Knights and Magic Wand
Chapter 92 - 92 66 Galliard

92: Chapter 66 Galliard 92: Chapter 66 Galliard “…The guys just wanted to give him a good thrashing as a lesson,” he assured her, “don’t worry, they won’t kill him.”

The scar-faced brute grew impatient and slapped the dancer’s behind, urging her to hurry up and do as told.

After accepting the hooligans’ payment, the dancer thought about how the money would spare her several days of work and suppressed her unease.

Beneath the moonlight, the shadowy figures in the alley ended their brief conversation, and the dancer turned to face the entrance of the tavern, composing herself.

She ascended the steps, pushed open the door, and with a shy yet captivating look on her face, approached the melancholic poet.

“Sir, your singing is like a spring breeze crossing my heart.

Wouldn’t you like to compose some wonderful melodies with me tonight?”

The dancer boldly took the poet’s arm and bluntly expressed her desire, her cheeks aflame.

Leaning against a beam, the poet stopped the verse he was about to sing and, upon seeing the dancer’s lovely face, his melancholic expression immediately gave way to a smug, greasy smile.

“Ah, my darling little nightingale.”

The poet set down his lute and with a smooth motion, wrapped his arm around the dancer’s waist: “Why not?

Perhaps I shall compose a new poem just for you tonight.”

He never refused a free romantic encounter.

A chorus of disapproving hisses rose from the crowd.

“Are you leaving already?

We haven’t had our fill yet.

Sing us a few more heroic epics, at least,” several patrons complained, knocking on their tables.

“Apologies, gentlemen, but I am a minstrel who sings freely, never lingering in one place to trill.

Let that ignorant fool from before take over.

His poetry may be as insubstantial as chaff, but at least he has a decent voice,” the minstrel retorted as he tipped his hat, indicating his readiness to ascend the stairs with the young dancer without a moment’s hesitation.

The tavern owner shrugged; this poet had only temporarily stayed to perform of his own volition, and there was nothing he could do to make him stay.

“Sir, let’s go outside…” The dancer whispered seductively in the poet’s ear: “As you just sang, let us try to meet secretly under the night sky as in the poems.”

An aficionado of outdoor trysts?

“Ha ha ha, of course~~” The poet’s eyebrows rose in delight, and his face showed a lewd smile, surprised and pleased by the girl’s understanding of pleasure.

His steps lightened even more.

“Come then~” The dancer pulled the poet out of the tavern…

“What a shame, his poems were truly delightful to hear.”

Azeryan watched as the man was led away by the dancer, feeling somewhat regretful.

A poet of such caliber had not even been procured by his father for past events.

Receiving no answer, Azeryan turned to Leon, only to find his companion stealthily peering through the slits of the window leaves at the scene outside.

“What are you looking at?

What’s happening out there?” Azeryan inquired.

“I’m checking out what’s going on,” Leon waved him off, unsure if it was just the typical tavern brawl.

Under the hazy moonlight, the dancer led the middle-aged poet, who chuckled foolishly, into the alley.

As soon as she turned to lean against the wall, the poet’s hands reached for his pants, but from the dark shadows behind, seven figures suddenly emerged.

The ambushers swarmed the poet from behind, a thick-gloved hand stifling his mouth as he tried to scream in panic.

The rest pinned down his limbs.

Turning her head, the dancer was so frightened that she covered her mouth and ran into the night without looking back.

And the men didn’t bother with her, as the lead thug leaned in to whisper in the ear of the squirming, muffled poet: “Took us a while to find you.

You still dare to stay in this city, eh?

Master Galliard, Mr.

Rody sends his regards.”

The poet, his mouth gagged by the leather glove, frantically shook his head, as if he’d recognized something in the dim light.

He suddenly jerked his head to the left, hitting his captor in the nose, causing immediate pain and redness.

“Help!

Save me!

Mmmph…”

Seizing this one chance, the poet screamed for help toward the eyes peeking through the window slat, but was promptly punched in the stomach, doubling over in pain like a shrimp.

The captor, having regained composure, grabbed the poet’s cheek in anger and stuffed a cloth into his mouth.

While his men tied up the struggling poet, the thug leader, rubbing his nose, looked directly at Leon, who hadn’t hidden his gaze behind the window slats.

“Mind your own damn business!

Keep looking and you’re next!” The gang leader threatened, baring his yellow teeth at Leon.

Leon ignored him, watching as his companions easily hoisted the bound poet and hurried out of the alley.

“You still watching, motherfucker?”

The gang leader, reaching the mouth of the alley, looked back to see those eyes still peering through the slats, and, irritated, picked up a stone from the ground and hurled it before departing.

Leon released the window leaves, which clattered shut, blocking the incoming stone.

Clearly.

This was no mere tavern scuffle.

Lust is a trap, but sadly, the phonographic Felu language didn’t encapsulate such nuances in its words for desire.

Still, remembering the poet’s terrified eyes and pleas, he felt compelled to offer some assistance within his power, not to dishonor the knight’s oath he had so recently taken.

Turning back to Azeryan to explain what he’d witnessed, Leon stood and approached the guard who was drinking at a nearby table.

Azeryan, too, pulled along the bored Lokhak to follow.

Leon tapped the guard on the shoulder: “Hey, I just saw that poet being kidnapped outside…”