Chapter Four: Showdown in Narbshire

“And stay out, ye swine!” roared a voice from a tavern when suddenly a small body robed in tattered blue came flying out the door and down the wooden stairs.

“Fine!” retorted the little blue bundle as it pulled itself to its feet. The voice was shrill and high-pitched, but undoubtedly male. “I don’t wanna entertain riff-raff like your sort anyway.”

“Take your cheap tricks down to the Pale Pony! Oh, wait, they kicked you out of there too didn’t they, Lorrick?” laughed the man from the doorway.

“Oh go back inside and choke on a peanut shell you half-witted buffoon!” replied the little blue bundle of robes which now looked more like an extremely small man. He turned and looked at Damiar.

“What are you lookin at?” It turned out the little blue bundle was no man, but a gnome. Damiar in all of his travels across Azur’nth had only seen a few gnomes. They had all been in the Trade District at Effedeyo trying to peddle cooky inventions to passersby. This gnome was wearing blue robes trimmed with silver, the same garb that mages from the Sages Circle wore. Damiar had never encountered a gnome mage before.

He was a strange looking little fellow. He had bushes of thick, curly brown hair, enormous aqua colored eyes beneath furry, overgrown eyebrows and long lashes. He had a large, bulbous nose and pouting lips that any woman would envy. His face was smooth and clean shaven. His physique was nondescript, mostly because he was hidden beneath the robes. Only his pudgy hands emerged from the sleeves.

“I did not mean to stare, sir. We were just passing through and could not help but notice the…uh…commotion,” Damiar smiled respectfully. The gnome looked at him with a coy grin. His expression changed when he saw Typothanas.

“My, you’re a tall one! And thin too! Like a great walking tree,” he stepped closer to Typothanas who looked disgusted and offended at the little gnome, “you sure are dressed funny too. One would almost think…by the gods! You’re a sodding elf!”

“Please, keep yer voice down! We’re just passing through and we’d like to keep a low profile!” Damiar pleaded, but already a few people had begun to point and stare.

“Catfish whisker sticks! I’ve never seen an elf before! You even have pointy ears! Can I touch them? Please-please-please?” the little gnome begged.

What color that was once in Typothanas’s face drained as his facial expression contorted to a mix of horror and rage.

“No you may not touch my ears, gnome!” he reached up and felt his ears with a self conscious demeanor. He pulled his hood over his head to cover them up.

“My name isn’t gnome…sorry! How rude of me…my name is Lorrick Quagnign, son of Gnathaniel Quagnign: former archmage, now turned entertainer-slash-tailor-slash-singer-slash-I don’t know what else…slash…” he laughed and continually kept his eyes fixed on Typothanas’s ears.

“You were an archmage?” Damiar inquired skeptically.

“You bet his big elven ears I was! I was the best too…well almost the best…maybe not the best-best but I guess you could say I was near the best. I mean anyone who knows anything knows Norton’s the best mage left in the land, but that Regal Gallione is a fine mage too…a little too serious for my taste. Always in a bad mood…like he’s eating lemons for breakfast…”

“That sounds like a great tale, Lorrick, but you see, my elf friend and I are in somewhat of a hurry. We need to buy some horses and be on our way. Can you point us in the right direction?” Damiar asked.

“Sure! I don’t have any horses to sell you. I’m deathly afraid of the beasts. Not that I have much use for them, being my size and all,” he laughed and gave Damiar’s leg a playful slap, then turned his eyes to Typothanas again, “can you hear better than humans and gnomes?”

“What? How should I know? What kind of question is that?” Typothanas replied bitterly.

“It’s just, I would hope that with such big, pointy ears poking out either side of your head, you’d be able to hear a spot better than we could. Otherwise, what’s the point? Certainly their not for looks…haha! Get it: the point! ‘Cause his ears are pointy!”

“Can ye lead us to someone who can sell us a horse or not, Lorrick?” Damiar interrupted. He stole a glance at Typothanas. Color had returned to his face but only an angry scarlet. It looked as if steam would erupt from his ears at any moment.

“Right! Sorry. I get sidetracked every now and then. Some people say I talk too much but what do they know? Yeah, let’s go to the Pale Pony; it’s a tavern on the other end of town,” he kicked a clod of dirt at the door of the tavern they were standing before now, “better than this run-down shack...blimey-grime-ogre-slime! C’mon, I’ll show you the way! Lorrick knows!” and the gnome was off, skipping and prancing merrily as he motioned for them to follow.

