Silver Shadows (32 page)

The elf nodded, for the reputation of that exclusive bath and pleasure house stood tall in the city. He did not credit the dwarfs claim as entire truth, however, for the Foaming Sands was well beyond the means of dock workers and barkeeps.

“Had me a pocketful of gold and a fistful of silver,” the dwarf continued wistfully. “Earned the gold, mind you, with ten years of hard labor, and the silver were a gift and rightfully mine. Spent every one of them silver coins at the Sands, and counted it a bargain. Then I come here. Afore I even finished one mug the fight started. Good thing I was feeling uncommon mellow, or I mighta done considerable damage.”

“To all appearances, you did well enough,” Kendel murmured. “Your gold, I take it, went toward repairs?”

The dwarf snorted. “What they took from me was enough to build a new place from cellar to chimney, with enough left over to hire half the girls who work the Foaming Sands to tend tables! Then they say it weren’t enough, and the local law of course backs ‘em up. So here I am, working off the rest. Been here fer days, and seems like I can’t get ahead nohow. Seems like I traded one kinda slavery fer another,” he concluded glumly.

Kendel received this pronouncement in silence, for it would hardly be wise to voice his outrage. Slavery was not uncommon in Tethyr, but the thought of this oddly charming dwarfs being held in servitude was particularly galling to the elf. Times were difficult in Tethyr, especially for those folk not of human blood.

If there was any benefit to a long life, Kendel mused, it was the ability to see the wheel of events turn full circle, again and again. This was also, in many ways, a curse. In Tethyr, this was perhaps doubly true.

Kendel had come to Tethyr before the grandsire of any human in the room had wailed his way into the worlft. He

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had built a home and raised a family, only to have his property seized when the humans in power decided that no elf could own land. By his sword and his strength he had rebuilt another life, his fortunes rising along with those of the royal faction for which he fought. Then the mood of the Tethyrian kings shifted, and vicious pogroms decimated even the most loyal elven folk. Kendel had survived; the royal family had not. For years an egalitarian fervor had gripped the land, extending even to members of other races. Once again Kendel had thrived, only to see the cycle of public sentiment whirl back toward low ebb. Three years ago, he had been a merchant. Now the best work he could find was as a dockhand.

The elf sipped at bis ale, but though he was deep in his memories, he did not neglect to watch for possible dangers. From the corner of his eye, Kendel noted the group of men that pushed their way into the room. Five of them, all mercenaries. He knew the breed well enough to recognize them at a glance; they were marked by a swaggering gait that bespoke bravado, but which also suggested a certain lack of purpose or direction. Masterless men, for the most part, looking for a reason to fight and therefore to live.

But these men seemed to be an exception; they had purpose enough. All four of them pushed their way through the crowd, coming straight toward the place where Kendel sat.

The elf surreptitiously loosened the dagger he kept strapped to one thigh. It had been many years since he’d had to use it, but elven memories were long. If he were required to fight, he felt confident he could make a good accounting of himself.

“I know you,” one of the mercenaries proclaimed in a loud voice, pointing a beefy finger in Kendel’s direction. “You’re one of them wild elves what attacked the pipeweed farm south of Mosstone. Burned the barns to the ground, they did, and slaughtered the whole family and most of the farmhands.”

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In the suddenly silent room, Kendel swiveled to face his accuser. “Not so, sir,” he said evenly. “If there is any quarrel to be had with the elven people, you would do better to seek it among the Forest Folk. Surely you can see by my hair and my skin that I am not one of them.”

“Well now, I don’t know about that,” another of the mercenaries put in. “I seen a red-headed elf among the raiders. Word has it he cut his mark onto our captain’s face. For all we know, you might even be him.”

“That is not possible. I have not left Port Kir for many months,” the elf protested. Tve worked the docks since early spring. There are men here who can vouch for me!” Kendel looked around the room, seeking confirmation.

There was none. Even some of the men who lifted alongside him day after day sat in stolid silence, their eyes averted.

But the elf s words elicited a burst of raucous laughter from the mercenaries. “Hear that, boys?” one of them hooted. “He works the docks, if you please! If any of you ever laid eyes on a more unlikely dockhand, I’d surely like to hear tell of it!”

