*

A shadow passing by jolts me out of my reverie. Good. That memory only goes downhill from there. Why those bastard magi left me alive, I’ll never know. It certainly wasn’t mercy, watching them slaughter women, children…anyone who stood between them and Melinda.

The shadow blocking the fire quickly resolves itself into the dwarven form of Droba. He’s a good man. Dwarf. Whatever. A stout fighter, but more importantly he knows enough about herbs, poultices, splints, and bandages to be a very handy presence in combat situations.

“Och, lad, tha bandages ain’t healin’ yer weepin’ sores. Ain’t never seen nothin’ like it! Bah! Bastid magi.”

His echo of my own thoughts stirs me slightly. I assure him I’m doing fine, he’s got others to tend to, and I’m quickly diving back into my delusions to avoid thinking about the pain.

*

It’s been three years since Melinda was taken. I’ve been training with Master Kazewatarad nonstop ever since. Learning the ways of the shadows, the silent strike. Hand to hand combat – shuto strikes, kote gaeshi, kansetsu waza, even advanced techniques like the mountain storm kick. He cautions me daily not to obsess upon vengeance – my anger brings me speed in training, but too much will cloud my senses and leave me vulnerable at the wrong time.

So I crouch in the shadows, silently observing my target. My heart beats in a regular, slow rhythm. It will not betray me even to the keenest ears. My breaths come in measured, smooth intervals. I am one with the shadows that surround me. One with the slight breeze that brings the dusty scent of earthen streets in this village. One with the behemoth that is my current target.

The giant crosses the street with confidence, but not arrogance. He makes his way through the crowd, rather than forcing much smaller passers-by to flow around him. He does so with his head held high, shoulders back, and a steady pace.

The tavern he’s heading toward is run-down, but it has a raucous din wafting out of it. The sounds of laughter occasionally drown out the racket that those inside might consider music. A flute and a fiddle, it sounds like, though to my ears it sounds as if someone is playing the fiddle with the flute as the bow. And trying to play the flute at the same time.

The tavern’s sign proclaims the name “Single Handed” as it creaks back and forth in the wind as the giant passes beneath it, ducking his head unnecessarily. He’d need another foot and a half of height to brush the bottom of it. The sign features a view of the back of a topless woman, looking over her left shoulder and giving the viewer a wink. She has her right hand tangled in her long brown hair, and the other is holding a rather phallic-looking bottle of ale, which has been clearly painted with foam coming out of it.

As the giant enters, I make my move. I’ve had a spot within the tavern picked out for quite a while now. It will allow me to observe him unnoticed. I slide inside the swinging door right behind a pair of elves and slip into my cozy booth, ducking back into the shadows. It isn’t difficult, the tavern is poorly lit.

As expected, the giant sits down at a nearby table. I was fairly sure it had been held for him – everyone who approached it got a glare from the bartender and moved on – but I had not expected him to be joined by another. Not so soon, at least. The cacophony from the musicians is foiling my plans to eavesdrop. Worse luck.

Joining the giant is a dwarf. A repugnantly filthy dwarf. He (or she – let’s face it, many dwarven women sport better beards than their male counterparts) belches in the general direction of my booth, and the stench makes my eyes water. The dwarf’s hair looks like it is done up in long braids, but upon closer inspection it is simply clumped together in a mixture of soot, sweat, ash, and blood. Hopefully not other bodily fluids, but the smell makes me wonder.

I hesitate, wondering whether I should attempt to move closer, when the dwarf speaks.

“HAR! YE BLOODY TOPSIDER SKULKER! YE GONNA HIDE IN THA’ BLOODY BOOTH ALL FLAMIN’ DAY, ‘R YE GONNA COME JOIN US FER A BLOODY ALE?”

He is looking right at me.

I sigh, wondering how I gave myself away, and rise from my hiding spot in the booth with as much grace as I can muster. Then I see it. Topsider. The dwarf is one of the deep-dwarves. Born and raised in the vast network of tunnels below the surface, it is said that their eyes can pierce any shadow. I feel a bit more at ease, now. I didn’t give myself away. I never had a chance of hiding in the first place.

The deep-dwarf – duergar, I suppose I should think of him – is chortling as he throws down another bottle of ale as if it were water. My face must have given away my emotions. “HAR! AYE, YE DONKEY-BUGGERIN’ GIT. I KIN BLOODY SEE YE NO MATTER HOW DEEP YE SLINK IN THA SHADOWS! DAISY-SNIFFIN’ TOPSIDER, THINKIN’ YE KIN SNEAK LIKE SOME PRISSY ELF DRESSED IN A-.”

“Enough, Qurochiho.” Says the giant, quietly yet firmly. His voice is a deep bass, yet the stark contrast between his speech and that of the boisterous duergar is surprising for a moment. “Relon here is our guest, and we’ve no need to insult him.”

“YE DAFT BUGGER, YE KNOW I DINNAE INSULT ANYONE UNLESS THEY GOT ME BLOODY RESPECT! SODDIN’ GIANT WITH YER-.”

“I know that, Qurochiho. Our guest does not.” He turns to me. “You’ll have to pardon my companion. He doesn’t believe he is yelling, nor does he intend to be offensive. Both simply come naturally to him. My name is Woldrun. You have been following me for three days. I would know why, or I will see you dead this day. This is not a threat, it is simple fact, stated out of necessity. Do we understand each other, Relon?”

What choice do I have? I begin to tell him my story, and why I want to join his war on magic.