Damiar reluctantly went after Lorrick and beckoned a cooled-down Typothanas to follow. Damiar could not help but to crack a smile.

“He is mad!” Typothanas said aloud.

“Surely…he’s funny though. ‘Blimey grime ogre slime?’ Who says that?” he laughed, still barely out of earshot of the little gnome. Typothanas finally smiled.

“I’m rather fond of ‘catfish-whisker-sticks,’” he admitted, “but he is terribly rude, making fun of my ears like that.”

“Expect to get a lot of attention around these parts, Typothanas, or anywhere ye go for that matter. Elf folk have not been seen in Azur’nth for generations. People are bound to point, stare and say things,” Damiar warned.

“Forgive me if I am incorrect, but we are trying to avoid attention?” Typothanas asked bitterly.

“Yeah but that’ll be nigh impossible,” Damiar replied reluctantly.

“Are my pointed ears the cause?”

“And yer height and the way ye’re dressed. Yer accent doesn’t help much either…best to let me do all the talking,” Damiar suggested.

“By all means…” Typothanas muttered as they continued following Lorrick. It had to be hard, Damiar thought, stepping out of his sheltered life in the forest to the world of men, wild and crazy as it sometimes could be.

“What did you say your names were?” Lorrick inquired, realizing, no doubt, he was leading total strangers around Narbshire.

“We did not say what our names were,” Typothanas snapped.

“I am Damiar MacPhearson and this is Typothanas Tremiralan,” Damiar needed to throw a little water on the fire growing between the elf and gnome.
“Wow! You even have a peculiar elven name! Typothanas, Damiar it is good to meet you. I would be most happy to be your travelling companion in the lovely town of Narbshire.”

Damiar looked at the town. It was so unique the way it was built. Every other house, every other establishment was on the river bank. It was not build wide, but long, and on both sides of the river. To describe it simply, it was shaped like a ‘j,’ following the river, bridges every few miles to cross from one side or the other. Everything was made out of wood; there were no brick or stone houses anywhere. The roofs all peaked, made of wooden shingles and pitch. It was a river town full of docks and fishermen. The air was hot, wet and sticky.

“Well, lets keep going, friends. ‘Tis still a ways before we get to the other side of town,” the gnome said. Lorrick continued to interrogate Typothanas, asking him every strange and personal question under the suns, but Damiar blocked it all out. His eyes and ears were alert to the unsavory characters throwing glares and stares their way. His hand reflexively rested on the hilt of his sword.

The walk proved to be about twenty minutes before they arrived at the Pale Pony. Damiar looked at it disapprovingly. It certainly did not look like the sort of place he wanted to go into. The noises of drunkards wrapped up in carousing and music, mingled with wickedness could be heard from outside.

“Here we are. Just ask Bomer, he’s the bartender. He knows everyone in this town. He’d be able to tell you right where you could go to find horses,” Lorrick pointed to the door. Damiar and Typothanas remained frozen, wondering if they should even bother going into a place like that. In Damiar’s experience, drunkards trying to give direction or sell something usually resulted in a fight.

“Frazzled-frog-phalanges! Come on! Don’t be shy!” Lorrick exclaimed, giving them both a shove, “everyone’s welcome here.”

Damiar stumbled into the door where a massive, muscular man and a stout, burly dwarf waited, blocking the way. The dwarf put his hand on Damiar’s chest and shoved him backwards. It was not hard enough to knock him over, but it did make him stumble.

“Sorry, lad! Yer gone haft ‘leave yer swords at the door; them’s the rules,” the red-bearded dwarf said sternly, his arms folded over his massive chest. Damiar looked down at Lorrick.

“It’s fine! Standard procedure. Bouldern will take good care of your weapons for you,” Lorrick assured. Damiar took another glance at the dwarf and saw that there would be no exceptions to the rules. Hopefully, it would be an in-and-out trip and they would not
have to leave their possessions for long.

Reluctantly, Damiar handed over his bow, quiver of arrows, his hand-and-a-half sword and also his sci’ar, a one-sided, one-handed, curved sword he carried as a back-up and sidearm. Typothanas followed suit and handed over his bow, arrows and rapiers.

