Garrick Stone: How to Lose Arguments and Influence Nobody

I set my feet on the dry planks, shoulders square, and look him over for the weak knee. 'Step off the chain, troll, or I move you off it.'

Gorm shifts his bulk slightly but the chain stays taut. "The bridge is shut," he repeats, voice firm. "Rule 37, item 6, no crossing once the barrier's chained. Your receipt doesn’t change that." He eyes your standoffish pose with a hint of impatience. "You'll find my knee no weaker than the bridge's foundations. Step back or find yourself soaked."

'Rule 37.' I drop the receipt and go in low and hard, shoulder at the knee he says is fine, driving off the dry planks with everything I have.

You plough into Gorm's knee as ordered. He hardly staggered, just shifted his stance and let out a grunt. "Your foray into choreography is impressive," he remarks, "but the chain is not mine to move till the county inspector gives the nod, and he’s never late. Try again with words, or take a swim when the light goes."

'Not you, then. The post.' I grab the handcart's shafts from the women, back it up ten paces and run it flat out at the post the chain is hooked on.

You haul the handcart back and charge at the post. It stands firm, unmoved, neither your momentum nor the cart’s wheels budging it an inch. Gorm snorts: "If you think brute strength bends iron fastened by bridge law, this crossing is doomed already. The county inspector’s word outvalues your horsepower here." He folds arms again, chain tight as ever.

'Then I go round it.' I climb the parapet beside the post and drop onto the bridge side of the chain, fists up. 'I am on your bridge. Come move me.'

Gorm’s eyes narrow. "On my bridge, but not through the chain." He steps forward, towering, and taps the chain with a finger. "Not moving till the county inspector, and not liable if you fall climbing on my toll. Foolishness does not pay the copper; it risks the river." He gestures at the rising water, unimpressed. "Come down before dark, or become part of the bridge’s story."

While he talks I get both hands on the chain where it hooks the post on my side and heave it up off the hook with back and legs. 'Grandmother, now!'

Your grunt meets solid iron as the chain resists, hooked firmly and unyielding. Gorm’s brow twitches, not at your effort but at your shouted command. "The chain won’t jump on grandmothers, nor will I," he intones. "Sundown's coming, and the county inspector's sight weighs heavy. Shall I free all or none?" His arms remain folded, patience thinning only like poor ale.

'All.' I let go of the chain and plant myself square in front of him, chest out. 'All five. I go last. If you want a fight for it, I am here. Choose.'

Gorm’s gaze sharpens, inspecting your firm stance and your dare. "Impressive gumption," he admits, "but courage doesn’t grant passage." He lifts the chain, unhooks it, and lets it fall with a clink. "All five cross before dark. I’ll watch you last, but no fools test the water tonight." He steps aside, the path clear, eyes on you.

I wave the grandmother over first, shoulder the handcart across myself, send the women and carter after, and cross last, never looking back.

Gorm raises a brow as the grandmother steps forward, then nods once. You shoulder the handcart, muscles protesting, and shuffle carefully over the planks. The women follow, balancing the cart between them, the carter close behind. Gorm watches, silent but attentive, as you bring up the rear. When all feet land safely beyond the bridge's far side, he grunts, "A sensible crossing. The bridge holds, and the sun still bleeds light." The chain remains loose; the barrier’s purpose fulfilled — for now.