T Lain - Treachery's Wake

“Pleased to meet me, I’m sure,” Wotherwill said, “but let’s drop the pleasantries for now. We have important business.”

“I will not go!”

Krusk’s meaty fist came down hard on the table, sending a cascade of dark ale sloshing over the side of his earthenware mug and turning heads among the evening’s patrons of the Bung and Blade. Even in the midst of such a motley crew as was gathered at the pub, there were none interested in meeting the eyes of a pair of arguing half-orcs. Glances quickly shifted back to plates of food.

Malthooz drew back from the table. Though three years older and nearly his physical equal, Malthooz was in every other way Krusk’s opposite. His eyes ran along the steel studs embedded in the tough leather of Krusk’s shoulder armor then trailed down to the cruel dagger that was bound to his forearm in a makeshift scabbard of thick hide straps. He glanced at the massive axe resting against Krusk’s chair, then down at his own humble rucksack, stuffed as it was with books. He looked up as Krusk hid his frown behind his mug.

They were both hulks by human standards, but Krusk was large even for a half-orc. Lean and corded muscles ran the length of his body, honed over years of rough living and many fights. His face was scarred in a few places, the most cruel running from just under his left earlobe to his jaw. It was a trophy from a brawl with an ogre that had almost cost Krusk his life but earned him a double-headed magical axe instead.

Malthooz was not nearly so bulky. He could still best almost any man in an arm wrestling match by sheer strength, but he was clumsy and untested in the realm of combat. From the time they were children, he was drawn more to books than swords. Malthooz was often the butt end of the other barbarian children’s jokes and pranks. He felt the sting of cruelty even more acutely for the rift that had grown between he and Krusk over the intervening years.

Both men had the pale, gray-greenish skin of a half-orc and a tell-tale protrusion of teeth from their lower jaw. Wiry, black hair sprouted from their skin in odd patches. They were rough looking but not ugly. By nonhuman standards, they might even be considered handsome. Among humans, half-orcs were sometimes tolerated but seldom truly welcomed. Krusk and Malthooz, unrelated in any way but race, had both found a home within a village of outcasts. It was there, amidst the mixed population of humans, elves, dwarves, and half-breeds, that their shared heritage created a bond that approximated family.

Malthooz sighed and said, “This autumn has been hard on the village. The dire wolves have returned in greater numbers. Game is becoming scarce. Our people are disheartened.” He paused. “I don’t know that our chief will live to see the spring. The village needs your strength, Krusk.”

Krusk lowered his eyes as his mug sank slowly toward the table. If he was startled by the news, it did not register on his face.

“The village is of no concern to me now,” Krusk snorted, meeting Malthooz’s gaze. “When I left there, I vowed never to return. It was my home for a short time, but their ways—our ways—are not mine. I could never follow your way of life and wither away in that frozen wasteland that you call a home.”

“Look around you,” Malthooz urged. “Are you so at home here, so keen to grasp for the favor of a society that has no place for you?”

Malthooz looked about the pub’s dim and smoky interior. All around himself he saw the truth of his words. Cutthroats and ruffians of all stripes patronized the Bung and Blade, ever eager to pick the pockets of those who overindulged in the tavern’s strong and bitter brew or to slit a throat in the back alley of anyone who’s purse looked worth the trouble. If a person wanted trouble, he need look no farther than the pub.

“Look around,” Malthooz repeated. “We are outcasts among even these outcasts. No other place in town would let us in the door.”

“At least I know my place among these people,” Krusk said, “and am free to do as I please.” He downed the last of his ale, banging the mug hard on the table to alert the barmaid that he was ready for another. “The villagers live in fear. They could never understand my need for freedom. You should not have come here.”

Malthooz looked up as the door of the pub swung open and two figures entered the room. A flurry of snowflakes followed them in on the evening breeze. They were bundled against the chill, the fringes of their woolen cloaks white with frost.

Malthooz watched as the first woman entered. Shocks of long, black hair spilled from her fur-lined hood, and the light tan of a leather collar showed just above the neckline of her cloak. She tossed the hood back and her hair cascaded down the sides of her slender face. Small, pointed ears jutted from behind long ringlets of ebony. She gripped a slim staff of wood in one hand, its silver-crusted top standing just above her head. The staff and the large, leather pouch slung over her shoulder marked the woman as a wizard just as her pointed ears marked her as an elf. She was willowy thin but not fragile looking.

Malthooz instantly recognized the woman’s high-elf ancestry. While most humans had little power to discern between the elf races aside from their often outlandish differences in dress and custom, Mialee’s fine, white skin and simple but elegant features set her apart from any but the most beautiful of wood or wild elves.

A druid entered next. She stood slightly taller than the wizard and looked a bit wilder. She shared her companion’s elf features, but Malthooz thought she lacked the other’s refined look and air of grace. A small rack of antlers was rolled up into the front of her stark, white hair and her cloak lacked the civilized look of the wizard’s. Feathers were woven into the long braids that fell from her temples. Malthooz noted the jeweled hilt of a scimitar sticking out of the front of her forest green tunic. Though not a pureblooded wild elf, he thought, the lines of high and wild were crossed somewhere in the woman’s past.

Malthooz watched the druid scan the pub’s interior. She took in her surroundings as a deer might scan the forest for predators before kneeling for a drink. With a nod to her companion, the two started across the floor. The druid’s hand slipped over the hilt of her sword. The wizard looked unconcerned. The women approached the table where Malthooz and Krusk sat.

“Is this a new trend?” the wizard asked, seating herself next to Krusk. “I didn’t know that you actually had any friends.” She grinned at Malthooz. “From the looks of this one, he’s not here to help us ambush wealthy merchants or disembowel pesky beasts.”

Malthooz’s cheeks reddened as he cast his eyes down to the table with a self-conscious chuckle. Krusk shot Mialee a cruel stare.

“This is Malthooz, the one I told you about,” he grunted. “He wants me to return to his home with him.”

The wizard stuck out her hand and said, “The name’s Mialee—pleased to meet you.”

Malthooz took her hand awkwardly.

“And this is Vadania,” she said, tossing her head back in the druid’s direction. “She doesn’t say much.”

Vadania nodded a greeting.

“So you’re the one who wants to take our Krusk away?” Mialee asked.

Malthooz felt the woman sizing him up with her eyes. A barmaid came by the table and plunked a new mug of ale in front of Krusk.

“An ale for me and another for the brute here, and—” Mialee raised an eyebrow at Malthooz and he nodded—“one for him as well,” she said, reaching for the sack of silver coins hanging on her belt. “Food for us all, and a pot of steaming water and an empty mug for the druid.” Mialee dropped a few silver coins onto the barmaid’s serving tray, then turned back to Malthooz. “So why would you want to take our Krusk away?”