“Yer boot knife too, lad,” the dwarf shoved Damiar back again, pointing at his boot. Aggravated at being pushed around, Damiar unstrapped the small belt holding the knife in place, giving the belt and all to the dwarf, who sneered at him with audacious satisfaction. Damiar reached into his pouch and found a silver coin. He flicked it up in the air so the dwarf would have to catch the coin and uncross his arms.

“For all ye trouble,” Damiar said sarcastically. He walked past the dwarf and into the tavern which was busy with waitresses trying to deliver food and drink to impatient customers. All the while they were trying to avoid being violated or sexually harassed by the horny, slightly intoxicated young men. Damiar looked around and spotted two stools open next to each other at the bar.

“C’mon,” he motioned for Typothanas to follow him, as they sat at the wooden chairs. The bartender, a middle-aged man with more hair on his face than face itself walked up to them with a greasy, brown towel that could have once been white. He wiped the countertop in front of them and grinned behind his wooly mustaches and beard.

“What’ll it be?” he asked heartily.

“I’ll have a half-pint of mead,” Damiar replied.

“Wine,” Typothanas said.

“By the gods! An elf! Well we don’t see your kind too often rounds these parts. First glass is on me,” he replied and turned to fetch their drinks.

“Thank you kindly,” Typothanas smiled.

The man was back with their drinks quickly enough. Damiar put a coin on the table that more paid for his drink, and Typothanas’s, and some information.

“Are you Bomer?” Damiar asked.

“Yessir I am,” Bomer eyed the golden coin but did not reach for it because Damiar kept it firmly pressed under his index finger.

“Thank ye kindly for the drinks. My friends and I are looking for horses to buy,” Damiar said softly.

“Sorry, mate. We don’t sell horses here. Booze, broads, and a good time,” he smiled beneath his overgrown beard.

“Surely ye know of someone with horses to sell us. I hear ye’re well known around here,” Damiar pressed.

“Well, old man Wiley Black lives about a quarter-mile upriver. He’s the horse breeder and stable master here in Narbshire. Ye can’t miss his place; he’s right near the smithy,” Bomer offered. Damiar slid the coin to him and smiled.

“Thanks, Bomer. We’ll finish our drinks and be off,” Damiar said.

“No problem, lad. Yaru’s blessings,” he said as he scooped up and pocketed the coin.

“That was easy enough,” Typothanas observed, “I find it unfortunate that you would have to pay for something as trivial as a question.”

“Ye’re right about that,” Damiar added, chugging what was left of his mead, “Ye ready?”

“Yes. This wine is terrible. It tastes like vinegar,” he said, as he slid the cup forward with a look of disgust, “Do we require the services of the gnome to find the man selling horses?” Typothanas asked, hoping the answer was no by the tone in his voice.

“No. We know he lives a quarter-mile upriver. If he breeds horses, his place shouldn’t be too hard to find. Plus, we know it’s next to a blacksmith,” Damiar was relieved to find an excuse to be free of the over-talkative gnome. Lorrick caught sight of them on the way out and ran promptly to their side.

“Hey! Did you get what you needed? Where are we going now?” he asked excitedly.

“We are going to buy horses,” Damiar said, as he made a gesture with his finger to himself and Typothanas as he said the word ‘we,’ “thank you for your services, but they are no longer needed.”

“But…!” the gnome said in protest.

“We’ll be seeing you, Lorrick,” Damiar interjected, as he cut him off. Typothanas was retrieving their belongings from Bouldern.

“I just thought I could…” he started again.

“Sorry, mate. We’ve got it from here; we don’t need your help anymore,” Damiar said firmly. The gnome was clearly hurt. He hung his head and walked back to the table. Damiar felt a sting of sympathy and guilt and thought about letting the little gnome come with them at least to buy the horses. The thought passed as quickly as it had come on.

“Are you ready?” Typothanas asked Damiar as he strapped his sword on. He patted himself, making sure he had all the items he had handed over.

“It’s all there, lad,” Bouldern sneered.

“Never hurts to make sure,” Damiar muttered in a voice just loud enough for Bouldern to hear. Reaching into his money pouch, he snagged a random coin and tipped the dwarf bouncer with it. It was gold, more money than Damiar intended to give him and certainly more than the pushy, belligerent dwarf deserved.

Soon enough Typothanas and Damiar were on their way again, one step closer to being out of this ‘welcoming’ town. They had only been walking for five minutes or so when Bouldern stepped out of an alley and blocked their way.

