Whilst mulling this over with a beer in one hand and a venison pie in the other, I'm suddenly struck on the back by a blow which sends me thudding into the bar and causes me to drop my pie. I turn round angrily with my hand on the hilt of my sword to find myself confronted by a huge man with long blond hair, a bushy grey beard and a scar on his face from temple to chin.
'Viriggax!'
'Thraxas, you dog! Come to sign up for the fight?'
'Worse. I live here.'
'You live here?'
'That's not all,' I add. 'Gurd's the landlord!'
'The landlord?'
Viriggax howls with laughter and pounds me another friendly blow on the shoulder. I pound him back.
'It's good to see you!'
Viriggax is a mercenary from some godforsaken island in the frozen north. I've fought many a battle in his company. I haven't seen him for twelve years or so but he doesn't seem to have changed, apart from maybe growing a little in every direction. He's got an axe strapped to his back that could chop a horse in half and a great iron shield slung casually over his shoulder. When he spots Gurd he lets out a roar that can be heard over the din in the tavern. Gurd looks round. His face breaks into a joyous, craggy smile and he hurries over.
'You run this hostelry?' demands Viriggax.
'I do,' replies Gurd.
'Then where's the beer?' roars Viriggax, who, I remember, never likes to talk quietly.
Viriggax looks towards the bar. His brow wrinkles as he sights Dandelion, who today has chosen to weave a circlet of leaves in her hair, defying both fashion and common sense.
'What is that?'
'One of my barmaids,' admits Gurd, apologetically, and winces as Dandelion steps out from the bar, revealing her lack of foot attire. Before Viriggax can comment, Makri waltzes past in her tiny chainmail bikini with a tray of drinks on her arm. Viriggax's jaw sags as he takes in her copper-coloured skin and pointed ears
'Have the Ores got here already?'
'Just another of my staff,' explains Gurd, uncomfortably.
'By the northern Gods, this is an odd place you have here, Gurd. Girls with no shoes and Ores with no clothes!'
Viriggax slaps his thigh and laughs mightily.
'That's what you get for living in the city! No life for a man! Now where's the beer, I've got a powerful thirst from travelling!'
Gurd calls for beer from Dandelion, clears us a table and we sit down to talk about the war and catch up on old times. Three or four ales later we're deep into a series of reminiscences.
'You remember those Juvalians who tried to cheat us at cards? We showed them a thing or two!'
'Or what about the time Thraxas fell into a ravine and we couldn't find him for two days?'
'He didn't want to shout for help because he had all the food with him. I swear he was happy to stay in that hole till the supplies ran out!'
'It was safer down there than up at the front with you! Viriggax, you're lagging behind. You northerners never could hold your ale.'
'What?' bawls Viriggax, emptying his tankard and banging it down on the table. 'I'll show you how a northerner can drink! More ale!'
Some hours later I've forgotten all about Senator Lodius. In fact I've forgotten about most things and am as happy as an Elf in a tree. I launch into a powerful rendition of the Turanian bowmen's drinking song - not that I was ever a bowman, but it's a fine song with a strong melody, and a chorus that requires a lot of banging of tankards on tables. I'm just getting to the verse where the enemy dragons are brought crashing from the sky, cut down by our mighty arrows, when the door of the tavern swings open and a messenger enters with an even more extravagant bunch of flowers than was previously delivered.
'Makri? Delivery for Makri?'
Makri is at the bar getting her tray loaded up so Gurd calls the messenger over and takes the flowers on to our table, something which I can sense is a bad mistake.
Gurd has a lot of ale inside him and may not be think' ing that clearly.
'What's this?' demands Viriggax, who's looking rather bloated around the face after consuming enough beer to float a trireme. He fingers the card that accompanies the enormous bunch of flowers.
'Orcish writing?'
'From Horm, I expect,' sighs Gurd.
Viriggax looks puzzled as he tries to work out exactly what this means. Makri, meanwhile, having been alerted by Dandelion, is hurrying over. She arrives just as it dawns on Viriggax who Makri is, and who Horm is.
'Your barmaid receives flowers from an Orc lord?' he cries, and stands up abruptly, pushing back his chair. 'What sort of traitorous establishment are you running here?'
'Traitorous?' yells Gurd, and leaps to his feet, or tries to. Actually his legs get tangled under the table and he's a little slow from alcohol so it takes him a while to get vertical. But once he's up, he's a formidable sight.
'That's what I think of Orcish flowers!' bellows Viriggax, sweeping them on to the floor.
'Hey, those were mine!' yells Makri.
'How dare you abuse my barmaid's flowers!' shouts Gurd.
'I'm getting completely fed up with Horm sending you flowers,' I tell Makri. 'It's really starting to get on my nerves.'
'I never asked for them!' protests Makri, before turning swiftly back to Viriggax and abusing him roundly for daring to touch her property.
A band of northern mercenaries are gathering behind Viriggax in case he needs some assistance. Viriggax is temporarily stunned by the ferocity of Makri's abuse but it doesn't take long for him to recover his voice. In no time a series of grim mercenary and Orcish curses are flying over the table.
'Excuse me,' says Dandelion, arriving at this moment and dropping to her knees to scramble round on the floor. 'I think I can still rescue the flowers if I get them into a vase of water.'
'I don't want them rescued!' screams Makri. 'I hate the flowers!'
'Sure, that's what you say now,' I shout. 'But I'm starting to think you're quite pleased to be getting them.'
'I am not!'
'The woman is a traitor!' roars Viriggax
'Don't you call my barmaid a traitor!' roars back Gurd.
'I never thought I'd see the day when Gurd of the North took the side of an Orcish bitch!'
There's only about half a second before the tavern explodes but in that half a second I have time to mentally sigh, clap my hand to my forehead and wonder why it is that my life has brought me to this. Now I have to fight my old comrade Viriggax, just because Makri has an unreasonable dislike of being called an Orcish bitch.
As soon as the words are out of Viriggax's mouth Makri leaps on the table and kicks him in the chest with such force that Viriggax is sent sprawling back into his companions. After that, the tavern erupts into a bar-room brawl the like of which I haven't seen since the Brotherhood and the Society of Friends went head to head for control of the Blind Horse in Kushni. Viriggax's companions pile in on top of Makri, I pile in on top of ' them, Gurd joins in, and the rest of the mercenaries in the tavern, not wishing to miss a good fight, pick sides at random and weigh in with their fists.
Shouts, screams, battle-cries and oaths come from every direction as the bar degenerates into a heaving mass of struggling bodies. Chairs and tables are picked up as weapons and splinters of wood fly over our heads. I pound my fist on the back of some monstrous mercenary who's attempting to attack Makri from behind and am immediately brought down by a blow from a table leg that causes me to sag at the knees. My assailant attempts to bring the lump of wood down on my head but is halted by Makri, who spins round and strikes him a blow on the temple that drops him to the floor. Gurd uses his mighty fists to beat a path through to us and the next thing we find ourselves surrounded by a solid circle of angry-looking northerners, all long blond hair, beards, and muscular arms.