With a theatrical flourish, the huge drunk pulled his dagger and lunged. Elaith stepped to the left and seized the man's thick wrist with both hands. A slight twist brought the man to his knees. The elf slammed the back of the beefy hand onto the barstool, locking his opponent's arm in an extended position. Then Elaith lifted one booted foot and stomped on the elbow. Bone gave way with a cruel splinter. The man fainted away without uttering a single cry.
Silence reigned in the tavern for only a moment. Another, even larger man stepped forward, clad in the same black leather armor. He nodded at his fallen fellow. "That's my cousin," he growled.
Elaith folded his arms. "My condolences," he said. "Since none of us can choose our kin, I shall not hold this misfortune against you."
"We can choose our friends, though, and you ain't one of mine." The mercenary reached over his shoulder and drew a broadsword from the sheath on his back.
Chairs scraped across the floor as the patrons cleared an impromptu arena in the middle of the taproom with an alacrity that suggested such fights were far from uncommon. The barkeep glanced up, then went back to polishing the pewter mugs.
"Borodin," the man said firmly. "Remember it. That's the name of the man who's gonna kill you." He raised his weapon in challenge.
Elaith reached for his sword, but hesitated when his fingers touched the lifeless moonstone. Borodin marked this hesitation with a derisive snort.
Something snapped within the elf's heart.
Stooping, Elaith pulled the sword from the fallen man's belt. The weapon needed a good oiling and sharpening, for the sword was blunt and the edge visibly pitted. Elaith studied it for a moment, then pointedly raised an eyebrow and met his opponent's glare.
"This should do," he said. His tone conveyed utter contempt for both the weapon and his challenger.
Borodin raised his sword high and brought it down in a sweeping cut. Instead of the satisfying clash of steel on steel, his effort was met with the crack of breaking wood.
He had just enough time to note that his victim was an upended bar stool before his plowed heavily into the bar. Mugs scattered with a mocking clatter.
For good measure, Elaith smacked Borodin's backside with the flat of his borrowed blade. Guffaws echoed throughout the tavern.
Borodin whirled and delivered a backhanded slash. Elaith parried the blow easily. With practiced grace, he spun his blade outward in a lightning-fast circle, flinging Borodin's sword arm wide. In the same moment, he pulled a dagger from his belt and stepped in close. The point of the dagger bit into Borodin's throat.
For a long moment they stood frozen, Elaith's cold amber eyes promising death. Then, with a deft, downward flick, he slashed open the leather lacings on the man's jerkin. He leaped back and tucked his dagger into its sheath. In a gesture of utter contempt, he lowered his sword arm to his side and beckoned for Borodin to attack.
"Ten coppers on the elf!" shouted a gravel-voiced sailor. Other patrons joined in, making wages and laying odds.
The man advanced, his bearded face crimson but set in determination. With his initial rage spent, he fell back into a more disciplined fighting style. At one time, the man had been well trained, but by Elaith's standards, Borodin possessed neither finesse nor imagination.
By honor and custom, he should have ended the matter at once, for his opponent was clearly outmatched. Yet Elaith continued, openly taunting the man with his superior skill. The elf was driven by a cold anger he'd never known he possessed, an icy temper than numbed the pain in his own heart. For the first time since he'd left Evermeet, Elaith could put aside his sense of disgrace and failure. With cruel humor and stunning swordcraft, he played out the fight for the amusement and delight of the rough patrons.
As the minutes ticked by, Borodin's sword arm slowed and his breathing grew labored and raspy. Finally he could take no more. He fell to his knees, and then his forehead met the floor with a resounding thud. Several of his mates came forward and pulled him to his feet. They staggered out into the night with their burden, running a gauntlet of mockery.
A roar of approval and laughter engulfed the tavern, and Elaith found himself in the center of a back-slapping throng. A plump, red-bearded man, also wearing the tooled leather uniform, offered to buy the victorious elf a drink. "After all," he said as he dangled a small leather purse in front of Elaith's face, "you won the money for me! The name's Rix, by the by."
The friendly overture struck Elaith as odd behavior indeed for a man whose comrade had just been bested, but he accepted the offer and followed the man to the far end of the bar. At Rix's signal, the barkeep handed them each a tall, narrow glass filled with a thin liquid as golden as honey.
"What is this?"
"Firewine." The soldier winked and slurped at his drink. "Bottoms up!"
Elaith took an experimental sip. The pale liqueur had none of the subtlety or complexity of elven spirits, but it was nearly as powerful. He drained the glass with dark pleasure; the firewine filled his mouth with a dry, bitter heat. His new companion gaped, then guffawed.
"Never trust a man-or an elf-until you've seen him fight and drink," Rix said cheerfully. "And on both counts, you're surely not to be trusted!"
He craned his neck and shouted at a knot of black-clad fighters near the tavern door. "Xander! Sign up this elf! Tonight, mind you, or the whole lot of us will quit!"
One of the men broke from the group and made his way toward the bar. With a mixture of puzzlement and deep interest, Elaith watched his approach. Xander was a man of middle years, in the prime of his strength. He was slender and tall, with skin the color of polished teak, wavy black hair plaited into a single long braid, and mocking black eyes. He walked with sinuous grace, but Elaith noted a military bearing and air of command. The elf could recognize a leader in any guise, and he rose to his feet in an instinctive gesture of respect.
Xander studied the young elflord for a long moment. "A good recommendation, Rix. Tell Malcolm to give you twice the usual finder's fee. Now, off with you. I need to speak with our new recruit."
The red-bearded mercenary picked up his glass and strolled off, grinning broadly. Xander took the seat Rix had vacated and gestured for Elaith to resume the one beside it.
The bewildered elf sank onto the barstool. "You wish me to join your regiment?"
"Regiment? Oh, that's priceless!" Xander's white teeth flashed in a smile of genuine amusement. He took a gleaming black pipe from a bag at his belt and pressed a bit of pipe weed into the bowl. The barkeep at once held out a lighted brand, his manner clearly deferential. Xander puffed for a moment, then leaned casually against the bar. "I'm the leader of a mercenary band. Treasure hunters."
Elaith nodded slowly. By all reports, the humans of Waterdeep were like so many dragons, hoarding useless wealth and measuring their success by the height and luster of the pile. That had always seemed strange to Elaith. A life of acquisition was entirely foreign to the values that had hitherto ordered his life. As he considered the matter now, however, he found the wonderful simplicity in this system appealing.
"You should have killed Borodin, you know," Xander observed.
Elaith stared. That was the last piece of advice he would have expected, even from this amazing man.
"Although your performance was amusing and your swordsmanship most impressive, you've made yourself an enemy. That was totally unnecessary. As a rule, you ought to eliminate enemies as they occur, not create them and let them linger to trouble you again later."
"I am unfamiliar with such… rules."
"They're easy enough to learn. Just do whatever needs doing to get rich and stay alive in the process. Above all, look out for your own interests." Xander took a long draw, then blew a wreath of clove-scented smoke at the elf. "You could do quite well for yourself if you cast your lot in with the Claw."