“Hiya, lad,” he snickered. The massive man and a few others stood blocking the way. They were armed with clubs and knives, Bouldern, with a heavy wooden war mallet studded with steel fittings. Damiar realized instantly that they were about to be mugged and reached for his sword.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were ye, lad. We can do this the easy way…or the real easy way,” Bouldern patted his mallet with violent glee. The gleam in his eye told Damiar he was itching for a fight. There was a sound like the crunching of rock under foot directly behind them. In a single, fluid motion, Damiar unsheathed his sword, spun on his heels slashed through the air, his blade missing a man’s throat by mere millimeters. He heard the sound of Typothanas nocking an arrow in his bow and holding it taut, ready to strike. Bouldern had turned the corner with four companions and Damiar faced three others; they were outnumbered.

“So it’s gonna be the real easy way, eh lads?” Bouldern taunted, “get em!”

Damiar heard Typothanas’s arrow release as he parried the blow from an attacker. He reached for his sci’ar on his belt with his left hand and slashed wildly and wide to hold his opponents at bay. They advanced and as he backed up he ran into a tall slender body that he was sure was Typothanas. They were back to back and surrounded, it did not look good. With a roar, Damiar rushed his enemies head-on, a familiar voice in his head.

No reserve…no retreat…no regret…

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Lorrick scrambled over to the bar and climbed up the tall stool. He rested his elbow on the counter and his chin on his hand. He felt his lips pout forward as he frowned.

“What’s the matter, Lorrick? You’re not lookin yer usual chipper self,” Bomer asked, wiping a mug out with his ever-browning dish towel.

“Ah nothing…just chased my new friends away,” he drummed his finger on the bar table.

“That man and elf were yer friends?” Bomer narrowed his gaze at Lorrick with suspicion.

“Well, I just met them today but I thought we hit it off pretty good…guess I was wrong…” he whined.

“Ye could always drink ye troubles away, Lorrick, my friend,” Bomer offered, tapping a bottle of whiskey on the bar.

“Nah. I’m a mess when I drink; you know that better than most. I think I’ll get back to the streets and work again. There are, after all, so many ladies who want to see the magnificent Lorrick turn a bundle of sticks into roses!”

“That tired old trick? Lorrick, mate, ye need some new material.”

“Trick!” Lorrick burst objectively, “that is the problem with this town…with this whole day and age, no one willing to believe in anything beyond what they see with their own two eyes…or one if you’re a Cyclops…eight if you’re a spider…anyway!” Lorrick swiveled in his bar stool and shot a glance back towards the door. Typothanas and Damiar were just walking out of the swinging doors of the entrance of the Pale Pony. He groaned and continued to spin in circles at the bar, pretending he was on a carousel on the fair grounds of Mercanaza.

He continued to spin as a familiar buzz entered his ear. It was familiar, yet a sound he had not heard since he was living in the Eterna Mountains. It was Dwarvish being spoken in a loud booming voice coming from the front door. Bouldern was making commands at his posse.

Lorrick understood Dwarvish just fine, having grown up around dwarves his entire life. Gnomes and dwarves often lived together, especially those in Azur’nth. Typically, gnomes and dwarves lived in the mountains. Dwarves loved to mine ore and stone, burrowing deep in the earth, and gnomes loved to tinker and invent gadgets from the materials the dwarves mined. It was more of an understanding than a friendship. To date, as far as history recorded, gnomes and dwarves had never had a war with each other. They were brethren, both born of the earth.

Though he understood the language, he could not make out the words with all the wonderful bar noises circulating through the air. Bouldern only spoke Dwarvish when he wanted to keep things secret, and his secrets usually resulted in thievery and murder. It was well-known that he was a bloodthirsty, violent dwarf; most folks in Narbshire were afraid of him. Lorrick was not afraid simply because he knew that Bouldern was superstitious and would not hurt him because that would break the honorable peace pact that had existed between gnomes and dwarves.

Still, Lorrick could not, for the life of him, tame his insatiable curiosity and need to be involved. He just had to know what Bouldern was saying. He would never be able to get close enough to hear without looking suspicious. It was time to work a little magic. He smiled gleefully. He had not worked real magic in quite some time.

He reached into a small, hidden pouch and felt around for a reagent for his spell: some raw cotton. He began to finger and fiddle with the cotton as he muttered the words for his spell.

