“Ale!” Dhamon slammed his empty mug against the table, shattering it.
His outburst quieted the crowded tavern for but a heartbeat, then dice games and muted conversations resumed. An elf serving girl, so slight she looked frail, hurried toward him, fresh mug in one hand, pitcher in the other. Expertly dancing her way through the maze of tightly packed tables, she sat the mug in front of Dhamon and quickly filled it.
“S’better,” he offered, his voice thick from alcohol. “I’m thirsty tonight. Don’t let me go dry again.” He took a long pull from the mug, draining it as she watched, then thumped it on the table, though not so hard this time. She poured him another and wrinkled her nose when he loudly belched, his breath competing with his sweat-stained clothes to assault her acute senses.
“Tha’s a good girl,” he said, reaching into his pouch and retrieving several steel pieces. He dropped them in her apron pocket and noted smugly that her eyes went wide at his substantial generosity. “Leave the pitcher.”
She put it within his reach and busied herself brushing at the ceramic shards of his first mug, sweeping them into the folds of her skirt.
“You’re quiet,” he continued. His dark eyes sparkled in the glow of the lanterns that hung from the rafters and softly illuminated all but the farthest corners of the dingy, low-ceilinged establishment. “I like quiet women.” He stretched out a hand, his armpit dark with sweat, and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, tugging her onto his lap and sending the gathered shards to the floor. “An’ I like elves. You remind be jus’ a bit of Feril, an elf I was in s’love with.” He waved his free arm in a grand gesture, knocking over the pitcher and bringing a curse from an old half-elf whom he splashed at an adjacent table. Save for himself and the glowering old half-elf, and two men chatting in front of a merrily burning fireplace, the tavern was filled with full-blooded Qualinesti.
“Barter is primarily an elven village, Sir. Most everyone who lives here is Qualinesti.” She smiled weakly at the irritated half-elf, who was wringing the ale from his long tunic. He softly cursed in the Qualinesti dialect and fixed a sneer at Dhamon with his watery blue eyes.
“Aye, tha’s true, elf-girl. There aren’t many humans aroun’ these lands,” Dhamon said. “They’d make the chair legs an’ the ceilings a might s’taller if there were. Not many humans at all.” His expression softened for a moment, his eyes instantly saddened and locked onto something the serving girl couldn’t see. His grip relaxed, though he didn’t release her, and with his free hand he reached up to gently trace a pointed ear. “Or s’maybe there’s one too many humans. Me.”
She took a good look at him. Had it not been for the tangle of long jet black hair that hadn’t seen a comb in days, and a thick, uneven stubble on his face, she would have considered him quite handsome. He was young for a human, she guessed, not yet thirty. He had a generous mouth that was wet with ale, and his cheekbones were high and strong and deeply tanned from hours in the sun. His shirt and leather vest were open, revealing a lean, muscular chest that shone from sweat as if he’d oiled it. But his eyes were what captured her attention. They were compelling and mysterious, and they held her gaze like a vise.
“Let me go, Sir,” she said, though she did not struggle, and though her words held no conviction. “There’s no need to cause any trouble here.”
“I like quiet women,” Dhamon repeated. For an instant there was a brightening in the eyes, as if a secret thought were working behind them. “Quiet.”
“But she don’t like you.” It was the ale-spattered half-elf. “Let her go.”
Dhamon’s free hand dropped to the pommel of the sword at his waist.
“No trouble,” the girl urged, still staring into his eyes. “Please.”
“All right,” Dhamon finally agreed. He released the girl and the sword, wrapping both of his hands around the mug. He narrowed his eyes at the half-elf, then shrugged. “No trouble.” To the girl, he added almost pleasantly, “Bring me another pitcher. And not this rot you’ve been serving me. How about some of that fine elven wine I’m catching a whiff of. The stronger the s’better. The kind you’ve been bringing the rest.”
“Maybe you’d better leave,” the old half-elf suggested as soon as the girl was gone. His voice was uncharacteristically deep and scratchy. “You’ve had more than enough to drink already.”
Dhamon shook his head. The muscles in his back tensed. “I haven’t had near enough to drink—still awake, ain’t I? But don’t you worry about me. I’ll be on s’my way soon enough. With first s’light I suspect. Then you and none of the s’other Qualinesti will have to stomach me anymore.”
The half-elf took a step closer, and Dhamon saw himself reflected in a large polished medallion that dangled from a fine chain about his neck.
He scowled at the disheveled image.
The half-elf lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Go drown your sorrows somewhere else.”
A hint of a smile tugged at Dhamon’s face, then he opened his mouth to argue, but a gust of chill evening wind interrupted him. The tavern door flew open wide, banging loudly as two more elves entered. They were dusty and haggard-looking, the one carrying a gnarled staff a stranger to his eyes, the other very familiar and decorated with dried blood stains.
“Gauderic,” Dhamon whispered. His face grew ashen as if he’d seen a ghost.
Gauderic likewise noticed him, nudged his companion, and pointed. “That’s him! That’s Palin Majere’s worthless champion!”
At the same time, a colorful skirt swished loudly. “Here’s your elven wine, Sir!” the serving girl musically announced. She gasped as the two elves charged toward them, pounding across the hard-packed dirt floor as they made their way around the tables.
Dhamon stood up, cracking his head on a beam of the low ceiling and bumping into the girl. She fell back against the ale-spattered half-elf, soaking him again as the pitcher slipped from her fingers and shattered against the floor.
The half-elf cursed and tried to help the girl to her feet, but they both slipped on the spilled wine, fell in a heap, and became tangled in her skirt. Dhamon ignored them and grabbed the edge of his table, upending it and positioning it as a shield against the two newcomers. The stranger collided with the tabletop and made a sickening thud, as Gauderic nimbly sidestepped the obstacle and raised his sword high.
“Dhamon Grimwulf!” he shouted. “You ordered us to charge the dragon! Charge and die!” He swung the sword in a wild arc above his head, sending the nearby patrons scrambling for cover, wine mugs in tow. “We shouldn’t have listened to you!”
Dhamon kicked Gauderic in the stomach and sent him careening into an abandoned table.
“Noooo!” the serving girl hollered, as she finally managed to pick herself up. She awkwardly scampered through the maze of tables to the back room. “Silverwind! We’ve got trouble! Silverwind! Call the Watch!”
“I didn’t want trouble,” Dhamon grumbled. “I just wanted something to drink.”
Both of the elves had recovered and were coming at him now, though the stranger was a bit groggy and blood ran from his nose. Furniture was being moved toward the walls to better accommodate the fight, and whispers and murmurs of speculation filled the room. Out of the corner of his eye, Dhamon saw the two human men wagering coins. A few of the elf patrons had their hands on their weapons, and Dhamon had no doubt whose side they would take if they decided to join in.
“My wife and sister!” the stranger spat. “Dead! Dead because of you!”
“My brothers and friends!” Gauderic added.
“I didn’t force anyone to come with me!” Dhamon returned. He stooped to keep from bumping his head against the six-foot ceiling. He swung his own blade down, using the flat edge of the weapon and striking the stranger on the shoulder. “Dragons are dangerous! They kill people, dammit! That’s just the way of it and you know it, Gauderic!”