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ld up his latest work in a pair of tweezers.
'The strangest thing I have ever made,' he said, 'but practical, I can see that. What did you say they were called again?'
'Din-chewersh,' said Cohen. He looked at the horseshoe shapes nestling in the wrinkled palm of his hand, then opened his mouth and made a series of painful grunting noises.
The door burst open. The men strode in and took up positions around the walls. They were sweating and uncertain, but their leader pushed Cohen aside disdainfully and picked up the dwarf by his shirt.
'We tole you yesterday, small stuff,' he said. 'You go ut feet down or feet up, we don't mind. So now we gonna get really —.'
Cohen tapped him on the shoulder. The man looked around irritably.
'What do you want, grandad?' he snarled.
Cohen paused until he had the man's full attention, and then he smiled. It was a slow, lazy smile, unveiling about 300 carats of mouth jewellery that seemed to light up the room.
'I will count to three,' he said, in a friendly tone of voice. 'One. Two.' His bony knee came up and buried itself in the man's groin with a satisfyingly meaty noise, and he half-turned to bring the full force of an elbow into the kidneys as the leader collapsed around his private universe of pain.
'Three,' he told the ball of agony on the floor. Cohen had heard of fighting fair, and had long ago decided he wanted no part of it.
He looked up at the other men, and flashed his incredible srnile.
They ought to have rushed him. Instead one of them, secure in the knowledge that he had a broadsword and Cohen didn't, sidled crabwise towards him.
'Oh, no,' said Cohen, waving his hands. 'Oh, come on, lad, not like that.'
The man looked sideways at him.
'Not like what?' he asked suspiciously.
'You never held a sword before?'
The man half-turned to his colleagues for reassurance.
'Not a lot, no,' he said. 'Not often.' He waved his sword menacingly.
Cohen shrugged. 'I may be going to die, but I should hope I could be killed by a man who could hold his sword like a warrior,' he said.
The man looked at his hands. 'Looks all right,' he said, doubtfully.
'Look, lad, I know a little about these things. I mean, come here a minute and – do you mind? – right, your eft hand goes here, around the pommel, and your right hand goes – that's right, just here — and the blade goes right into your leg.'
As the man screamed and clutched at his foot Cohen kicked his remaining leg away and turned to the room at large.
'This is getting fiddly,' he said. Why don't you rush me?'
'That's right,' said a voice by his waist. The jeweller had produced a very large and dirty axe, guaranteed to add tetanus to all the other terrors of warfare.
The four men gave these odds some consideration, and backed towards the door.
'And wipe those silly stars off,' said Cohen. 'You can tell everyone that Cohen the Barbarian will be very angry if he sees stars like that again, right?'
The door slammed shut. A moment later the axe thumped into it, bounced off, and took a sliver of leather off the toe of Cohen's sandal.
'Sorry,' said the dwarf. 'It belonged to my grandad. I only use it for splitting firewood.'
Cohen felt his jaw experimentally. The dine chewers seemed to be settling in quite well.
'If I was you, I'd be getting out of here anyway,' he said. But the dwarf was already scuttling around the room, tipping trays of precious metal and gems into a leather sack. A roll of tools went into one pocket, a packet of finished jewellery went into another, and with a grunt the dwarf stuck his arms through handles on either side of his little forge and heaved it bodily onto his back.