“Muffil a meya,” he muttered as he placed the cotton near his ears. Instantly, the noise in the room sounded distant and cloudy. That solved the problem of the noise, now to amplify the noise coming from the front of the bar. He grabbed a glass of whiskey from the man sitting to his left. His back was conveniently turned as he was flirting with the pretty, busty barmaid, so he did not notice Lorrick swiping his drink. There was only a swallow left so Lorrick chugged the aged liquor and stifled a cough as the whiskey burned his throat.

He turned the glass over and flicked the bottom of the glass twice. The glass resounded with a crystalline ting. With the vibration still in the air, Lorrick accessed the magic swimming through his spirit and murmured another set of magic words, charming the glass.

“Amplifi sata a so,” he said as he pressed his ear to his new listening device. He pointed the open end of the glass in Bouldern’s direction and listened intently to the conversation. The sound was crystal clear.

“Didn’t ye see it?” he asked, with bloodthirsty excitement in his voice, “he tipped with silver on the way in, tipped the bartender for the drinks, and tipped me with gold on the way out. Lorrick said they were looking to buy horses. They got money and money to spare.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked a man Lorrick did not recognize. His Dwarvish was rough but understandable.

“Round up the boys. Ye know what to do,” Bouldern chuckled. Lorrick watched as he reached for his heavy war mallet and as his men filed out the door before him. He whistled and three men got up from their table to join in the scheme.

“Hey, Bomer! I’m goin on me break!” Bouldern shouted in Common. Lorrick shot a look at Bomer who nodded Bouldern on. Lorrick felt his stomach lurch with queasiness. Bouldern was going to rob, and likely murder Typothanas and Damiar.

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Lorrick leapt from his stool and bolted for the door. He stopped and snapped twice, “Dispel a todas,” he said, releasing the spell on his ears and the charm on the glass. He continued his stride towards the door.

“Bouldern! Wait!” he yelled in Dwarvish. Bouldern turned and faced him, a look of irritation on his face.

“Can I help you, wee one?” he inquired sarcastically.

“I know what you’re doing and I won’t let you!” Lorrick crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his nose up to Bouldern.

“Mind yer business, Lorrick. This doesn’t concern ye,” Bouldern snapped.

“Aye, it does, Bouldern! You’re gonna rob and murder my friends!” Lorrick said accusingly.

“Yer friends? Ye don’t even know em!” Bouldern countered.

“Nevertheless, they don’t deserve this. They are just passin through!” Lorrick argued.

“I’m only gonna take their money. I’ve no intention to kill them…if they cooperate,” he sneered. Lorrick huffed his way around the burly dwarf and started towards the door.

“Where d’ya think yer goin?” Bouldern demanded.

“To warn them, of course!” Lorrick snapped. Suddenly, two powerful arms snatched him up and threw him into a closet, all the way to the back. Lorrick fought his way to the front and tried for the doorknob. He heard a lock latch from the other side of the door; Bouldern had locked him in.

“Hey! Let me out! Hey! Groveling-goblin-goo!” Lorrick cursed. He was locked in and since the band had started playing music and the dancing had begun, no one would hear him pounding on the door or shouting at the top of his lungs. He would have to improvise with magic again.

He plunged his hand into his pouch and pulled out a tiny vial filled with little black granules. He reached for a piece of cardstock paper and folded it in half. Using the paper as a sliding funnel, he dropped about half of the powder into the keyhole. He pocketed the vial and the cardstock. Now all he needed was a fire reagent. He pulled out a powdery, crumbling, yellow sulfur rock and twiddled it in his fingers.

“Incindiaria,” he spoke as a fire came alive between his fingers. The small, smelly fireball crackled and smoked as it floated near his hand. He pointed his finger at the lock and mentally ordered the ball to fly towards the keyhole. It wisped its way to the lock and there was a loud bang and flash of light. All that was left of the doorknob and lock was marred, twisted, black metal.

Lorrick pushed the door open and looked around the tavern to see that Bouldern was gone. Lorrick had only been locked in the closet a few minutes, but that was still a head start for Bouldern. He ran out the door and started running, fast as he could manage without tripping over his robes. Having short legs did not make for fast travel. As he ran, he reached into his pouch and pulled out another tiny, glass vial, this one filled with quicksilver. He shook the vial up and down, muttering another spell.

