A bulging belly hung over cinched up leather leggings. A filthy
shirt gaped open at the navel, there being too little shirt to
cover too much flesh. The man’s face – partially obscured by a
three-day growth of beard – was unnaturally flushed and
splotchy, his hair greasy and unkempt. His clothes, while fine
and well-made, were dirty and smelled strongly of vomit and
the raw liquor’ known as dwarf spirits.
Tanis lowered his sword, feeling like a fool. It was just some
poor drunken wretch, probably the town bully, using his great
size to intimidate the citizenry. He looked at the man with pity
and disgust, thinking, even as he did so, that there was some-
thing oddly familiar about him. Probably someone he had
known when he lived in Solace long ago, some poor slob who
had fallen on hard times.
The half-elf started to turn away, then noticed – to his
amazement – that everyone in the Inn was looking at him
expectantly.
What do they want me to do, Tanis thought in sudden, swift
anger. Attack him? Some hero I’d look – beating up the town
drunk!
Then he heard a sob at his elbow. “I told you to leave,” Tika
moaned, sinking down into a chair. Burying her face in her
hands, she began to cry as if her heart would break.
Growing more and more mystified, Tanis glanced at River-
wind, but the Plainsman was obviously as much in the dark as
his friend. The drunk, meanwhile, staggered into the room and
gazed about in anger.
“Wash ish thish? A party?” he growled. “And nobody in-in-
invited their old… in-vited me?”
No one answered. They were fixedly ignoring the slovenly
man, their eyes still on Tanis, and now even the drunk’s atten-
tion turned to the half-elf. Attempting to bring him into focus,
the drunk stared at Tanis in a kind of puzzled anger, as though
blaming him for being the cause of all his troubles. Then, sud-
denly, the drunk’s eyes widened, his face split into a foolish
grin, and he lurched forward, hands outstretched.
“Tanish… my fri-”
“Name of the gods,” Tanis breathed, recognizing him at last.
The man staggered forward and stumbled over a chair. For a
moment he stood swaying unsteadily, like a tree that has been
cut and is ready to fall. His eyes rolled back in his head, people
scrambled to get out of his way. Then – with a thud that shook
the Inn – Caramon Majere, Hero of the Lance, passed out cold
at Tanis’s feet.
CHAPTER 3
Name of the gods,”
Tanis repeated in sorrow as he stooped down beside the coma-
tose warrior. “Caramon…”
“Tanis -” Riverwand’s voice caused the half-elf to glance up
quickly. The Plainsman held Tika in his arms, both he and
Dezra trying to comfort the distraught young woman. But peo-
ple were pressing close, trying to question Riverwind or asking
Crysania for a blessing. Others were demanding more ale or
just standing around, gawking.
Tanis rose swiftly to his feet. “The Inn is closed for the night,”
he shouted.
There were jeers from the crowd, except for some scattered
applause near the back where several customers thought he
was buying a round of drinks.
“No, I mean it,” Tanis said firmly, his voice carrying over the
noise. The crowd quieted. “Thank you all for this welcome. I
cannot tell you what it means to me to come back to my home-
land. But, my friends and I would like to be alone now. Please,
it is late….”
There were murmurs of sympathy and some good-natured
clapping. Only a few scowled and muttered comments about
the greater the knight the more his own armor glares in his eyes
(an old saying from the days when the Solamnic Knights were
held in derision). Riverwind, leaving Dezra to take care of
Tika, came forward to prod those few stragglers who assumed
Tanis meant everyone except them. The half-elf stood guard
over Caramon, who was snoring blissfully on the floor, keep-
ing people from stepping on the big man. He exchanged glances
with Riverwind as the Plainsman passed, but neither had time
to speak until the Inn was emptied.