Reunion

By Rodger Carr

Book One of the Reunion Trilogy.

The members of Wefpub, a group of adventurers, meet for their annual reunion, but one of them comes with problems, sending them on a quest that will take them from the depths of the Underdark to the heights of Carrona's tallest mountain. It seems that their days of adventuring together aren't over, as they seek out their fates together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rodger Carr
• Release date: Mar 11, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458077851

Rodger Carr

Rodger has BA degrees in English/Writing Arts and Philosophy from SUNY Oswego and a MST in Primary Education from SUNY Potsdam. He is a substitute teacher in three area school districts. He has been writing all his life, and getting e-published is a dream come true. He is currently working on Rebirth, the third book in the epic Reunion Trilogy on his own fantasy world of Carrona. He lives in Watertown, NY with his fiance, Jeannette Baughman and their three cats: Muffy, Shadow, and Sassy.

Book preview

Prologue

Home Fires Burning

Gerrod made his way up to the small cabin, drifted snow up to his thighs. Snow weighed down his already heavy fur leggings; but with a bag full of small game to last a month, his hunt had been a success. Frost dripped from his thick, gray beard and mustache. His tanned and weather cracked face chilled in the cold winter air. The sky above was a brilliant blue, but his many years of experience told him to expect the worst. He could tell by the encroaching clouds to the east that winter's fury was on its way. He was all too glad to reach the rough-hewn cabin he called home.

The cabin, mostly hidden under the thick blanket of snow, huddled under the towering heights of a grove of ancient evergreens. Their low limbs bowed under the weight of the recent snowfall. The cabin was old, and the solid timbers aged a dark gray. A plume of smoke swirling out of the fieldstone chimney told of the warmth that awaited him there. He breathed deep the cold, crisp air, filling his lungs with the fresh scent. There was nothing like the smell of home fires burning.

His numb hands clutched at the handle of the door. With one last, deep, chest full of frozen air, Gerrod pushed the door open.

The warmth of the inside of the cabin hit him like a wave as he opened the door. There was a good fire burning in the fireplace, and the delicious smell of stew filled his nose. He inhaled the warm, aromatic air deeply, and felt it warm all the way to his lungs. The joyous song of children, coming to greet him with open arms, replaced the whistling winter winds of outside. Grandpa pa! they cried, encircling his massive girth with their hugs. They squeezed him from his knees to his waist, as high as they could reach. Three little sprites staircased in height.

Brandon, Mallory, Allison, a voice came from the pantry door. That sweet, melodious voice could only belong to Rachael. Come, let your Grandpa pa get inside first. He's been hunting since early morn. He must be exhausted. Here, Papa, let me take some of your things, she offered.

She took from Gerrod the large, heavy sack filled with the game he had killed, and his thick, outer fur. She hung the fur on a peg in the wall, and made to the kitchen with the sack of food.

Taking advantage of the freedom from the little ones, Gerrod finished removing his gear. He took off the bow that slung around his frame, and unhooked the quiver of arrows strapped to his back. These he hung on another peg, next to his fur. Lastly was the giant sword, hanging in the scabbard about his thick waist.

He removed the wide belt from his waist and carefully drew the longsword from its scabbard. Rather ceremoniously, he carried the great weapon high, with both hands above his head, across the living room. Six young eyes watched in reverent awe at the sight, as he carefully placed the weapon above the mantle of the fireplace. The steel of the blade reflected the light of the fire, so it seemed to glow. This great weapon took its place of honor, humbled by only one other weapon in the home.

A large battle-axe rested above the great longsword named Flicker. A scraggly piece of fine, flexible leather cloth, tied on by two thin leather strip laces kept the blade of the axe safely sheathed. The handle was intricately carved with many ancient runes, and worn from much use in its better days. As was common for Gerrod, whenever he placed his own great weapon above the hearth, he stroked the fine etchings on the axe handle. He whispered some of those strange runes, written in a strange language that was gruff and harsh, and made the children giggle. With a stern look from their Grandpa pa, they quickly silenced their irreverence.