By now it was clear to Kendel what path this confrontation would take. He had played this scene before, albeit upon different stages. A farm, a palace, a counting-house, a tavern—it was all much the same in the end.

The elf s gaze remained calm and even, but his fingers closed around the grip of his dagger. If he struck first, and struck fast and hard, there was a good chance he could to work his way to the door.

A good chance—that was more than he usually had. He would escape, and then he would rebuild, as he had so many times before.

“I beared tell there was elven slaves working that farm, against what passes fer law in this land,” observed a gruff voice from behind the counter. “If you boys was smart, you might not be so quick to claim fighting to keep ‘em there.”

The mercenaries exchanged startled glances. There

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came the screech of wood dragging across wood, and a dwarf with a dun-colored beard popped into view and affixed the men with an accusing glare. The mercenaries exploded into laughter.

“A dwarf! And here was me, thinking we was hearing the voice of the gods!” hooted one of the men.

“He’s a bit short for a god,” noted another man, grinning widely when his dubious witticism inspired a new burst of mirth.

“Mind your affairs, dwarf, and let us tend ours,” growled the largest man among them. The dwarf shrugged and lifted both hands in a careless gesture of agreement; then he hopped down off the keg and disappeared. The mercenary lashed out with one foot, kicking the stool out from under the elf

Agile Kendel was on his feet at once, his dagger bright and ready in his hand. His attacker reached over his shoulder, drew a broadsword from his shoulder sheath, and closed in.

Fortunately for the elf, the crowds put his attackers at a disadvantage. There was little room for the swordsman to maneuver, and Kendel was able to parry the first of several thrusts. But only the first few. With the ease of frequent practice, the patrons pushed the tables and chairs against the walls to clear an impromptu arena. Many of the others, especially those who still bore the scars of the last brawl, made hastily for the exit.

Kendel soon found himself faced with five men and an open field. The bar was to his back, and the mercenaries surrounded him in a semicircle. Swords drawn and confident leers twisting their faces, they began to close in.

A tremendous crash ripped through the ominous silence of the tavern. The dwarven barkeep exploded through the wooden wall under the bar counter, head leading and held down like that of a ramming goat. It occurred to Kendel suddenly how the large hole in the wall of the wine cellar had come to be.

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Bellowing a cry to his god of battle, the dwarf barreled straight toward the largest mercenary. His head connected hard, significantly below the man’s swordbelt.

The mercenary’s eyes glazed, and his sword clattered from his hand. His lips fluttered soundlessly, and his hands lowered to grasp at his flattened crotch. After a moment’s silence, he tilted and toppled like a felled tree. A small, high-pitched whimper wafted up from the floor where he lay.

But the dwarf suffered no ill effect from the impact. Few substances on all Toril could rival a dwarven skull for sheer durability. He staggered back a few paces, rebounded off the bar, and sprinted across the room in search of a weapon. The patrons parted before him like cockroaches scattering from a suddenly lit torch, and the hearth came into full view. Before it stood the bemused cook, who balanced on one arm and hip a large platter holding a leg of freshly roasted lamb.

The dwarf headed for the hearth at a run. On the way, he grabbed a cloth that had been left on a table and wrapped it twice about his hand. Then he seized the leg by the joint and whirled back toward the battle. Using the roast meat as a club, he aimed a hard upswing at the nearest mercenary.

The man got his sword down to meet the unusual weapon, but the blade sank to the hilt in the tender meat and did not seem to slow the dwarfs blow in the slightest. Up swung the leg of lamb, driving the hilt of the sword into the man’s face. There was a crunch of bone as the hilt struck and shattered his nose, then a splat as the sizzling meat slapped into the man and splattered him with hot juices. Howling, pawing at his ruined nose and blinded eyes, the mercenary reeled off.

“Waste o’ good food,” muttered the dwarf. Nonetheless, he tossed the leg of lamb to the floor so he could tug free the sword. The weapon was too long for him to use, but judging from how well the elf was hold—

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ing forth with just a dagger, he figured his new friend would know the use of it well enough.

