The sounds of battle grew dimmer. Not only because Dhamon was putting distance between himself and the dragon but because the last of his men were dying. He heard a loud sizzling sound. Then he heard Gauderic's voice, little more than a whisper now, cry, "She commands magic! The dragon has magic!"
Then Dhamon heard nothing else but the snapping of twigs beneath his feet and the pounding of his heart. The pain in his leg seemed to decrease with every yard he put between himself and the dragon. He wandered in the woods for several days, fully expecting the dragon to track him and kill him, too. But when that didn't happen, he found his way back to Barter.
It was late at night. Only one tavern was open.
None inside seemed to recognize him, or notice his tattered clothes and matted hair. He'd abandoned the chain mail shirt at the edge of town. Settling himself at an empty table, Dhamon Grimwulf began drinking. Drinking a lot and considering what he would tell Palin Majere.
"Ale!" Dhamon slammed his empty mug against the table, shattering it.
His outburst quieted the crowded tavern for but a heartbeat, then dice games and muted conversations resumed. An elf serving girl, so slight she looked frail, hurried toward him, fresh mug in one hand, pitcher in the other. Expertly dancing her way through the maze of tightly packed tables, she sat the mug in front of Dhamon and quickly filled it.
"S'better," he offered, his voice thick from alcohol. "I'm thirsty tonight. Don't let me go dry again." He took a long pull from the mug, draining it as she watched, then thumped it on the table, though not so hard this time. She poured him another and wrinkled her nose when he loudly belched, his breath competing with his sweat-stained clothes to assault her acute senses.
"Tha's a good girl," he said, reaching into his pouch and retrieving several steel pieces. He dropped them in her apron pocket and noted smugly that her eyes went wide at his substantial generosity. "Leave the pitcher."
She put it within his reach and busied herself brushing at the ceramic shards of his first mug, sweeping them into the folds of her skirt.
"You're quiet," he continued. His dark eyes sparkled in the glow of the lanterns that hung from the rafters and softly illuminated all but the farthest corners of the dingy, low-ceilinged establishment. "I like quiet women." He stretched out a hand, his armpit dark with sweat, and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, tugging her onto his lap and sending the gathered shards to the floor. "An' I like elves. You remind be jus' a bit of Feril, an elf I was in s'love with." He waved his free arm in a grand gesture, knocking over the pitcher and bringing a curse from an old half-elf whom he splashed at an adjacent table. Save for himself and the glowering old half-elf, and two men chatting in front of a merrily burning fireplace, the tavern was filled with full-blooded Qualinesti.
"Barter is primarily an elven village, Sir. Most everyone who lives here is Qualinesti." She smiled weakly at the irritated half-elf, who was wringing the ale from his long tunic. He softly cursed in the Qualinesti dialect and fixed a sneer at Dhamon with his watery blue eyes.
"Aye, tha's true, elf-girl. There aren't many humans aroun' these lands," Dhamon said. "They'd make the chair legs an' the ceilings a might s'taller if there were. Not many humans at all." His expression softened for a moment, his eyes instantly saddened and locked onto something the serving girl couldn't see. His grip relaxed, though he didn't release her, and with his free hand he reached up to gently trace a pointed ear. "Or s'maybe there's one too many humans. Me."
She took a good look at him. Had it not been for the tangle of long jet black hair that hadn't seen a comb in days, and a thick, uneven stubble on his face, she would have considered him quite handsome. He was young for a human, she guessed, not yet thirty. He had a generous mouth that was wet with ale, and his cheekbones were high and strong and deeply tanned from hours in the sun. His shirt and leather vest were open, revealing a lean, muscular chest that shone from sweat as if he'd oiled it. But his eyes were what captured her attention. They were compelling and mysterious, and they held her gaze like a vise.
"Let me go, Sir," she said, though she did not struggle, and though her words held no conviction. "There's no need to cause any trouble here."
"I like quiet women," Dhamon repeated. For an instant there was a brightening in the eyes, as if a secret thought were working behind them. "Quiet."
"But she don't like you." It was the ale-spattered half-elf. "Let her go."
Dhamon's free hand dropped to the pommel of the sword at his waist.
"No trouble," the girl urged, still staring into his eyes. "Please."
