The Last Garrison (Dungeons & Dragons Novel) (11 page)

T
he problem with drinking with dwarves
, thought Sten,
is that they never know when to stop, or how
.

It had been weeks since their last work, and Sten fiddled with the leather strap spun around the end of his companion’s warhammer. The hammer sat on the table between himself and his partner who was deep into his share of a cask of dwarven stout, a powerfully intoxicating draft called “the Bellringer” by the proprietor of the Minotaur’s Horn Inn. Spundwand’s blue eyes were bleary and smiling. He lifted his glass and offered it a blessing: “Moradin, for this, thy glorious tipple, I salute you and all you command.” And at that, his glass was drained. “Sten, my captain. You are drinking me under the table.”

“I’m not drinking, Spundwand,” said Sten.

“Moradin curses those who let dwarves drink alone.”

“Only in that I will have to carry you back to our tent this evening, my friend.”

“Food. I need meat,” said Spundwand, raising his voice in the direction of the barkeep. The man pointed to a serving boy who approached the table cautiously.

“You can pay for a meal, sir?”

Spundwand grimaced. “A generation ago, I would’ve had your head for the cheek of such a question, boy.” The servant stepped away, holding his hands up in front of his chest.

“Please, sir—”

“You send this boy?” cried Spundwand. He stood and faced the man behind the bar. “I should topple every column in this place and let it fall down around you. You ask compensation for the privilege of feeding warriors of our caliber? Something as distasteful as
money
for the pleasure of our company? How dare you, sir? How dare?”

The barkeep remained silent, but he pointed to Sten and Spundwand and then pointed to the door. They were no longer welcome, and at first Sten thought to object; the barkeep was a large, swarthy man, but Sten had been fighting his entire life, and he knew that if he wanted to stay, he could make it so. He flexed his arms, cracked his knuckles, and considered. A fight there would mean another place he and Spundwand would be unwelcome in, and too much of the city had already decided they were better off without them.

Sten sighed, stood, and gathered his things. His family had once served the empire as soldiers, first in the infantry and then later in the cavalry and in the command, when there was still some empire to be served. Sten was the last of his line, and all he had to remind him of who his father had been was his sword and shield, his suit of armor he rarely wore inside the city, its bulk too much for the hot and narrow streets.

All he had were those few armaments, and also Spundwand, who had once been his father’s battle cleric, when there were still such dwarves serving in the human armies, before those long alliances were broken.

Sten led Spundwand to the door, the dwarf cursing the place with every step: cursing its chairs, its tables, its walls, its flagons—even its rags and linens. He lurched at the other patrons, and comments about the myriad unnatural possibilities in the barkeep’s pedigree. And finally, at the door, he lifted a leg and passed wind boisterously. That, the final indignation, caused the barkeep to utter his first and only word to the pair: “Out!” he shouted. And out they went.

Spundwand’s hunched shoulders and heavy steps lightened within yards of the Minotaur’s Horn. Sten rubbed his head. “You only do that when you are frustrated with me,” said Spundwand.

“I have lost my hair from the rubbing, dwarf.”

“We did not have to pay for the stout. How is this not worth a few moments of embarrassment, Captain?”

“There are fewer and fewer places in the city that we are welcome in.”

“And when we have been banned from them all, we will leave this city for another. And again after that.”

“Scoundrelly old priest,” said Sten, “there are only so many cities left.”

The pair followed a thoroughfare through the city, and then an alley to a common house, where cots and simple meals were less dear than the inns, on the southern edge of town. Inside, a half-dozen men like themselves—former guardsmen and other warriors without patrons—sat on bunks eating rice and pork. “Once I commanded men,” said Sten. “Now there is only you, and you are the most ungrateful of them all.”

“We still have our skills, Captain. We still have our hammers and our swords.”

Sten nodded, looked around the room, and stopped himself when he felt his hand moving to the top of his head. “All is temporary,” he said. And so it was. Sten had served in many of the plains cities, rising once to the post of captain of the guard in the city of Rivershoal, where Spundwand had found him, joining the guard as his standard bearer and his warpriest. How much they had lost over the years. It was a time
for young heroes, not wise, battle-hardened old men. And the city—at least the parts of the city they could afford to frequent—was a city for the scheming and the sly, not the honorable and the altruistic. So because they could not turn back the hands of time, the two had learned to find an opportunity when it presented itself, and a coin when it glimmered within reach. But though they lived as well as possible, found as much humor in their lives as they could, all of it lay heavy on their hearts. Sten rubbed his head with worry, and Spundwand considered the terrible possibility that, though the healer’s touch still seemed to be in his hands, his god had mostly abandoned him, or at least deemed him unworthy of the charity necessary to improve his lot.

Outside the southern walls of the city, in the shadow of a great tower belonging, the locals said, to an old and powerful wizard, was a flat, open field. In the center, wooden stands six rows up surrounded a ten-yard by ten-yard square. At the edges, men with carts sold ale from huge casks. Meat turned on compact, traveling spits, sizzling over makeshift fires. Farmer’s hawked apples and pears from packs slung across their backs. And everywhere there were men with sacks of gold and papers, gathering bets from gamblers,
making notes, and determining odds. The crowd was lively, and the day sunny and warm, with motes of new pollen floating in the sunlight. Forgetting the seriousness of their task, the youths felt happy for a moment, enlivened by the festive atmosphere of their surroundings.