Between parried blows, Kendel glanced toward the hearth as another dwarven battle cry ripped through the tavern. His new ally held a sword before him like a lance, hilt braced against his belly, and was already well into another charge. The dwarfs chosen mark turned toward the low-pitched shout and neatly sidestepped. The dwarf could not change course in time to hit his original target, but his sword plunged deep into the protruding belly of yet another mercenary.

“Oops,” murmured the dwarf, but he quickly made the best of his mistake. He leaned into the sword and began to run in a circle around the impaled man, looking for all the world like a farmhand pushing one of the handles that turns a millstone. The sword tore through the man’s flesh with sickening ease. His insides spilled forth, and he slumped, lifeless, into the spreading pile of gore.

The elf, meanwhile, leaped forward to parry a blow from the first man, a vicious downward sweep that would have felled the dwarf. He caught the man’s sword on the crossguard of his dagger, but the force of the blow forced him to his knees.

Before the mercenary could disengage his sword for another strike, the dwarf closed in. Reaching high over the joined blades, he delivered a punch to a point just below the man’s rib cage. The man’s breath wheezed out in a single gusty rush, and he bent double over the kneeling elf.

The dwarf seized the man by the hair and forced his head up. “Seems like we finally see eye to eye,” he quipped, and then he smashed his fist into the mercenary’s face. Once would have been enough, but the dwarf hit him again just for the practice. Casually he shoved the insensible man aside and picked up his fallen sword.

“Use this one, elf,” he advised Kendel. The other’s a finer weapon, but youll find the grip a mite slippery.”

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The elf seized the offered sword and leaped to his feet, whirling to meet the final challenger and slapping his dagger into the dwarfs hand. But the last standing mercenary did not like his chances against these two. He slid his own sword hastily into its scabbard and bolted for the door.

“After “im,” bellowed the dwarf, kicking into a run.

Kendel hesitated and then followed suit. He had drawn steel against human soldiers; the penalties would be stern. Wherever this dwarf might be going would certainly be safer for him than Port Kir. And it occurred to Kendel that the journey might well be worthwhile in itself.

He found the dwarf in the courtyard, bouncing wildly as he sat atop the struggling mercenary. Kendel strode over and placed a blade at the man’s throat.

” ‘Bout time you got here,* grumbled the dwarf as he rolled aside. This one’s jumpier than a bee-stung horse. On yer feet,” he instructed the man. “Start aValking east down the street. I’m behind you, and if you run a step or sing out fer help, Fll dig this fine dagger into yer backside.”

“What do you plan to do with him?0 Kendel asked as he fell in beside the dwarf

The dwarf pursed his lips and considered. Truth be told, I’m a’getting mighty tired of all that’s been going on in these parts. I’m for going back to the Earthfaat Mountains and my kin, but first I’m thinking we should take this scum back to whatever pond he’s used to floating on. Fd like to meet the man who hired him,” he said in a voice full of grim promise.

“Why?” Kendel asked, surprised.

“I been a slave fer ten years. More, if n you add the days I was forced to work in that sow’s bowels of a tavern. Didn’t much like it. Don’t much like the idea of anybody, not even them pixie-licking wild elves, being forced into slavery. I wanna know the who and why of it. Hired swords don’t come cheap, and taking elves as

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slaves can only bring a keg of trouble. There’s cheaper and easier ways of picking pipeweed leaves. Something else is going on.”

Kendel eyed the dwarf with new respect. Seldom did the insular dwarven people consider the well-being of other races. He was also a bit shamed by the dwarfs concern. He had long heard tales of the forest elves’ troubles, but had been unwilling to get involved. To many humans, an elf was an elf, and incidents such as the one in the tavern were far too common. Yet here was a dwarf, ready to go to the aid of the forest folk.

“Is that why you fought in the tavern that first night?” he asked softly. “In defense of a beleaguered elf?”

The dwarf snorted and prodded at the mercenary with the tip of the dagger. They spoke ill of me mother,” he said. They shouldn’t ought to do that.”

“Indeed they shouldn’t,” Kendel agreed. “You did well to defend her honor.”