“The general philosophy of Dwarven society can be summarized with a single word: efficiency. This simple but profound principle has guided the development of civilization under the Ash Mountains for eons, ever since the onset of the Age of Night. This, dear reader, is not because Dwarves are a naturally pragmatic race but because efficiency was their solution to the great obstacle of surviving in the barren and hostile environment of the Ash Mountains. Manifestations of this guiding philosophy of efficiency are present in every factor of everyday life and may seem alien to outsiders, but this humble author urges the reader to withhold judgement. For example, the strict segregation of the sexes outside of the breeding season and their unusual use of social engineering may cause some small surprise in visitors to Dwarfdom, but others may yet be familiar: Guilds and companies in the U.K.A first modeled themselves on the charters drawn up by the Guild Masters of the lost Dwarf city-state of Gurzaag during the Goblin Wars. Few have deviated from this original blueprint over the centuries.”
-Excerpt from ‘Peoples of the World’, acclaimed travelogue of ethnographer and knight Dame Lisbet Halsinger.
***
Swish.
Thud.
Edhalan stood in the embassy’s atrium, alone.
With Alvanue gone to class and most of the staff otherwise occupied, Edhalan had found himself with nothing to do. He supposed he could go out and explore like his liege seemed so fond of doing, but he had absolutely no desire to be around humans at the moment. With a lack of better options, he’d decided to work through a few basic sword movements, techniques his sire had started his training with when he was young.
“Keep your balance, but lean into the strike. Don’t overextend.”
He could still remember the smell of the training hall, the feeling of excitement on his first day of learning the art of swordplay under her.
Edhalan followed the memory of his sire’s advice and lunged, sword whipping out to strike against the wooden practice dummy in front of him. One of Ambassador Olome’s secretaries had been kind enough to set it up when he’d asked permission to use the atrium and he’d been hacking at it for over an hour. Deep gouges and slashes scarred the dummy’s once smooth torso. Hitting it with a particularly vicious blow, he realized his form was getting sloppy, his swordhand shaking. He forcibly calmed himself and settled into the fourth of many training movements.
They were simple, meant for beginners, but each of them was fundamental. To forsake them in favor of greater techniques was the mark of a poor swordsman. A house built on weak foundations was sure to fall, as his sire was fond of saying.
While he was sufficiently learned in the ways of mana manipulation and channeling, he’d never really taken to magic the way his people usually did. He enjoyed sparring more than casting, training more than meditating in moldy old libraries.
Under the guidance of his sire and the many tutors Lord Githanduin had hired to train his guard, Edhalan had learned how to use spears, bows, staves, war-axes, long swords and throwing knives. Out of all of these instruments of war, however, his favorite weapon had always been the saber. There was a simplicity to its handling, an elegance to its polished edge that he felt all others lacked.
He regarded the sword in his hand, a saber gifted to him by his sire the night before he and Alvanue had departed for Lyonesse. It caught the light filtering through the great branches of the Silverwood tree, glowing faintly white in the silvery shadows. Words of the Silthondyithis were etched into its length, a piece of obsidian shaped into a star in the pommel.
It was beautiful.
“Do your duty. Protect the princess,” his sire had said, sitting with him in his chambers as all of Silthonduen buzzed with preparations. “But come home safe.”
He clenched the saber tight and dropped into the Fifth Movement.
He continued like that for a while longer. Practice usually helped relieved stress and negative emotions; It calmed his mind like no alchemist's draught ever could. Yet still hours in and anger that burned like a hot coal in his chest refused to go away.
It wasn’t about Adair.
It wasn’t only about Adair.
Edhalan knew the boy had only said what he did because of the ale in his belly, but the things he’d said...he’d prodded old wounds Edhalan believed to have long since healed.
Swish.
Adair couldn’t have known how his words would have affected the elf. Edhalan had been surprised himself by the fury the idiot’s witless insults had stirred in him. He’d tried to master his emotions, tried to hold himself to a higher standard like his sire would expect him to, like a Silthondyithis warrior should, but the human boy had thrown his attempt at peaceful reconciliation back in his face. What other choice did he have, then? He would not suffer an insult to his honor, not even at the request of his liege. He couldn’t, not when it was about...
