a whole lot of trouble."

"Bet you can't shoot nothin' with dat bow, 'specially in da dark!!"

"Really?" asked Crowley calmly. He picked up his longbow and looked for a suitable target. In a town square, there were plenty of targets, just not a whole lot of suitable ones. His eyes were conditioned to see shades of things and to use those shades to see objects. He saw that right behind the lead bully's shoulder there was a small crate containing chicken entrails. That crate was on another tall crater, and the small crate was just above the leader's shoulder. That would be a suitable target.

Crowley knocked his arrow and fired it in less time than it would take a normal person to take a breath. The arrow hit the crate with a satisfying thump, sending chicken parts flying. The head of one of the chickens hit the leader in the back of the head. He whirled around and goggled at the arrow.

"Now, that crate is just slightly smaller than your head. I would have no problems whatsoever putting an arrow through your head right now."

"A'ight," gulped the leader, "I'll fight ya."

"Good. By the way," the leader started, "what's your name?"

"M-M-Michael."

"Very well." Crowley set his longbow down and walked toward Michael. Michael had gotten over most of his jitters and started creeping toward Crowley.

Halt was afraid for Crowley: for about 5 seconds. In less time that Halt had ever thought possible, Crowley leapt toward Michael, ducked under a sloppy thrust from the dagger, grabbed Michael's arm, twisted it behind his back, disarmed Michael, and then pinned Michael to the ground by putting his knee in the back of his back, twisting his arm with one hand, pinning the other arm down with the other hand, and his other leg providing leverage. Michael struggled for about fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes! Imagine being pinned to the dirty earthen floor for fifteen minutes, your arm twisted painfully behind you, a knee digging into your back. Finally Michael gasped, "Yield!"

Halt, Michael, and Crowley had been so enraptured by the battle that they hadn't noticed that Michael's cohorts had left. When Michael saw he muttered, "Those yellow bellied lily livered...." Crowley just nodded and Halt wasn't surprised. "Come on, you're heading to the authorities." Halt and Crowley could see that Michael was too tired to argue.

Once they were gone, Halt climbed from his perch and ran home.