downed another five jugs of wine.
Another danger zone in the bar room of the Sundrop was the tables where a dozen or so Heartless Chasseurs were sitting, apparently celebrating a leave pass. They cast sideways glances at the Doralissians and the stonemasons. The soldiers’ faces were set in an expression of gloomy determination to batter the faces of both groups if they tried to stop them having a good time.
Of course, there were plenty of ordinary folks in a more peaceable frame of mind, but there was definitely tension in the air and the innkeeper was dashing about like a lunatic, trying to defuse the situation.
“Hmm…,” I said, trying to shout above the din. “Maybe we should find somewhere a bit calmer?”
“Don’t be afraid, Harold, you’re with me!” Hallas declared, taking a seat at the only free table, which was right beside the bar.
I wasn’t afraid. I had no doubt that if the regulars of this tavern suddenly found themselves in the Knife and Ax, they would faint in sheer fright. But why were we here? What was the point in sticking your nose into a bear’s den just for the sake of a fight? We needed to take good care of ourselves.
A serving wench appeared in front of us as if by magic.
“Beer for these four, and something very, very strong for me,” said the gnome.
“We have wheat liquor and krudr—Doralissian vodka.”
“Mix the liquor with the krudr, add some dark beer and a bit of Gnome’s Fire,” the gnome decided after a moment’s thought. “Do you have Gnome’s Fire?”
“We can probably find some, sir.”
If the serving wench was surprised by this strange selection, she didn’t show it.
“Listen, Hallas,” Deler said to the gnome, “if you want to commit suicide, you don’t have to drink garbage. Just tell me, and I’ll dispatch you to the next world at the drop of a hat.”
Hallas adopted a rather unusual tactic in response to this jibe—he ignored it.
“And no beer for me, please, just carrot juice,” Kli-Kli put in.
“We don’t serve that here.”
“Well, some other kind of juice, as long as it tastes good.”
“We don’t have any,” the serving wench said, not very politely.
“How about milk? Do you have milk?”
“Beer.”
“All right then, beer.” Kli-Kli sighed disappointedly.
“Fancy finding people like this in such a place!” said a familiar voice.
Lamplighter, Arnkh, and Marmot walked up to us. Invincible jumped off Marmot’s shoulder, thudded down onto our table, and started twitching his pink nose in hopes of finding something tasty to eat. Kli-Kli thrust a carrot at the ling, but the beast just bared his teeth. He didn’t give a damn for the goblin’s attempts to make friends with him.
“What wind blows you in here?” the gnome asked the new arrivals in a none-too-friendly voice.
“I can tell you’re not very pleased to see us,” Arnkh laughed as he took a seat.
Mumr and Marmot followed their companion’s example, although Marmot had to take a chair from the next table, where the goat-men were sitting. The Doralissians looked the warrior over dourly, but they didn’t bother him, deciding that it wasn’t worth risking their horns and beards for anything as petty as a chair.
“He’s not pleased to see anyone today,” Deler replied for the gnome.
“Have they pulled that tooth out?” Lamplighter asked.
“Listen, Mumr,” Hallas said irritably, “go tootle your whistle and leave me alone.”
“Oo-oo-ooh, things are really bad,” said Lamplighter, shaking his head with disappointment.
“Why hasn’t it been pulled out?” asked Arnkh, joining in the conversation.
“I changed my mind!” the gnome suddenly exploded. “I’m allowed to change my mind, aren’t I?”
“All right, Hallas, all right,” Arnkh said good-naturedly, trying to calm the gnome down. “So you changed your mind. What’s all the shouting about?”
The serving wench brought beer for us and the fiery mixture for Hallas. She took the order from the three Wild Hearts who had just joined us and went away again.
“So how do you come to be here?” I asked Marmot, who was feeding his ling.
“Arnkh dragged us out for a walk round the city. It’s a lousy little town. And we dropped in here to wet our whistles.”
“And did you see anything interesting in the city?” Kli-Kli asked, sniffing cautiously at the beer he had been served: It was obviously not much to his liking. “Hallas, why aren’t you drinking?”
“And you?” the gnome snarled back, staring at his booze as if there was a dead snake floating in it.
“I’m sniffing it!” Kli-Kli retorted. “That’s quite enough for me!”
“Me, too.”
“Well now, the krudr smells even worse than the goats,” Lamplighter chuckled.
“Well, how do you like the race of gnomes?” Deler asked with a cunning grin as he took a sip of dark beer. “Afraid of having a tooth pulled on, so they order a brew of fire and they’re afraid to drink that, too.”
“Who’s afraid, hathead? On the Field of Sorna we weren’t afraid to break your horns for you, and you think we’re afraid to drink this water? Watch!”
Hallas poured the liquid down his throat in a single gulp, without pausing for breath. I shuddered. One drop of the explosive mixture that the gnome had ordered would have been enough to fell a h’san’kor.
Our bearded friend drank, grunted, banged his mug down on the table, focused his wandering eyes together on a single point, and flared his nostrils as he tried to figure out what he was feeling. We all gazed at him in genuine admiration.
“That’s dis…,” the gnome said, scorching us all with the indescribable aroma of that repulsive mixture. “That’s dis … disgusting, may the Nameless One take me!”
“Are you alive?” Deler asked, squinting warily at his friend.
“No, I’m already in the light! The only time I’ve ever felt this good was when you dragged my butt off that Crayfish Duke’s scaffold! We-ench! Another three mugs of the same brew!”
“Well then?” Marmot asked after a pause. “Shall we drink to Tomcat?”
“May the earth be a feather mattress to him, and the grass his blanket!” said Lamplighter, raising his mug.
“May he walk in the light,” said Hallas.
“A good winter to him,” said Eel.
We drank in silence, without clinking glasses.
That’s the way it goes: Some are already in the light, and some are still alive. Tomcat had been left behind in the ground beside the old ravine in Hargan’s Wasteland, the first to die of those who had set out to escort me to Hrad Spein. I hoped very much that the Wild Hearts’ scout would also be the last one to die during our journey.
Time passed imperceptibly, people came and people went; the stonemasons, Doralissians, and chasseurs kept filling themselves up with wine. Two hours later, when I had my third mug of beer standing in front of me, and Hallas had the eighth mug of his fiery “remedy,” an old man with a whistle appeared out of nowhere and started playing a jolly djanga.
Those who were most sober and could still stand firmly on their feet got up and started dancing. Arnkh grabbed a serving wench by the arms, setting her squealing in indignation and then in delight, and launched into the swirling dance. The stonemasons sang along merrily, the Doralissians banged their fists on the table, and we stamped our feet, trying to keep time with the music. Only Hallas paid no attention to the general merriment and systematically drank his swill.
A gnome or a dwarf can drink as much as an entire crowd of men and still not get drunk. But Hallas had had more than enough, his speech was getting noticeably slurred, his nose had turned red, and his eyes were glittering. The apotheosis of the cure came when he made a confession of genuine love to Deler.
“Hey you! Hatface! What would I do without your ugly mug to look at?” the gnome muttered drunkenly and tried to kiss his friend. “We-ench! Hic! The same again!”
A little more time went by, and my comrades were no longer even thinking of going anywhere else. They had a new entertainment now—Mumr and Marmot were trying to stare down the Doralissians. Each side was trying to