He continued on to the next movement, trying to lose himself in the motion. It couldn’t be helped. The memory was too fresh, tender too the touch like a wound. He thought of them all, the people he’d lost, and struck out at the only thing he could.
Swish.
Thud.
Yindrivole, the sister he’d never met. She’d died along with the previous High Lord Imosithene in the final push to retake Bjarmaland from invading goblin forces.
Amaris, the grandsire who hadn’t left the cloistered safety of Moonwatch since before Edhalan was born. He’d been kidnapped by the druids of Tir Derwydd and tortured in an attempt to learn the secrets of their race’s immortality.
Valadri, the dam he could hardly remember anymore. She’d been lost in the last demon incursion, before he’d even turned ten. His sire had never taken another partner after her death, and still wore the mark of mourning nearly five decades afterward.
Swish.
Too many ghosts, too many loved ones dead and damaged. All of them lost to filthy mortal schemes.
And the boy had dared to-
Crack.
The sound snapped him back to reality.
Edhalan’s sword cleared the dummy’s head from its wooden shoulders with one swift swing. It fell to the ground, rolling, until it came to rest against the side of his leather boot. He looked down at it for several heartbeats and then bent to pick it up.
It was almost completely featureless, just the general humanoid shape of a thousand other practice dummies he’d seen before. Indistinguishable and plain, but for one detail.
While going through the movements, most likely the Seventh, he still had trouble perfecting his footing on that one, he must have struck too high with his sword. A cut split the wood diagonally across the front of the head, right over the carver’s idea of a nose.
And just like that, it was no longer a lifeless dummy he was looking at. It was a human face, freckled and ruddy cheeked, with a mop of red hair hanging over narrow, hateful eyes. It leered at him, mocking him, speaking blasphemies about his family and their sacrifices in that hideous human tongue they called ‘Common’.
That white-hot core of rage flared bright, the one he didn’t let Alvanue or his sire see. It had never gone out, not fully. He knew it never would, now.
He didn’t realize he’d thrown the hunk of wood until he heard the tinkle of breaking glass.
The eastern wall of the courtyard was filled with beautiful stained-glass windows, each section depicting the narrative of the First Day. Or it had. The central panel was ruined, the Fifth Elder’s haloed head little more than a splintery mess of glass and silver. A startled looking Londalis poked his head out from the other side of the hole, giving Edhalan a bewildered look.
His shoulders rose up around his ears. He gave the now sputtering elf a guilty half-wave.
“I, uh. Sorry.”
***
He’d been thoroughly reprimanded for the incident with the window.
In elven terms, that meant a quiet conversation in a private office and a polite yet stern reminder that the bill to repair any further damage to embassy property would be directed to High Lord Githanduin. The tips of his ears had been red with shame the entire time.
Only babies throw temper tantrums, a voice that sounded an awful lot like Alvanue whispered in his mind.
After taking his scolding like the adult he was, he’d left, his aversion to the city be damned. The Housekeeper’s cold gaze was more than enough to let him know he wasn’t welcome in the embassy, at least until the last of the shattered glass was cleaned up.
There were still a while left before Alvanue got out of class. He didn’t know what to do to fill up that time. It was only his second day in Avalon and aside from their misadventure at the Hangman and exploring Castle Hill’s Main Street, he didn’t know much else about the place.
He wandered up and down the street for a while, not really paying attention where he was going, until he saw a familiar face. A little girl on the corner, barrels and buckets and baskets filled with flowers all around her.
Lily, he remembered, the Florist.
He put on the affectation he knew Alvanue hated and called out to her.
“You. Human girl.”
Her head whipped up at the sound of his voice, eyes round with surprise.
“You again- I mean, uh, hello there, Mister Elf. Um, can I get you some more flowers?” she asked eagerly.
“No,” he said a little too quickly before catching himself. He coughed, shaking his head. “No, that won’t be necessary.”