The steel handle, as marvelous as it was, was clearly too short for Gerrod. This was a weapon of a friend from long ago. A lifetime too long, it seemed to the tiring Gerrod.

He turned and made his way to the large, padded chair that was his favorite, suddenly feeling his great many years upon him. He let his heavy frame fall into the soft chair with full force. A heavy, deep sigh of relaxation came over him, as he closed his eyes a moment and rested. The children waited in silence, sitting on the floor in front of the warm fire. Their young faces reflected the glowing embers and the dancing flames. They respectfully watched and waited, letting their Grandpa pa have his moment of peace.

At about that time, Rachael emerged from the kitchen with a large mug of steaming liquid. Here you go, Papa. This will relight the fires in your belly. She had noticed how increasingly tired these hunting trips were making him now, and it troubled her, but she would not burden him further with her concerns. He would just laugh it off anyway, and tell her not to be bothered, and go on to explain how the hunting had to be done. She would not be able to argue his point, but would be left feeling poorly for revealing how much the old man's weakness was showing. He was too proud of a man to admit that his age, or anything else for that matter, ever getting through his tough hide. You must be starving and freezing from the hunt, she offered.

Gerrod didn't say a word, but he was all of these. He slowly opened his eyes and looked at his daughter. Her long, golden blonde hair cascaded around both sides of her round face. Her blue eyes were like crystals, shining in the soft firelight. A broad, sincere smile spread across her face. That smile, as always, reminded him of her mother until she shifted her head. Her long hair separated at the sides to reveal her pointed ears. Thinking of his own markings of his half elven heritage, Gerrod smiled. She really was his daughter.

Gratefully, he took the hot mug of tea from her, and sat up straighter in his chair to sip from it. He looked down the sides of his upturned mug, which quickly defrosted his whiskers, at the three beaming faces below him.

Brandon, the oldest of the horde, was but twelve winters old. He had already taken on the role of man of the house. But his mother was brave and smart, and he showed only self confidence and pride for his responsibilities.

Next to him was Mallory. At only nine, she was becoming quite the young lady. Gone were the days when Gerrod could bounce her on his knee, sending her into giggles of childlike delight. It would not be long, Gerrod frowned, before she would start turning the heads of the boys when they ventured into the city of Oswegonia on their spring treks. Then, one day, she'd be off and married to one of them. Gerrod prayed to Mya to be able to enjoy her sweet, young innocence until then.

Last there was Allison, a gift from the gods for Zackery's soul. Her father, Zack, never knew of Allison before he died from the bitter, poisoned claws of a troll. Sliced down in the defense of their village, Zack's death was an honorable one, despite its tragic suddenness. It was shortly after they laid him to rest, the smoke from his funeral pyre still rising in the cool night air, that Rachael had discovered his last legacy, Allison.

It had been two long winters since, and it seemed like Allison had grown like a weed. Smart as a whip, too. While her time had been short on this world, you couldn't easily put one over on her twice. She waited there patiently, lined up with her brother and sister, watching old Grandpa pa sip his sweet herbal tea.

The ancient mixture of bitter and sweet herbs and root juices flowed over his tongue and down his wind chapped throat. It steamed its way into his stomach, and relieved the grumble that had been with him since mid morn. The warmth of the fire flooded his fingertips and toes. It worked its magic up his tired, stiff limbs.

The love of family, the warmth of hearth: this was what life was all about; that exhausted sigh of relaxation after a good day of work, of providing meal for the family, or chopping the wood to heat them. Yes, this, finally, Gerrod decided, was life. He closed his tired eyes once more for another sip of the tea and a silent prayer of praise and thanks for Mya's blessing and all that he had: life, home, and friends.

His tired gaze slowly climbed the stone fireplace again, and Gerrod smiled at the great, steel battle-axe that hung in its place of honor. He smiled at his friends, at younger times when he was a mighty warrior. He smiled at the bond he once shared. He smiled at the memories.

I suppose you little ones would like to hear a story from your old Grandpa pa, he asked in his gravelly, low voice.

Three heads bobbed up and down below him in unison. Smiles broadened on all three, spreading from ear to ear. While they had heard all of Grandpa pa's tales a few thousand times, the stories were always so full of magic and adventure that they never tired of them.