“Expediente,” suddenly his legs moved so fast they were little more than a blur. He pocketed the vial of quicksilver; it probably had two or three uses left in it.

He turned the corner and stopped dead on his tracks, stumbling head-over-heels, not used to the momentum of the haste spell. He picked himself up just in time to see Bouldern, who had an arrow sticking out of his left biceps, raise his war hammer over his head. He was about to bring the mallet down on Damiar, who was lying on his back, unarmed.

Lorrick snagged a rock from the road, clutched it in one hand and stretched his other towards Damiar.

“Barrios!” he yelled just as the mallet came down. It stopped a mere six inches from Damiar’s face. Bouldern recoiled as if he had hit a brick wall with his hammer. The rock in Lorrick’s hand crumbled into dust. Without another thought, he sprinkled the dust in the air before Bouldern and the three men standing next to him.

“Dormir sata a san!” he whispered as the three men groggily stumbled to the ground and fell asleep. Bouldern did not fall. He simply wiped his eyes and shook his head as if clearing some dizziness.

“You’ll need more than a sodding sleep spell to do me in, Lorrick!” the burly dwarf sprinted towards Lorrick and got ready to kick him. Instinctively, Lorrick tried to get out of the way. This allowed him to avoid the studded end of Bouldern’s steel-toed boot, but he still hit him with his shin. The dwarf’s powerful kick vaulted Lorrick high into the air, flipping and spiraling out of control.

His body crashed into rough shingles as he began to roll forward. He used his hands to brace his movement and came to a stop. He could not help but to laugh out loud as he looked down at the road below him. Bouldern had kicked him onto a roof! A roof across the street at that!

“What are the odds?” Lorrick counted to five mentally, allowing himself five seconds to lose himself in amusement and bewilderment. Then, it was time to get back in the fight.

I can’t believe I tried to use a sleep spell on him!
He should have known better. Dwarves, as a race, were naturally resistant to remedial magic, like sleep spells.

He looked down and saw that Damiar was on his feet again with sword in hand. He was bleeding and bruised, as was Typothanas, whose quiver was empty. He was wielding two rapiers that looked sharp enough to skewer a man alive.

There were still a few men left standing to face them, but it was not them that worried Lorrick, it was Bouldern. The men that Bouldern ran with were dangerous enough, but he was in a league all his own. He was one of the few dwarven war heroes alive and still living in Azur’nth from the Sage War. He had killed his fair share of men and elves and was no pushover; he would not hesitate to kill again.

Lorrick reached into his pouch and pulled out a mottled bird feather. He held it in his palm and blew the feather into the air.

“Leviosando,” he said activating yet another spell. He felt his magic begin to wane. It had been quite a long time since he had last performed so many spells in such a short amount of time. At least they were all simple spells requiring minimal energy. He still had a few in him. He to remind himself that he was once an archmage.

But that was a long time ago, Lorrick grimaced. Bouldern had not stopped fighting since the end of the war. Either way, Typothanas and Damiar could not fight him and three men by themselves! Lorrick would even the odds a bit. He leapt off the roof, floating to the ground.

“Bouldern! The jig is up! Leave them alone and go back to the bar before someone gets hurt!” Lorrick warned, staring up at the angry dwarf. He conjured an electric attack spell to his hands and held it ready to strike.

“Only persons in danger of getting hurt is you, Lorrick! You and your new friends yer so willin to risk yer neck for! Get outta my way! You two! Just hand over yer money and I’ll be on.”

“Can’t do that, mate! We need this money for horses,” Damiar replied keeping his sword poised to strike. One of the men lashed out with his club. Damiar deflected the blow and brought his fist into the man’s gut. The man doubled over and Damiar, in a whirl, spun and kicked the man in the head. He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, quite evidently unconscious. The other two men rushed Damiar, and Bouldern seized the opportunity to attack him from behind. Lorrick unleashed his electric spell but it flew past Bouldern and hit a wooden porch banister, exploding it into splinters. Typothanas engaged both men in an epic two-on-one sword duel. The clang of steel against steel echoed through the streets.

Damiar turned to face Bouldern, assaulting him with his own series of sword blows. Bouldern skillfully parried each attack with his hammer.

It was not long before Typothanas had disarmed and immobilized both men. One of them was missing a hand. Damiar, with a forceful kick, sent Bouldern tumbling backwards.