Alvanue had put one of the damned bouquets in his room. He’d been sneezing all through the night and half the morning from the pollen.
“Oh. Then what do you want Mister Elf, sir?”
“You may address me as Sir Edhalan, or simply sir, if you must. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mister Edhellen, sir, I understand.”
“It’s Edhalan, you- Nevermind that!” Breath, Edhalan, breath. “I seek entertainment this day. What pitiful distractions does this poor excuse for a city have to offer?”
Lily cocked her head, frowning up at him.
“Huh?”
“I mean I’m bored, girl. Is there anything, I don’t know, fun to do around here?”
She gave him a confused look.
“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say that in the first place?”
Edhalan felt his eye twitch.
***
The little thief charged him a silver for the information he was after, already knowing he had the coin. Crook though she was, she’d delivered on her end of the bargain. As he’d assumed of a local, she knew her way around Avalon well and was able to give him a rough idea of the city’s layout; more importantly, she knew where an elf like Edhalan might find some mild distraction.
From outside, the Bald Dwarf was a nondescript place. Housed in a hulking, windowless warehouse, it was identical to every other building he’d passed in the stinking dockside district of Little Wharf. The only way to pick it out from the rest was the faint mark of a clenched fist on a sea-facing wall, done in such a way that passersby might mistake it for a natural warp in the warehouse’s sun-bleached exterior.
It had taken him a while to find the place, walking on foot all the way down from Castle Hill to Avalon’s poorer yet bustling lower wards. He’d been determined to find it, though. He needed release.
If Lily had been telling him the truth, all he’d have to do to gain entrance was knock three times on the back door and offer the bouncer some money.
He found the door quickly enough, framed by two crates full of rotting fish. Feeling ridiculously out of place, he pulled his hood down low over his face and knocked.
A burly human with more chest hair than a troll and one milky eye opened the door, glaring down at Edhalan. From the ropey scars on his face and tree-trunk arms, Edhalan could tell the bouncer was a man not to be triffled with.
“You got business with Serene Siren Fishing Co.?” the human asked, his voice like gravel.
Edhalan remembered this part from Lily’s instructions. He was supposed to hand over five bronze pieces and say-
“I’m here for the high tide special.”
The man squinted at Edhalan, measuring him silently for a breath. He was getting ready to argue his case when the man shrugged, palming Edhalan’s bronze pieces and waving Edhalan inside.
“Come through, then. The, uh, goods are in the back.”
Edhaland stepped inside, following the hulking form of the man through a dimly lit corridor.
“Keep on me. It’d be a nightmare if’n you got lost in the stacks.”
He did as the man said, trailing closely after him. It was the first time Edhalan had seen an establishment like the Bald Dwarf, and he peered around curiously as they made their way through a maze of passageways and storage rooms. Finally, they emerged in a large room at the heart of the building.
The first thing he noticed was the noise. Then, the smell. It was absolutely packed full of humans.
There were no such things as fighting pits back in Endrillond. Outside of sparring and actual battle, violence amongst elves was frowned upon. The ways of the warrior were hallowed and those who took up weapons in defense of their homeland were considered likewise. To turn combat into some common sport for the cheap entertainment of men? Disgraceful to the extreme. His sire would be scandalized if she ever found out he was going to one. Alvanue would probably find it hilarious.
Maybe that was why he had come.
The room was two stories tall, with a walkway that looked down on the main floor. Men hung over the railings, shaking their fists and cheering. Oily lamps lit the area with flickering light. Enterprising members of the audience had pushed a few crates together for a better view of the Bald Dwarf’s main attraction: a rough ring, where two shirtless humans were beating each other bloody with bare fists.
“Enjoy the high tide special,” the bouncer shouted to be heard over the jeering crowd and turned back the way they’d come. Edhalan caught him before he left. He pointed at the two men fighting.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
“How do I get up there?”
The bouncer looked him up and down and scoffed.
“Shove off. You wouldn’t last one minute in the ring, pretty boy.”
