The Last Garrison (Dungeons & Dragons Novel) by Matthew Beard Page B

proffered hand and wondering precisely what he was supposed to do with it. Shake it? Offer a blessing of some sort? Tip the man? Kohel’s face tightened with confusion,and then went slack when he seemed to decide no reaction to the hand was the best course of action. Kohel nodded, and gestured for the others to follow. When his back was turned, Luzhon handed a coin to the counterman and walked out. Nergei and he locked eyes for a moment. The man began to laugh. At what, Nergei was unsure. He followed the others to the street.

CHAPTER SIX
    T
he problem with drinking with dwarves
, thought Sten,
is that they never know when to stop, or how
.
    It had been weeks since their last work, and Sten fiddled with the leather strap spun around the end of his companion’s warhammer. The hammer sat on the table between himself and his partner who was deep into his share of a cask of dwarven stout, a powerfully intoxicating draft called “the Bellringer” by the proprietor of the Minotaur’s Horn Inn. Spundwand’s blue eyes were bleary and smiling. He lifted his glass and offered it a blessing: “Moradin, for this, thy glorious tipple, I salute you and all you command.” And at that, his glass was drained. “Sten, my captain. You are drinking me under the table.”
    “I’m not drinking, Spundwand,” said Sten.
    “Moradin curses those who let dwarves drink alone.”
    “Only in that I will have to carry you back to our tent this evening, my friend.”
    “Food. I need meat,” said Spundwand, raising his voice in the direction of the barkeep. The man pointed to a serving boy who approached the table cautiously.
    “You can pay for a meal, sir?”
    Spundwand grimaced. “A generation ago, I would’ve had your head for the cheek of such a question, boy.” The servant stepped away, holding his hands up in front of his chest.
    “Please, sir—”
    “You send this boy?” cried Spundwand. He stood and faced the man behind the bar. “I should topple every column in this place and let it fall down around you. You ask compensation for the privilege of feeding warriors of our caliber? Something as distasteful as
money
for the pleasure of our company? How dare you, sir? How dare?”
    The barkeep remained silent, but he pointed to Sten and Spundwand and then pointed to the door. They were no longer welcome, and at first Sten thought to object; the barkeep was a large, swarthy man, but Sten had been fighting his entire life, and he knew that if he wanted to stay, he could make it so. He flexed his arms, cracked his knuckles, and considered. A fight there would mean another place he and Spundwand would be unwelcome in, and too much of the city had already decided they were better off without them.
    Sten sighed, stood, and gathered his things. His family had once served the empire as soldiers, first in the infantry and then later in the cavalry and in the command, when there was still some empire to be served. Sten was the last of his line, and all he had to remind him of who his father had been was his sword and shield, his suit of armor he rarely wore inside the city, its bulk too much for the hot and narrow streets.
    All he had were those few armaments, and also Spundwand, who had once been his father’s battle cleric, when there were still such dwarves serving in the human armies, before those long alliances were broken.
    Sten led Spundwand to the door, the dwarf cursing the place with every step: cursing its chairs, its tables, its walls, its flagons—even its rags and linens. He lurched at the other patrons, and comments about the myriad unnatural possibilities in the barkeep’s pedigree. And finally, at the door, he lifted a leg and passed wind boisterously. That, the final indignation, caused the barkeep to utter his first and only word to the pair: “Out!” he shouted. And out they went.
    Spundwand’s hunched shoulders and heavy steps lightened within yards of the Minotaur’s Horn. Sten rubbed his head. “You only do