Chapter One
A Fateful Introduction at the Wolf's Den...
Kenzo Otso was having no luck. He scratched his balding head as he glanced about the seedy bar properly entitled “The Wolf’s Den.” Surely, someone here must be desperate enough to accept his proposal. Maybe the barrel-chested bartender. Or the one-armed dwarf chugging pints of ale. Or even the mandolin-player picking strings in front of the fire place. No one else in the trading town of Crossing Winds seemed helpful.
Meanwhile, Keith Goodfellow rolled his eyes. “Sir Furivel,” he sighed to the immaculate elf sitting next to him, “I have sworn to your father to keep you protected, but I did not promise to follow you to certain doom. This bar… it’s much too true to its name. I don’t think Feridun would appreciate you being here.”
The elf scoffed. “Keith,” he spoke in Elven, “if you do not think you can take on a pack of dirty humans and a one-armed dwarf, then maybe you’re not fit to be my bodyguard?” Arudan Furivel gave the residents of the bar one single glance. “And anyway, there is one elf.”
Keith followed Arudan’s gaze to the black-cloaked man sitting in the shadows of the corner. “Sir Furivel, you can’t even tell if that’s an elf or not. His head is covered by his hood.”
“Us Elves know these things, Keith. Anyway, he’s much too refined to be a simple human.”
Keith rolled his eyes once again and turned to the bard strumming a mandolin. He let his imagination ride the currents of the music, until he was brought back to that night, long ago, the night of rain and fire. The night that his platoon was sent after the half-orc battalion of mages. The night he lost his entire-
The mandolin-player strummed faster.
The night that he met Feridun Furivel, the elven noble, and his son Arudan. Keith’s life had been saved, but at what cost? He was now trapped as the bodyguard- no, the chauffer of this elitist elf snob. The music reached a crescendo. Ears in the audience picked up the fast-paced concerto.
Keith could just leave Arudan here in this grime-ridden bar, surrounded by thugs who wouldn’t give a second thought about slitting the elf’s pale throat. The mandolin-player began the climax of the song, fingers dancing amongst the strings like so many pale sword-fighters.
In fact, Keith should just- no, no, it wasn’t the honorable thing to do. Keith Goodfellow was good to his word, and his name. The bard finished his score, and received a roaring ovation. Keith joined in on the applause.
As Keith returned to his deep ponderings, the bard wandered over to the bar to find a fresh drink waiting. “That,” bellowed the bartender, “was an amazing performance. What’s your name, son?”
“The name’s Bryant.”
“Well Bryant, feel free to come back any time. I think you even attracted a few new customers to this dump!” The bartender waved with a broad hand to the armor-clad man sitting next to the smooth-skinned elf, the old gentlemen decked in oriental clothing, and the black-clad fellow cloaked in shadows. “That last feller, he came in with a flock of crows. Darndest thing I’ve ever seen. The crows are silent, just like their master, and are perched up on the rafters. But, hey, as long as they don’t do their business on my business, I’m fine with anything.” Bryant and the bartender shared a chuckle. “Truly though, it’s the dwarf that I’m worried about. I don’t think he likes that armored feller staring at him.”
Keith didn’t realize he was staring at the dwarf until he was face to face with three solid feet of one-armed drunken rage. “YOU STARIN’ AT ME, BOY?” the dwarf let out a belch that shook the tavern. “WE DWARVES DON’ LIKE TA BE STARED AT, BOY!” Spittle splattered as the dwarf waved his stub-of-an-arm in Keith’s general direction.
Keith took a deep breath (not to be advised around belching dwarves), and confidently placed a hand on the dwarf’s armored shoulder, and stared deep into the pair of glazed brown eyes before him. “My friend, you’re drunk, and should definitely go home.”
The tavern went silent.
The dwarf stared back into a pair of bright, calm blue eyes. He stared for a long time.
“…yes, sir…”
Head lowered in shame, the dwarf stumbled out the door.
Kenzo Otso knew he had his man.
Kenzo approached Keith with a proposal. “I have been sent by a village to the east, which is being attacked by a ruthless gang of half-orc bandits. The odds of our survival is low, and the pay is minimal. There is absolutely no reason you should come with me, other than to protect the innocents of the village. Do you accept?”
If Keith hesitated, it did not show. “Of course.”
“Excellent. The villagers say that there have been twenty bandits in the past. We shall need at least three more skilled warriors to defend the town.”
“I can wield weaponry better than any human you may hire,” Arudan boasted.
Keith translated for Kenzo, then added, “Eh, what he means to say is-”
“- No, I said exactly what I meant to say, as I always do! Are there any other elves here whom shall follow me into battle? Victory and honor shall be brought to your names.”
The black-clad elf finally stood. “I am Uel. I shall join you.” After a chorus of caws from above, he added, “My brothers wish to battle, too. We once were scarred deeply by such bandits that you seek.”
Bryant put down his empty glass and announced in elven, “I am skilled in combat,” for effect, he added a strum of his mandolin, “and music, and magic. I, too, will join you.”
“Very well then,” Kenzo spoke as if regretting every word, “we shall march to the village tonight. It will be a two day travel. The bandits attack in seven nights.”
There was a share of nods, and then with a flap of wings, a click of boots, and a single note, the five were gone.