Edhalan colored, digging around in his coin purse for a silver piece. He held in up like a weapon.
“Look, human, I have money. Now, how do I get in the ring?”
The bouncer paused, good eye flicking between the coin in his hand and his face. Edhalan was afraid the man might turn him away for a moment, but the bouncer just huffed, shaking his head.
“Your funeral. This way, sir.”
The man jerked his head to the left, toward a gap in the crowd. They pushed through a mass of sweaty bodies until they found themselves in a bubble of calm.
A dwarf, old and balding, sat on a hideously ornate velvet chair ten times too big for his petit, suit-clad body. Bodyguards stood in a tight circle around him, keeping the raging sea of people from entering the space. They tensed at the sight of Edhalan but relaxed when they saw his companion, hands dropping from concealed daggers and wands. The noise dropped dramatically as they passed into the circle and Edhalan felt a shiver go down his spine. Mana.
Noise canceling ward?
“What’s this, then? What’ve you brought me today, Samgan?” the old dwarf said, smiling genially at the two of them.
“Fresh meat. This fine gentleman says he wants a go in the ring,” the bouncer, Samgan, gave him the side-eye. Edhalan decided he didn’t like his tone.
The dwarf hummed.
“While I do so love to see initiative in today’s youth, I’m sure you let this go-getting young sir know that that would be quite impossible.”
“He’s got the silvers for it,” Samgan grunted.
The dwarf’s eyes twinkled but his politely disinterested mask remained firmly in place.
“I’m sure he does, and I encourage the gentleman to bet those silvers to his heart's content at today’s festivities! However, I’m afraid the issue of adding his name to the docket is non-negotiable. We only allow vetted fighters compete in these things, you see, and I’m afraid I have the slightest clue as to who you are.”
The frustration and anger that had been building up in him since the fight with Adair, since the first time he’d learned about his sister, his dam, his grandsire, since before he could even remember, burst free. He threw back his hood, and stood tall over the aged dwarf, sneering.
“I am Edhalan of Silthonduen, sworn sword of Endrillond and proud son of House Yithis. Now you know who I am,” he said, eyes flashing. “I have come here to fight, dwarf. And I will fight.”
The dwarf’s mouth had opened in a little moue of surprise at the reveal, taking in Edhalan's unmistakably elven features, but he recovered quickly. His smiled widely, revealing cracked and yellowed teeth, and leaned forward in his chair.
“Well, Mr. Yithis. I believe we do have room to negotiate after all.”
***
“Place your bets, boys, come on, place your bets! Today’s highlight match, Edhellen the Moon Elf lordling against Gurgo the Barbarian! Only at the Bald Dwarf, folks, can’t get this kind of quality entertainment anywhere else!”
Edhalan rolled his eyes at the mispronunciation of his name and took the stairs up to the ring. On the opposite side from Edhalan stood his soon-to-be opponent with an anxious little man who was wiping his dripping forehead with a towel.
‘Gurgo’ was a monster of a man, at least a head taller than Edhalan himself and near twenty stone heavy with bulging muscle. He looked like he could take on a polar bear in hand-to-paw combat. Dark eyes peered back at Edhalan under a heavy brow, considering the elf as well, and that’s when he noticed the green tint to the man’s olive skin. Now that he knew what to look for, he could just make out the faint outline of stubby fangs distending Gurgo’s lower lip, the unnatural shape of his skull.
Orc, he thought with disgust. Or at least, he had orcish blood. Gurgo’s skin was too brown, his features too human for his orc forebearer to be a recent member of the family tree. Not an orc, nor a man, just a hideous mix of the two.
He’d held his tongue at the Hangman with Ula. He was not so far gone as to give offense when none was given in return. She’d seemed a decent enough sort despite her foul ancestry, and honorable in the rough way of savages.
This was different. His blood was already up from training earlier in the day and thinking back on old family tragedies. It didn’t help that orcs had allied with the goblin hordes during the invasion of Bjarmaland.
Allow me to pay back a fraction of what your miserable race has done to my family.
