Hadavad.
If only the mage could have seen him now, Alijah thought. Even Hadavad, a mage of great vision and wisdom, could never have dreamt such a fate as this. It still saddened him to know that his old mentor had been destined to die so that he might break free of any and all who would lead him astray.
As he approached the steps up to the porch, Alijah asked himself what he was really doing there. There were pressing matters that warranted waking Malliath and continuing their journey but, instead, he was reaching out for the door handle. He just needed to see it again, to take in the tavern’s musty aroma, and wander back through the halls of his memories to a different time. The king had believed he was above such trivialities as nostalgia but, here he was, aggravated by the lock that barred his way.
There were many ways he could remove the obstacle from his path, but he wanted to enter the Pick-Axe as he had so long ago. Alijah waved his hand over the lock and used a simple spell to pull it out of place. The door creaked on his way inside. He was immediately assaulted by the musty smell of the place, only it was far more pronounced than on his last visit. It reminded the king that Russell Maybury had sided with The Rebellion, leaving the tavern empty for nearly two years.
Still, the scent brought back numerous memories for the half-elf. He remembered the first time he returned with Vighon by his side. The northman had been sheepish, accustomed to the harsh ways of The Ironsworn, until Russell’s dog, Nelly, had bounded up to him.
Walking up to the bar, from where Russell’s pick-axe was clearly missing, he turned to the right, an area where the band had always set up when there wasn’t a ranger telling a tale or two. He had enjoyed many of Doran’s tales during his time with Hadavad. Those memories, however, felt spoiled now by the son of Dorain’s actions against him.
With quiet contemplation, he slid his hands over the wood of the bar. How many times had he leaned over it and flirted with barmaids? It had all been so easy back then. He would cheat his way through a game of Gallant and use the coin for food, drink, and a warm bed.
Looking through the gloom, he picked out the booth where Galanör Reveeri had been sitting. The elven ranger had been watching him and Vighon on behalf of Hadavad and Gideon. From there, everything had changed, their courses altered forever. That led him to the door on the far left of the bar. Well and truly a victim of his own nostalgia now, he made for that door and descended the immediate steps.
The rangers’ bar opened up around him with a small collection of tables and chairs and half a bar in the corner. He was drawn to the old armchairs, a little worse for wear, in front of the fireplace. He had spent many an evening sharing a drink with Vighon while staring into the flames. For all the venom he held for the northman, he couldn’t help but recall those times fondly.
His hand ran along the top of the armchair as he left the common area. With what light there was, streaming through the high windows that revealed the street above, he navigated the only passage under the tavern. Ignoring the doors on his left and right, Alijah made for the door at the very end. Like the others, it creaked as he passed through to the next chamber. It was just as large as the common area, but it was devoid of furniture. The space had always been used for training and practising with new weapons.
Looking around, there were hardly any left on the walls anymore. Stepping onto the training mats, the king examined the long coat, belt, and sword that remained fixed to the far wall. It took him a moment to recall the ranger’s name as Jonus Glaide, an old friend of Asher’s and Doran’s. Alijah had never met the man, but he had heard of his heroics during the Battle of Velia, in The War for the Realm.
Turning on his heel, the half-elf faced the small alcove built into the wall. A dusty curtain, poked with ragged holes, partially concealed the contents. With one hand, he drew the curtain back, his mind envisioning the row of identical swords and green cloaks. This had been Asher’s personal locker. Now it was bare but for a single two-handed broadsword.
Alijah removed it from the rack and held it in both hands. The spiked pommel felt solid and heavy, but the blade evened the weight distribution to make it a finely balanced weapon. After so many years of disuse, however, it was in much need of care to make it battle worthy again. Not that its wielder would ever return to claim it, nor the tavern’s owner for that matter.
The king sighed. “What am I doing here?” he asked himself.
The question evaporated from Alijah’s mind when the tip of a stranger’s sword came to rest on his shoulder. He chastised himself for being so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had stopped listening to his senses. Now, a cursory glance to the side revealed four men had entered the chamber, one of whom had succeeded in getting so close that his blade now touched his very person.
“I wouldn’t mind an answer to your question as well,” came a gruff voice from behind.
Alijah held out Asher’s sword with just his finger and thumb and slowly returned it to the rack before turning to face his attackers. They dressed like ordinary
