Abram addressed the king. “I, for one, give heed to Whill’s warning, if nothing else for the fact that it makes sense. A Draggard queen has these many long years festered within the mountains, laying her thousands of eggs.” Roakore spit on the floor at the mention of the queen Draggard. Abram went on. “I believe that if we do not bring a force to meet the army that awaits us, we will indeed lose this battle.”
The king raised his hands. “We shall talk of this no more. Save it for the meeting. I will take all that has been said and consider it over the next few days. When we meet with the king of Shierdon, we shall choose a path.” He stood, and the others followed suit. “And Whill, I want to be informed immediately if you have any more…visions.”
“Yes, sir,” Whill said with a bow, and he and Abram headed towards their rooms.
“He doesn’t believe me,” Whill said.
“You must understand that this is all very new to Mathus. Yes, he knows of the elves and their many powers, but he is a practical thinker, not easily given to whims of fancy.”
“I know, I know. But we don’t have time for speculation! The wrong decision at the meeting will mean the deaths of all who venture forth in this war.”
Abram stopped. “The vision was that bad, eh?”
Whill nodded solemnly. Just then Roakore caught up. “Eh there. Rhunis has invited us all to see the many pubs within the city, an’ I fer one could use a few pints o’ Kell-Torey’s finest. What say ye to meet us in an hour’s time in the courtyard?”
Abram grinned. “Sounds like a plan, good dwarf.”
“That it does,” Whill concurred.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sun had an hour past gone down beyond the walls of Kell-Torey. Whill, Abram, Zerafin, Avriel, Roakore, and Rhunis walked along the cobblestone streets of the great city. The streets were fairly quiet this time of night, as most of the shops were closed for the day. The few who did wonder the streets were the occasional beggar, soldiers, and the drunkards. Rhunis led the group to a small pub five minutes’ walk from the castle. Music spilled from the open doors, as did the sounds of many people talking. The Crooked Arrow, as it was named, was Whill’s kind of pub-small and not too crowded, with a long bar and pretty barmaids.
Rhunis motioned for the group to enter before him. “This, my friends, was always my favorite pub when I was stationed within the city.”
The Crooked Arrow looked like dozens of other pubs, with a long bar at the adjacent wall and many tables and chairs throughout. To the left was a small stage and dance floor where two fiddlers, a flute player, a man with many different-sized drums and other percussion instruments, and two female singers played an upbeat version of the old drinking song, “The Night I Gained a Cross-eyed Wife and Lost My Shoes.” Half the bar patrons sang, stomped, or clapped along with the tune. The atmosphere was pleasant, and laughter and song filled the air.
Most of the many tables were occupied, so the companions made their way to the bar area. Surprisingly enough, the pair of elves did not get as many looks or stares as Whill had expected, nor hushed whispers, though he did notice one gruff-looking man nudge his buddy at the sight of Avriel. Whill was surprised when a rush of resentment welled in him as he saw the way the man eyed her.
The bartender was a tall and lanky fellow with short, pitch-black hair and a thin mustache. He had a proud nose and eyes like a starless night. But the smile he wore put one at ease instantly-that is, until he spoke. The man had a loud voice, even for the noisy bar, and something in the tone made it sound as if he were talking down to everyone, whether or not that was his intention. Rhunis beat on the bar a few times and the bartender walked over, smiling wide with every step.
Rhunis gave the man a nod. “Is old Harlod not working tonight?”
“No, not tonight, nor any night, for that matter. The old bird retired, said he had enough of the bar life. Bought a boat, he did, said he was gonna spend the rest of his days lazin’ away at sea. Used to be in the navy, I guess. Anyway, Parpous Hellious bought him out ’bout a month ago. I just tend bar. Name’s Dirk, by the way, Dirk Magirk.” He extended his hand. “An’ you must be Rhunis the Dragonslayer, hard to mistake the nasty scar there. You’re quite a legend in this city.”
Rhunis didn’t shake the man’s hand, but instead he motioned to his five seated friends. “I’ll have a pint of Torey brown ale. Give my friends whatever they want, on me.”
Dirk looked down the row at the seated companions, past Whill and Abram, briefly at Zerafin and Avriel, and finally set his gaze on Roakore, whose chin barely cleared the bar. Dirk swaggered down to the dwarf. “And what can I get ya, master dwarf? A few thick books to sit on, perhaps?”
Abram shook his head at Whill. “Here we go.”
Roakore leaned in closer to the bar. “I’ll take a pint o’ whatever Rhunis ordered, an’ a shot o’ black rum.”
Dirk chuckled and began to ask the others for their orders when Roakore interrupted. “And know this, ye gangly dragon turd. Make a joke about me height again an’ ye’ll be lookin’ me face to face as I beat ye with yer own legs.” He laid one of his four hatchets on the bar.
Dirk gulped so hard his prominent Adam’s apple seemed to jump. The rest of the group gave a hearty laugh. Whill and Abram both ordered the same brew as Rhunis. Whill recognized the barrel of Dragon’s Brew by the insignia, but he dared not bring it to Roakore’s attention. The elves both ordered water, which earned them both a queer look from Dirk. Before the barkeep could get the water, Roakore stopped him.
“Hold on, Dragon Turd!” Roakore set his gaze on the elves. “Now, ye two have healed me scratches without me permission. The least ye could do is share a pint o’ ale against your will.” Avriel began to speak but Roakore interrupted. “Eh, eh, before ye go tellin’ me some tree-huggin’ tale ’bout keepin the body clean, consider it yer duty as an embassador. Ye wouldn’t want to be pissin’ off dwarf royalty, would ye?”
Zerafin chuckled, and Avriel pulled a straight face. “Very well, then. Mr. Magirk, We shall have whatever our friend here is having.”
Rhunis turned to Abram and Whill as he took a drink. “Something here ain’t quite right.”
“What do you mean?” asked Abram.
Rhunis shifted closer. “I’ve known old Harlod since I was old enough to order a beer, and this story of Dragon Turd’s just don’t make sense. Harlod loved this bar. He used to be a slave, and when his master died some thirty years ago, he freed Harlod and left him this bar. I can’t see him selling this place to no one for nothing. I think I’m gonna need to have a talk with Parpous Hellious.”
“You think maybe it was a gambling debt?” Whill asked. “Was Harlod that kind of man?”
“No, he was not, and he had no vices to mention, either. No, knowing who Parpous is, I’d say that Harlod gave over this place quite against his will.”
Abram took a drink and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. “Who is Parpous Hellious?”
Rhunis scowled. “He is guild master of the largest thieving guild in the city, the Black Hand. And here he is now.”
Parpous entered the pub with a swagger, followed by an entourage of thugs, twelve in all. They made their way to the largest table in the place and with a look cleared the seats. The tables’ former residents, along with all others in the bar, obviously knew who he was, and moved accordingly.