Edhalan was distracted from his brooding as a boy clambered up onto the ring, brandishing a gong.
“Alright, lads, you know the deal,” he shouted, high voice crackling with the onset of puberty. “We play a clean game here. That means no head shots, no crotch shots, and no magic.”
Gurgo nodded solemnly but Edhalan motioned for the boy to hurry up. The need to hit something was like an itch growing worse by the second.
“Winner's declared when a contestant is pinned for more than five seconds or is physically, mentally or spiritually unable to continue the match. Understood?”
“Understood,” rumbled Gurgo.
Silence followed, and all eyes turned to Edhalan who looked back sullenly. The boy shuffled awkwardly.
“Sir, we need a verbal confirmation that you understand the rules of-”
“Oh, alright. Understood. Are you happy? Can we get on with it?” Edhalan said irritably.
The boy gave him an indignant look and raised the gong.
“No need for all that, Mr. Elf, no need at all. Right, lads, if we’re all set then... Round one-” he struck the gong. “Start!”
The boy and Gurgo’s comrade scrabbled to get off the ring and then it was just the two of them. The audience, which had quieted down as they bookie made his rounds, went back to shouting and screaming. Urgo shook his arms out and hopped from foot to foot. Edhalan watched him, slipping into proper form.
He was less experienced in unarmed combat than Gurgo was to be, but he knew enough of the basics so as to not feel poorly matched. If anything, he pitied the man with orc-tainted blood. Edhalan had a few decades worth of practice on him, going off of the man’s apparent age.
By the time Gurgo was finished with his warm-up routine, Edhalan was starting to get impatient, and he did something he was taught to never do.
He made the first move.
It was out of character for him to be this impulsive but the riot of emotions and energy in him needed an outlet. Quick, sure steps ate up the space between them, and Edhalan jabbed at Gurgo’s ribs. He pulled back his fist at the last second before spinning into a kick, right foot aimed at the orc-man's chest.
Gurgo ignored Edhalan’s fist, seeing it for the feint it was, and twisted. He caught Edhalan’s foot before it could connect, meaty hands wrapping around the elf’s ankle and then he heaved. Edhalan didn’t hit the mat after losing his balance, though. Mute with surprise and reeling from sudden vertigo, he could only watch as Gurgo lifted him up into the air by his foot. He gave Edhalan an almost pitying look before tossing him across the ring. The crowd went dead silent, a thousand slack-jawed faces watching as Edhalan went soaring.
All he could think of as he watched the mat come closer and closer, seemingly in slow-motion, was what the hells had just happened.
How did that rotten tusker-
He slammed into the blood and sweat stained mat, face first and groaned. The crowd went wild. When he managed to push himself off the ground and back on his feet, they were chanting the barbarian’s name like a mantra.
“Gurgo, Gurgo, Gurgo, Gurgo!”
Blinking bleary and unfocused eyes, Edhalan swayed and looked back in Gurgo’s direction. The orc-man was making his way steadily across the ring towards Edhalan, face calm and focused.
Panic roiled in his stomach, but he shoved the feeling aside, old lessons reasserting themselves as he squared his shoulders and brought his fists up. He cursed himself mentally. He’d been too cocky; he should have hung back and observed Gurgo’s movements, studied the way he attacked. It’s what his sire would have done. He’d let himself get carried away in the heat of the moment and so he was the one on the back foot, struggling to catch up.
In an imitation of Edhalan’s opening attack, Gurgo made an obvious feint at the elf’s ribs. Edhalan went to intercept on instinct, still getting over the shock of being tossed like the bag of potatoes. He realized his mistake almost too late.
Almost.
Reeling, he leapt to the side in the nick of time. Gurgo’s ham-sized fist whistled past his cheek, just missing his face. The force of its passing gave off a gust of wind strong enough to ruffle Edhalan’s hair.
He felt cold sweat bead on his forehead. If that punch had landed, he would have been walking out of the Bald Dwarf with a broken jaw, no matter who ended up winning the match.
He spun away further, a little steadier on his feet, and scowled at the orc-man.