Rachael, satisfied that her father was content with everything he needed and the children well tended to, slid off. With a wink to Gerrod, she returned to the kitchen to dress the meat he had brought in. While she never put much stock in the large tales of great heroes and terrible villains her father always wove, she knew that they did the children well. They enjoyed these times with their Grandpa pa. The love the stories delivered had seen her through many tough times, and it would serve her kids well too.

Have I ever told you about, he started. The children sprawled out on the floor. This was how all of Grandpa pa's stories started. The children were ready with elbows planted on the braided rag rug, and palms full of round cheeks. Gerrod contemplated how he should start, and once decided, started again, so as not to lose the magic of the tale.

Have I ever told you about the time when your Grandma ma and I took on old Rai'dley? he asked the eager children.

Even though they had heard the tale too many times to count, this remained one of their favorites. Tell us, Grandpa pa! Oh yes, tell us that story, please! they cried in delight at the selection.

Reunion

Table of Contents

Prologue - Home Fires Burning

Prelude - Rai'dley's Return

Chapter 1 - No Complications

Chapter 2 - Good Friends

Chapter 3 - Unholy Alliances

Chapter 4 - Cy'nan

Chapter 5 - Uninvited Guests

Chapter 6 - Charlena the Druid

Chapter 7 - Twelve Bells March

Chapter 8 - Thieves' Triangle

Chapter 9 - Elixir of Life

Chapter 10 - Star Shyne

Chapter 11 - Highpoint

Chapter 12 - Together Again

Chapter 13 - The Abbey Dark

Chapter 14 - Flicker's Fury

Chapter 15 - LaBairne

Chapter 16 - Face of the Enemy

Chapter 17 - Into Darkness

Chapter 18 - Falling Star

Chapter 19 - The Jaws of Death Itself

Chapter 20 - Eye of the Storm

Chapter 21 - Fire and Lightning

Chapter 22 - Festival of To'Mak

Chapter 23 - Derik's Mace

Chapter 24 - Home Again

Chapter 25 - The Terror Above

Chapter 26 - The Flight of Death

Chapter 27 - A Festering Wound

Chapter 28 - The Queen of Death

Chapter 29 - An End In Tears

Postlude - The Settling of Dust

Prelude

Rai'dley's Return

There was a thunderous clap and a flash of brilliant light, but it gained no audience in the long forgotten complex of caverns, hidden far beneath the mountain. The low rumble rolled down the vacant corridors, sweeping spider webs and tons of dust from their century-long resting places. It shook the stone walls, loosening blocks from their mortars, and bringing debris down from the ceiling. The roar of a thousand lions poured down every hallway and into every room of the vastness, finally dying out in a giant chamber. Its bottomless floors too empty for even this wave of sound and fury to fill.

Then, there was silence. Silence -- but not emptiness. A pile of bones lay at the site of the explosion that had splintered the very stone. As if carelessly dumped through the cosmic doorway which opened for just that split second. Dusty, dry bones. Lacking the ligaments to join them, the tissues of organs, muscles or skin, dry, rotting and mostly broken and splintered, crumbling into dust, they were nothing but bones. An elven skull, still delicately featured even in this naked form, sat on top of this scattered semblance, and served as the only indication that this was once an intelligent creature. But, while even the soft brain tissue had long since dried and blown away as dust, this skull was not empty. Hiding under the protective bone, red lights peered through hollow sockets. This was a spirit -- the spirit of one who refused to die.

It took all the power, all the concentration, all the will she had in her being, but Rai'dley refused to die. She fought the battle constantly, against the persistent, nagging forces of nature. And even though she had lost the great and slender, beautifully sculpted body of her elven heritage centuries ago, she would not admit defeat. She had too much hatred to avenge, too much evil to rejoice in, to allow her mortal time on this plane to end -- ever.

