The main hall of the keep had been turned into a tavern, with crudely made wood tables and benches placed all around the large, open chamber. The floor was rough, mortared stone and there a long bar lined the far left side of the room. Torches in blackened sconces and thick candles on the tables lit the place. Scantily-clad human and half-elf serving wenches circulated through the crowded room, carrying trays of drinks and food. Kieran stopped one of them and asked for Grak. The half-elf server pointed out his table, set against the back wall.
Grak was seated among a group of travelers and mercenaries, holding court. He was an immense man, especially for someone with elven blood.
Elves were usually tall and lean, but Grak was part human, and the most human thing about him was clearly his appetite. He stood about six feet tall and weighed at least three hundred pounds, but there was a solid layer of muscle underneath the fat. His arms were thick and powerful, his chest barrel shaped, his shoulders wide and muscular, his neck thick and strong. Most half-elves could not grow facial hair, but Grak had a luxuriant mustache, the ends of which dangled below his chin. He had sharply arched eyebrows like an elf, but they were uncharacteristically thick and bushy. His iron gray hair hung down almost to his waist in two thick braids from below a well-worn, wide-brimmed leather hat of janx hide. He wore a old brown leather vest over his bare chest, which was covered with gray hairs and festooned with amulets. He barked out a sharp laugh when he saw them approaching.
“Hah! Look what the wind blew in!”
“Hello, Grak, you old scoundrel,” Kieran said in a friendly tone. “You grow uglier each time I see you.”
“And you grow prettier,” said Grak good-naturedly. “You were but a fetching girl, and now you’ve grown into a fine and handsome woman! Put a dress on you, and you’ve got a strapping countess! Gith’s blood, it’s good to see you! Sit down, sit down. Make room, you dolts, make room for Kieran of Draj!”
At the mention of his name, the other mercenaries at the table gazed at him with interest and respect. As they sat down, Grak flagged down a serving wench.
“Drusilla! Bring two tankards of ale for my friends!”
“Water for me, please,” Sorak said.
“Water?” Grak said, scandalized. “Water?”
“If you don’t mind,” said Sorak. “I have no taste for ale or wine.”
“Strange company you keep,” Grak said to Kieran. He turned back to Drusilla. “Water for this youngster, who’s not learned to drink like a man.”
“He may not drink like a man, but he fights like one,” said Kieran. “He slew two giants, one with a bow, one with his blade. This is Sorak, my new lieutenant. Sorak, meet Grak, an old compatriot of mine.”
They clasped forearms across the table. Grak’s hand was a vice. “Sorak, eh?” He looked him over. “You have elvish blood, but uncommon features for a half-elf.”
“That is because I am an elfling,” Sorak said. “My mother was a elf, my father a halfling.”
“So. I have heard of only one such rarity. You must be the one called the Nomad.”
“That is the elvish meaning of my name,” said Sorak.
“The word is you’re a troublemaker,” Grak said. “Is that true?”
“I suppose it would depend on who relates the word,” Sorak replied.
Grak chuckled. “Well spoken. I see you’ve found yourself a lieutenant with a reputation, Kieran.”
“So it would seem,” Kieran replied, “though I was not aware of that when we first met. I hired him because of his abilities. Unlike you, Grak, my friend does not regale everybody within earshot with tales of his exploits.”
“Hah! You should have more respect for your elders, stripling,” Grak replied. He turned to Sorak. “They say you bear a most unusual blade,” he said. “Might I see it?”
Sorak hesitated, then drew the sword he had been given by Valsavis and placed it on the table before him. Grak glanced at it and frowned. “That is not the blade I heard described,” he said.
Sorak simply shrugged.
“It is the only one I have ever seen him carry,” Kieran said.
Grak pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps the stories were mistaken,” he said.
“I have yet to hear any of these stories,” Kieran said, glancing at Sorak.
“I thought you said a man’s past was of no consequence to you,” said Sorak.
“True enough,” said Kieran. “But I must admit to being curious.”
“You have no other blade?” asked Grak.
Sorak shrugged again. “Only short ones,” he replied truthfully, feeling Galdra tucked into his belt at his side, concealed by his cloak.
“Hmm,” said Grak. “Strange. My sources are seldom wrong.”
“Speaking of your sources,” Kieran said, “what do you hear of the goings on in Altaruk?”
“You have business there?”
“I have accepted the post of captain of the house guard for Jhamri,” Kieran said.
Grak raised his eyebrows with surprise. “You? Isn’t that a bit beneath your capabilities? Besides, I had heard you were retired.”
“Their offer was most generous,” said Kieran. “I found I was unable to refuse.”
“They must have paid you a king’s ransom,” Grak replied. He frowned. “Now why would they want to do that, I wonder? They could easily have found men qualified for such a post for much less money than they must have offered you.”
“I was wondering the same thing myself.”
“Curious,” said Grak. “I cannot imagine why they would have wanted you for such a post except for bragging rights. And Lord Jhamri scarcely needs to brag. His recent partnership agreement with the House of Ankhor, bringing that house