“I believe the referee said no head shots, you son of a thielesar!”
Gurgo shrugged his massive shoulders and scuffed his nose.
“Didn’t hit you in the head, now did I?”
The fact that he technically wasn’t wrong did nothing to cool Edhalan’s temper. A vein popped out on his forehead and he took a breath, forcing everything out of his mind so he could focus on the fight at hand.
Gurgo made a lazy pass at him which he easily shrugged off, sliding back several feet to put more distance between them. The crowd was still screaming Gurgo’s name.
Not too great for morale, he thought then shook his head. Nevermind that, now’s not the time. Come on Edhalan, think! I’m going at this like this is swordfight but it’s not. Who was that tutor from Mu? Abo something. Abo Tsai? Abo Qai? What did they say about Sien Thundering Fist style?
All he could remember of the ancient Muan woman was that she had a face so wrinkled Edhalan’s fellow trainees had started calling her ‘Prune’. That, and she was given to lecturing the Silthondyithis warriors on the nature of combat and other philosophical rantings more suited to the monastery at Moonwatch than Silthonduen’s training hall.
Gurgo pursued him around the ring, his heavy footsteps sending vibrations through the mat. Edhalan circled back again, trying to remain facing the behemoth. Men crowding around the edge of the ring tried to push him toward Gurgo, egging him on. He resisted. They jeered and taunted but Edhalan refused to act as foolishly as he had at the start of the fight.
While he was distracted with trying to free himself from their grasping hands, Gurgo acted. He moved again with that surprising speed, bulllrushing Edhalan. The elf ripped himself free from a drunk human gibbering in a foreign tongue and tumbled out of the way. Gurgo put a fist through the air where his head had been fractions of a second before. He came up, swearing, and glared back at the people who’d nearly made him take that hit.
I’ll remember your faces, vermin.
Suddenly, another memory came to mind. Something that might help.
His sire laughed after he finished recounting his latest lesson with the Muan tutor. He’d gone looking for her after they were let out of the training hall and found her in the armory, going over inventory with a servant.
“Mistress Abo is wise for a child of the mortal races, Edhalan. You would do well to heed her words, even if they are somewhat...vague.”
‘Vague’ was an understatement.
“Somewhat?” he asked in mock outrage. “Half the time, I have no idea what Pru- that damned human’s talking about! It’s all ‘the blade is the soul of the warrior’ and ‘A river may conquer a mountain’! It’s all troll crap!”
The servant, whose name he forgot, bit her lip and shared an amused glance with his sire.
“I’ll take my leave, Captain. I can see you have your hands full as it is.”
His sire nodded her thanks and walked over to a rack of bows.
“Well, let’s see if we can make sense of her teachings. Take that last phrase, was there anything more to it?”
Edhalan scrunched his brow in concentration and nodded. There had been, in fact.
“Yeah. She said, ‘stone is mightier than water, yet a river may conquer a mountain in time’.”
His sire nodded, noting something down in her notebook.
“There is much wisdom in this maxim.”
Edhalan blanched. It sounded like complete nonesense to him. His sire, turning toward him, saw the look on his face and chuckled.
“Think of it this way, Edhalan,” she said. “We are the river and the world is the mountain. Our peoples are few and far between, but our lives are long. In the face of a mountain, a river will part. Over the course of centuries, however, even stone gives way to water and so mountains turn to valleys. Perhaps it is because you are still so young, but you will understand in time. Patience and persistence wins out over strength in the end.”
And like that, Edhalan had a plan. He couldn’t hope to match the orc-man's strength so he’d just have to be faster than him, and hope that he could wear him down over time.
Bait him into wasting his energy. Wait until he’s too tired to continue.
He was still a bit dizzy from his unfortunate flight across the ring, but his mind was growing clearer every second. Taking a calculated risk, he dropped low, darting between Gurgo’s tree trunk legs. Expecting Edhalan to attack him from the back, Gurgo tried to catch him with his elbow. Edhalan slapped his arm away and hit the back of his knee with a sharp kick. The leg buckled, sending Gurgo down on his other knee. Edhalan was already slipping away as the orc-man reached out to pull him into a tackle.
