“The green didn’t kill you!” Gauderic returned. “You were lying on your belly, avoiding the fight! You were busy watching your men die!” He wiped the blood that ran from his lip with one hand and drove his other fist hard into Dhamon’s stomach. Dhamon doubled over, and the stranger followed through by swinging his staff solidly into his side.
“You’re coming with us, Dhamon Grimwulf,” the stranger added. “We’re turning you over to the authorities. You’re going to stand trial in Barter! And there won’t be anyone to speak in your defense. I want your death for the death of my wife and sister.”
“Death for death,” came a cry from a corner of the room.
“Try him here!”
“We don’t need a trial!” another patron shouted.
The stranger swung the staff at Dhamon again.
Dhamon felt his ribs crack, the pain instantly sobering him. “I didn’t kill those men. The dragon did. I’ve no quarrel with you,” he hissed between clenched teeth. “I don’t even know you.” This he directed to the stranger. “Leave me be!” Favoring his side, he crouched and spun, somehow avoiding blows from both elves. “Leave me be!”
“You ordered them to fight the dragon!” Gauderic repeated. “Ordered them! You should have at least fought and died with them! Coward!”
“You didn’t die either,” Dhamon argued flatly. He brought his sword up to parry another swing of the stranger’s staff. Dhamon’s leg shot up, cracking his boot hard against the chin of the stranger and stunning him. The elf fell to the floor and Dhamon kicked him hard for good measure. He wouldn’t be getting up for quite a while. “I didn’t force anyone to go against the dragon, Gauderic. I didn’t force you.”
“Didn’t you?” Gauderic sneered. He took a step back and caught his breath. Both men eyed each other, chests heaving and knuckles white on their sword pommels. “Palin’s champion! A real hero. You ordered…”
“So I was wrong!” Dhamon spat. “Maybe. But you lived. You lived!”
“Only me!” Gauderic retorted. “And only because the dragon let me!” The elf’s breath was ragged now, green eyes narrowed to slits. “She’d killed them all. All! And I was next. She dropped her head down so close I could see my face reflected in her eyes and feel her breath so hot against my legs. Stared at me and left! At first I thought I was just too inconsequential to be bothered with. Then I realized she was leaving me alive so word of her deeds this day could be spread to other men. I spent hours searching the river, hoping to find at least one more survivor, hoping to find you. All I found were corpses. I eventually found every mercenary—save their glorious leader. And I buried every one of them. It took me days. In that time the dragon came back twice to watch me.”
Dhamon lowered his sword and shook his head.
“I wanted to bury you, too.”
“Kill him!” came a wine-thick voice from a corner. “He let our brothers die! He should die, too!”
Gauderic snarled. “Told me you were a Dark Knight. That you gave it up. Maybe that was all a lie. Maybe you’re still one of them.”
“Dark Knight?” echoed throughout the room.
“Dark Knight of Neraka?” cried the old half-elf.
“That’s what they’re called now,” Dhamon said flatly.
There was a second wave of murmurs, the sound of a few swords being drawn, the creak of wood as patrons leaned against the tables to better take everything in.
There was the clink of more coins being wagered, shouted words in the elf tongue, a faint cry from the back room. This last voice was the serving girl’s, summoning the guard.
“Get the Dark Knight!”
“Kill the traitor!”
Suddenly plates were crashing to the floor. Chairs and benches were tipped over. Someone behind Dhamon hurled a mug, the heavy tankard striking his back. A boisterous curse of “death to the Dark Knight of Neraka” sounded. And from somewhere outside he heard a shrill whistle.
A silvery-haired elf was coming at him, using a chair for a weapon. Another had tugged free a table leg and was trying desperately to wield it like a club. Dhamon easily sidestepped this slightly inebriated pair and moved straight into the path of the old ale-drenched half-elf. The man lowered his head and lunged, ramming into Dhamon’s stomach and momentarily dazing him.
Despite the pain, Dhamon forced himself to react. He brought his sword pommel down with a thud against the old half-elf’s head, sending him to the floor. Dhamon swept the sword in an arc in front of him, keeping several other patrons at bay. He kicked out to his side, connecting with the jaw of a young elf who was merely trying to escape the press of bodies. Blood and teeth flew, and the unfortunate patron changed his mind and decided to join the fray, drawing a dagger and cursing loudly in several languages. The young elf angrily flung the blade at Dhamon, scowling when it bounced off the human’s right thigh and nearly struck another patron.
The edge of a short sword bit deep into his left leg. Dhamon tottered, then dropped to his knees, and a pitcher crashed against his head. Sweet-smelling elven wine soaked his hair and clothes, and rivulets of blood ran down his face from where the ceramic shards had cut his scalp in several places. He shook himself and sent a few shards thunking to the floor as he fought to remain conscious and pushed himself to his feet. He swung out wildly at an elf who was trying to skewer him with an iron poker, knocking the poker aside and bashing the man in the side of the head.
“Stop this at once!” the serving girl cried. She was somewhere behind the mass of elves and shouting as loud as she could manage.
“Stop this!” Another voice joined hers, likely the tavern owner’s. He was banging on a pot and adding to the cacophony, “Don’t break that! Put that down! Please stop!”
“I didn’t start it!” Dhamon cursed as he clumsily leapt over a charging elf wielding a long kitchen knife. He lost his footing and accidentally bowled over three others who were scrambling toward the door. He brushed against a table, and his right pant leg caught on a protruding nail. The fabric ripped, revealing the large midnight black scale on his leg. It was shot through with a vein of silver that caught the lantern light and shimmered.
There was a collective gasp when the elves spotted it, and from deep in the press of bodies someone cried, “Sorcery!”
“It’s from a dragon overlord!” Gauderic bellowed. He was standing on a chair at the edge of the fray, waving his sword. “A black dragon put it on him!”
“No, a black dragon didn’t,” Dhamon futilely corrected. It was the Red.
“He’s an agent of a dragon!” someone else hollered. “Kill him!”
“I’m no one’s agent!” Dhamon screamed as he drove the pommel of his sword down on someone’s head. Then as a dagger tip sliced into the back of his leg, he reflexively struck out with all of his strength at anyone who came close while trying to reach the door.
A half-dozen elves lay sprawled around him, with more dead or unconscious toward the center of the tavern where the fight began. The dirt floor was spattered with wine and blood. Nearly two dozen elves remained standing.
Mugs were hurled against Dhamon’s chest, some rebounding to strike the elves around him. Dhamon kicked out against those nearest to him, noting they seemed wary of the leg with the scale. And he continued to rain blow after blow with the blade and the pommel of his sword, shattering teeth and bones and spattering himself with elf blood.
Suddenly a log was heaved through the air, coming from one of the humans who had up to this point stayed out of the fray. As Dhamon ducked and watched it sail over his head, he was rammed in the back. The impact drove him forward into several elves, who started clutching at him. It was all he could do to hold onto his sword.