Luzhon was the first to say it out loud: “It must be wonderful to live here.” Nergei smiled and nodded, taking in the sights and smells of the gaming grounds. Kohel, the only one not as taken with the place as they were, was the first to banish the excitement from his mind.

“Haven is our home. Haven is where we will return. And Haven is where we will live and die.”

Padlur came around next. “Of course it is, Kohel. This is mere—frivolity.”

“Are their no fields to till? Is there no hunting to be done? These people gamble away a morning, spend it being entertained. The evening, once one’s chores are finished, once one has contributed to the family’s survival—this is the time to relax.” Kohel gave Padlur a smug look. They both surveyed the crowd again and shook their heads. And then they turned to Luzhon and Nergei. The boy shrank back. The girl, though, did not. She scoffed, and held her head defiantly.

“The farmers are at work in the fields surrounding the city. The huntsmen bring in their kills in the afternoons and evenings. The city survives, and even
thrives, while these people gamble through a morning. Do not assume you know what this crowd contributes or does not contribute when they are not here. We are, I am sure, merely ignorant of their place in the way the city works.”

Kohel was taken aback. “You try to justify this way of life? We of Haven have it right.”

“The city has its high walls and guardsmen, Kohel,” said Luzhon. “And it does not fear from a flock of birds. It does not need to send for help when an old man decides he is no longer able to protect it.” Nergei heard Luzhon and felt a little burn in his blood at the slight directed against the Old Stargazer. But at the same time, he knew she spoke the truth. The old man had made the people of Haven safe, but he had also made them complacent. They had never had to protect themselves from any real threat in the past, and had never bothered to learn how. The old man’s gift was also the old man’s curse.

Still
, Nergei thought, uncharitable and then ashamed of his lack of goodwill,
it is her father who lies stuck, while my master inhabits his tower still
.

Kohel’s brow furrowed, and he turned away. “Let us find help and be on our way. This place is quickly corrupting some of us.”

On the field of battle, a human with a great, two-handed blade stood face to face with a small man—of
fey origin, it appeared to Nergei—with daggers in either hand. A closer look revealed that the two-handed blade and the daggers were not steel, though. They were blunted weapons made of wood. And when the human swung his great sword around and connected with the smaller man’s side, he used the flat of the wooden “blade” for the strike. It knocked the wind from the little one, and sent him to his knee. When the human approached, the little man shook off the blow, and faded from sight before a second strike could land on him. “A gnome,” said Nergei. “I have read about them but have never seen one.”

“Such a little creature is no match for the human warrior,” said Padlur. “He has to run away.”

Half the crowd had cheered for the strike that sent the gnome down, but his disappearance had silenced them. “We will see, Padlur,” said Nergei. “Gnomes are savvy and skilled combatants, I’ve read. Strength is not always the greatest weapon in an arsenal.” Padlur brushed the comment off, patting his bicep in response as if to say,
This, this is the only real power in the world
.

On cue, though, the gnome reappeared behind the human warrior and leaped upon him. He climbed him like a squirrel in a tree, with ease and speed, wrapped his legs around the man’s chest, and brought the rounded hilt of both daggers into the man’s temples.
The human, stunned, dropped his weapon, and his arms flailed. He tried to reach up, tried to shake off the gnome, but the blows to his head had left him too disoriented, too shaken. The gnome lifted his arms under the arms of the human, planted his feet in between the man’s shoulders, locked his arms around his own wrists and used all the might in his legs to push. The human’s arms were pulled back in an angle that was clearly too much for them. The young ones had found a seat on the highest bench in the stands, but even that far away, they heard two cracks as the human’s arms were wrenched from his shoulder’s sockets. Padlur, who had felt the pain of having one of his own arms thusly injured, went pale at the familiar sound. The human warrior fell face forward, rendered unconscious by the agony. The gnome, eyes gleaming, hopped off the human and picked up the wooden daggers he had dropped and walked to an official with a peaked hat. He handed the man the daggers, and raised a single arm to acknowledge the cheer that had erupted from half the thronging crowd. The ones who had bet on him, thought Nergei. The ones who had made a coin or two from that spectacular move. Nergei, for the first time in the journey to the city, felt superior to Padlur, and by extension, to Kohel, the one Padlur looked to for guidance and authority. He felt
knowledgeable
.
He felt necessary. He imagined Luzhon noticed. He imagined Luzhon impressed by it. And, even though it was, he knew, merely imagination, he felt strong. The burning began in his palms and it did not scare him. It exhilarated him. He imagined loosing the fire, sending a geyser of flame into the sky. He imagined surrounding himself in a cloak of licking tongues of fire. But he held it back. And in holding it back, his confidence increased.

“We should talk to the little one,” said Padlur.

“Perhaps,” said Nergei. “Or perhaps we should watch and see. He won a fight, but the day is early. We can do better if he wait.”

“Yes,” said Luzhon. “Nergei is right. Let us not be too hasty.”

And in solidarity with Luzhon, Nergei realized the other great boosts to his confidence were, at core, nice but nothing compared to feeling her on his side. The way her support lived within him? It pleased him more than the fire in his blood.

The day proceeded with Nergei feeling himself to be in a place he had never felt himself to be—in control.