Gurgo heaved himself up and whipped around to face him. That last move must have pissed him off, because Edhalan had to dodge out of the way as Gurgo sprinted full speed at him.
The elf twirled and spun around Gurgo’s attempts to land a hit. He played it safe, only taking opportunities as they arose, forcing Gurgo to be the active partner. The plan was working. He could tell that the orc-man was getting more and more frustrated as time went on.
It might have been good for Edhalan, but wasn’t what the audience wanted to see. They’d come to see a fight, not a dance. They started booing Edhalan, calling for Gurgo to pound him into the mat.
What an image, he thought.
In the end, it was the mat that did him in.
While Edhalan hadn’t been doing well, he’d at least managed not to go down in the first round. Sometime in the second, trying to tag Gurgo as he made a run past him, the toe of his boot caught on the floor. A jagged piece of wood had poked a hole large enough in the mat to trip him up and fell to the ground. He rolled over, trying to get up before Gurgo could capitalize on his disadvantage only to see the orc-man looming over him. He tried to wriggle away but the orc-man still got a firm grip on him.
Gurgo hoisted him up into the air once more and held him up for the audience to see. They shrieked like demons.
“Toss him, toss him, toss him, toss him!”
“Oh, shit,” Edhalan said.
He did not remember being thrown the second time.
***
Edhalan awoke to pain.
He bolted upright on a narrow cot in some dank backroom. The tiny space was crammed full of wooden kegs and racks of unlabeled boxes, but otherwise he was alone. The rumble of distant voices came under the door but they were too far away for him to be able to hear what they were saying.
Every part of him hurt.
Cautiously touching his nose, he winced. Someone must have tried to set it while he was unconscious because there was a stiff plaster inplace over it. Still, that didn’t stop the jolt of pain he felt when it was jostled.
Definitely broken.
The tenderness he felt when he breathed hinted at the probability of several bruised, if not cracked, ribs. He could taste blood in his mouth from a split lip.
Well. Guess I lost that one, he thought and lay back down, putting an arm over his eyes. Even the weak light of the afternoon sun coming through the dingy window over his bed was enough to make his head throb.
He must have drifted off at one point, because the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes to an olive-skinned man leaning over him. He flinched before relaxing. Some spiteful part of him wanted Edhalan to punch Gurgo in the nose or spit in his face, do something to make him hurt like he was hurting, but he did none of those things. That need to lash out was gone. The all-consuming urge to hit something, make something bleed, was replaced by a peaceful sort of emptiness.
“You look like shit, mate,” Gurgo grunted.
“As if you look any better, you, you-” Edhalan began, slipping back into the role he played around strangers out of habit, but stopped. He found he just didn’t have the energy to keep it up. He sighed tiredly. “Yeah, well, I feel like shit too.”
Gurgo laughed, a deep rumbling sound.
“Took a bit of a tumble, didn’t ya? Sorry ‘bout the nose. Didn’t mean to be so rough during that last bit.”
Edhalan touched his nose again.
Yep. Still broken.
“Don’t worry yourself about it. I’ll get a healing potion when I get back to the emb- to where I’m staying. It won’t be broken for long.”
“Shoulda known an elf would have some fancy healing potions at the ready.”
Edhalan looked sharply at Gurgo, but couldn’t detect any malice in him. He relaxed, eyeing the orc-man curiously.
“Why are you here, Gurgo?”
Gurgo grinned.
“You think Gurgo’s me name? It’s a, whatcha call it, nom de guerre or whatever the Reynish say. Nah, me real name’s Bram, Bram of Gurgiston. ‘At’s where ‘Gurgo’ comes from. I’m not even a real barbarian, if’n you can believe it. I just do this as a side gig, when the bakery doesn’t need me.”
“A pleasure, Bram of Gurgiston,” Edhalan said drily. “But that still doesn’t answer my question: why are you here?”
