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“How charming,” said Ryana. “What’s the alternative?”
“We will make camp by the pool, within the outer walls, and pitch our tents and light our cook-fires. There is a tavern in the main building of the fortress, and we can pay it a visit if you like, but I would recommend keeping one hand on your purse and another on your weapon. If you like, you may leave your packs within the captain’s tent. He will remain within the camp along with the guards on duty. Your belongings will be safe with him. It would be a great embarrassment to him if I asked him to watch your things and something turned up missing.”
“Yes, I imagine so,” said Sorak with a smile. “But perhaps it would be best if we simply remained within the camp.”
“Suit yourself,” said Kieran, “but you may find it interesting. I intend to go pay my respects to old Grak. I haven’t seen the rogue in years, and he’s an entertaining scoundrel. Few things go on in these parts that he is not aware of. He will be sure to have all the latest news from Altaruk.”
“Well, in that case, you should go,” Ryana said. “I’ll remain in the camp with our things. I would just as soon rest, anyhow.”
After they made camp, Sorak accompanied Kieran to the main building of the fortress. It was situated on a small rise, just above the pool of the oasis in the center of the walled enclosure. It was a large, rectangular, three-story structure, like an elongated keep, constructed of roughly mortared brick with four open sentry towers at each corner of the building. The narrow, rectangular windows had heavy wooden shutters, and the large front doors were made of thick wooden planks. It was the crudest of workmanship, but appeared very sound and solid.
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.