Lorrick stepped forward to Damiar’s left, Typothanas to his right. The three of them stood facing Bouldern, daring him to try to fight all three of them at once.

“It’s over. Yield, and go home,” Damiar said lowering his blade from alongside Bouldern’s neck. The dwarf laughed and picked himself off of the ground, wiping a spot of blood from his lip and spitting a mouthful on the dirt before them.

“I guess it’s yer lucky day today, lads. I underestimated ya. Let me just say, if I ever catch any of the three of you in my town again, it won’t be pretty,” he turned and helped his injured, beaten men to their feet.
“Don’t worry, dwarf. You won’t be seeing us here again if we can help it,” Damiar assured.

“I mean you too, Lorrick! I want you out of my town! I catch you anywhere near Narbshire, if I even hear about you here, I’ll find you and bust you with my hammer!” he growled ferociously. Lorrick knew better than to talk back to an angry dwarf, especially one was dangerous as Bouldern, so he kept quiet.

There was no way that he could stay in Narbshire now. Bouldern meant what he had said and he did have a large gang of followers that might as well have been the law in Narbshire.

As if nothing had happened, without even acknowledging his existence, let alone thanking him, Typothanas and Damiar continued upriver to buy their horses and skip town. Lorrick scampered behind them.

“Excuse me! Don’t I at least get ‘a thank you for showing up in the nick of time and saving my life?’” he asked. Finally, Damiar looked down at him, but he kept walking, stepping over the unconscious man he had kicked earlier.

“Ye really were an archmage,” Damiar shook his head in disbelief. Lorrick felt his face get hot and redden with anger.

“Did you think I was lying? Ugh! Of course you did. I don’t know why it’s so hard to believe. I practically have to conjure lightning in order to make believers out of people.”

“I am sorry that I didn’t believe ye, mate. You just don’t meet too many legitimate mages around anymore. Thank ye, by the way! We would have been goners if not for ye showing up when you did.”

“Speak for yourself. I required no assistance,” Typothanas muttered arrogantly, as he wiped some blood from his nose.

“Well, well mister superiority complex, don’t show any gratitude, whatever ye do!” Lorrick snapped sarcastically. Typothanas scowled and rolled his eyes.

“You’re welcome, both of you. Now as repayment for all my trouble, I have decided to let you take me with you,” Lorrick announced jovially.

“What? Where?” Damiar demanded.

“Wherever the two of you are going,” Lorrick flashed a grin.

“We have two different destinations,” Typothanas objected.

“He’s right. I’m only going as far as Wehtag, Typothanas is going on to Effedeyo…anyway, it matters not where we’re goin, Lorrick. Ye can’t come,” Damiar tried his hardest to sound resolute but it was not nearly enough to stop Lorrick this time.

“Nice try! I saved your life. Bouldern was gonna crush your face with a hammer. Because I helped you it is now too dangerous for me to stay here. Thanks to you, this is the third town I’ve been thrown out of! You owe me, and I demand to be taken with you!” Lorrick stomped his foot and raised his voice as he spoke.

Typothanas threw a disdainful glance and then gave Damiar a look that said the decision would be left to him.

“Fine, you can come with us,” Damiar surrendered.

Unable to contain his glee, Lorrick ran over and embraced Damiar’s leg.

“Oh thank-you-thank-you-thank-you! You won’t regret this, I promise.”

“You do realize we will not have a horse for you right?” Typothanas asked. Lorrick smiled.

“I know that! I don’t expect you guys to get me a horse too.”

“Then how, little gnome, do you plan on keeping up with us?” Typothanas asked. It was clear that he was hoping to change Lorrick’s mind.

“I’ll ride with you, silly!”

Typothanas looked utterly mortified, but then his expression changed to one of relief.

“I do not require a horse, so you will be riding with Damiar,” Typothanas replied.

“How in the name of the gods do ye plan on keepin up with us with no horse?” Damiar demanded.

“I will show you when wear are ready to travel,” Typothanas promised.

“This is gonna be so much fun!” Lorrick clapped his hands together excitedly.

“Remind me, when the opportunity presents itself, to die in a fire,” Typothanas said to Damiar, who began to laugh. They trotted on to buy horses.

“Why ever would you want to die in a fire? That sounds horrible!” Lorrick asked, completely confused.

“This is going to be a long trip…”