Bram squatted down next to the cot, putting his back to the wall. Edhalan scooted up onto his elbows so they were eye-level with one another. Even bent as he was, Bram was still taller than most full-blood humans standing up.
“I came to shake your hand,” he said plainly. “Me dad always said you shake after a fight, especially when the other bloke’s as good as you.”
Edhalan felt an ember of that old anger flicker back to life.
“Do not mock me,” he said, voice hard. “You mopped the floor with me, and don’t pretend otherwise.”
Bram put up his hands in conciliation, his grin turned sheepish.
“Ay, that I did, can’t deny it. But I recon if we was going at it with swords and all? You’d’ve been the winner, ten times outta ten, and no doubt about it. You a fencer, right?”
“What?”
“A fencer. Your footwork gave you up. You looked like you were dancing around the ring half the fight.”
Edhalan blinked.
“I- no, not a fencer. I guess you could say I’m a duelist.”
“There a difference?”
“Plenty,” said Edhalan, lips quirking against his will.
Bram ducked his head, scratching it with one of his massive hands.
“You got the schooling, so I won’t argue. There’s, uh, there’s another reason I came to see ya. You’ve got the know-how and all ‘at, so I was wondering...could you teach me to fight?”
Edhalan gaped at him, flabbergasted.
“I don’t think I understand.”
“Simple, really. I’ll pay you and you teach me. Tips and tricks of the trade, stuff like ‘at.”
The words still weren’t quite making sense. Edhalan wondered if maybe he was suffering from a concussion on top of his other injuries.
“You...want me to train you? In swordplay? You just obliterated me in that last round. What do you think I have to teach you?”
Bram rushed to explain.
“I’m just a scrapper, ya see. Me dad taught me how to box with sacks of flour when I was a kid. I do alright against most blokes, ‘cause of me size, but if I want to make it big, I need to learn how to fight proper, like you.”
The man stared expectantly at the elf. Edhalan, however, was at a loss for words. How in Creation had he gone from being dealt public humiliation at the hands of a half-breed to the same half-breed propositioning him for a tutoring job.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that, I have other duties to-” he started to say, but paused.
What other duties did he really have? Alvanue would be at school all day everyday for the foreseeable future. All he’d have to occupy his time was lounging around the embassy, waiting for her to get back. Bram’s offer, however...Mistress Prune had another favorite saying.
‘A teacher may learn as much as their pupil’
Part of being a warrior was constant self-improvement. Bram might be unlearned with a weapon in hand, but Edhalan’s battered body was testament to his skill at brawling.
“So?” Bram asked.
The elf snapped out of it, staring at Bram’s intent face.
“I- you know what? Why the hells not.”
“’At’s the spirit!” Bram beamed. “What say you we shake on it?”
Edhalan stared at Bram’s extended hand for a heartbeat. Against his better judgement, he reached out in turn, his hand disappearing into Bram’s crushing grip. They shook.
It felting like the beginning of something.
***
“Geez, Ed, that’s so scary. I thought Castle Hill was a safe neighborhood. They must’ve been pretty tough to get the jump on you,” Alvanue said, linking her arm with his.
He winced a little. He hadn’t had time to swing by the embassy for a healing potion before Alvanue got out of class. She’d been shocked at the sight of him, so he made up a story to keep her from asking too many questions.
“Yeah, they came out of nowhere. I’m just glad you weren’t there for it.”
“What are you talking about, I coulda taken care of them with a single hex,” she puffed up.
Edhalan rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, and set fire to half the district while you were at it with the shitty mana manipulation of yours.”
“Hey!” she said, trying to look indignant but failing. “Kinda weird they didn’t take the money, though, don’t you think?”
He looked down at his belt. The coinpurse jingling there was heavier than it had been that morning, fat with Bram’s first payment.
“Must’ve been my peerless technique that scared them off.”
“Pshh. Yeah right. C'mon, some food and a hot bath will make you feel better.”
"Yeah. That sounds nice."
Edhalan smiled and despite the pain of Alvanue’s elbow digging into his sensetive ribs, he felt better than he had in a long time.