She had waited so long; an entire lifetime and more. She had lived a full life of evil splendor. She had mastered the arts of dark magic as none before, and ruled an entire world, but that was not enough; it wasn't the right world, her world. This world. She still had a vengeance to pay. She had waited and waited until the one day, as it had been promised to her so very long ago; when she would be allowed, no, called upon, to reclaim the glory of her once proud and arrogant people. She would champion their long-forgotten cause, and prove their righteousness. She would not only see their ancient visions of ruling this world fulfilled, but would surpass them to become the one and only god!

It was so promised to her.

It had been the hope of this great promise that she had held onto, even past death. It was in anticipation of fulfilling this completely evil desire, which gave her the foothold she needed to stand against time, against fate, against all reason. This was her foothold in insanity.

And so now, so much later that she could have no way to measure, the promise was fulfilled. Rai'dley had returned.

Even though she had nothing left to her but bones, they were enough. Rai'dley knew the powers of magic better than anyone. With nothing but her unbelievably strong will, she reached into that which was magic, and pulled directly from there what she needed. With the forces of magic, she reclaimed that which she had lost. Rai'dley reclaimed a youthful, beautiful body, much like the one she possessed in her former life. She didn't know where the thin elven body had come from, but neither did she care, as her will exploded into the emptiness of the new frame. She would learn the price for this material body in time; but for now, it was hers to experience once more.

She opened eyes she had not had in so very long, and stretched out into arms and hands long lost. This is good, she spoke through lips regained, shocked at the sound of her thoughts being spoken aloud and echoed back to her through ears. She only paused a moment to examine her new body, young and virile, for she had much to do. She had not wasted that millennium of nothingness -- she had been scheming the whole time, so that now she had an exacting plan all worked out.

She looked around with eyes that saw for the first time in a very long time. Ah, the corridor, she remembered, getting her bearings quickly. It was as if she never left. As she turned around full circle, she examined the wall behind her. There, etched in black soot and covered with settled dust, was the outline of her ancient body. So very long ago. With nervous instincts, she spun around and ducked to the floor, remembering her opponent from a war now forgotten. A wry grin spread across her face as she studied her would-be foe. Little of her nemesis remained but a shattered skull, melted into the stonework behind him. Rai'dley's last spell, cast in defense so long ago, blew him apart. Looking down at her new, slender elven body, she considered herself the winner. Her maniacal laughter filled the corridor. Finally, victory was hers.

So long ago, she reminded herself. What ever may have happened since then? Last she knew, the other elves shunned her people, an elite group of elves known as the drow, and entered a long, hard war. At their peak of power, the drow had commanded waves of dragons to fall upon the elven land of Midkemia, to raze that land with their terrible magic and fire. But then the allied forces of the elves and the other races of Carrona, had taken back the Orb of the Righteous that had fed the drow their power. All but beaten, the last of the drow sought the shelter of this cavern complex, deep beneath Bellow's Mountain. But the enemy found them here and through their attack, drove the drow down deeper and deeper into the crevices of the complex. They had lost, that was certain; but by her return, they would be victorious. She looked again at the crumpled remains of her ancient adversary, and again her laughter filled the corridor. At last, victory would be theirs.

Ah, yes, she smiled, The Orb of the Righteous. That would be the key. Regain that, and the world would have little choice but to bow to my feet.

She once again heard that voice from long ago, the voice of the promise, and its return soothed her. She was not crazy, she decided. The voice had given her the plan, and she grinned at its deviousness and evil aspirations. The voice reminded her. She had much to do.

From memories of her youth, a lifetime ago, Rai'dley made her way through the still familiar, complex maze of caverns and long lost ruins. Despite the centuries that had passed, the complex had changed little, she noticed. Her memories of that time, which replayed still in her mind, were so clear that it was as if she had never left. These chambers held so many memories for her, unfortunately most of them bad. No place like home, she smiled as she crossed the great stone archway that bridged across the cavern without a floor. There's no place like home.

Rai'dley had returned.

Chapter 1

No Complications

The towering black pyramid formed the perfect backdrop, as an unseen form made its way around the ancient structure in the darkness of the night. The measured placement of each softly padded boot was so silent it was almost unnatural; a skill mastered by over two hundred years of practice. The sand that coated everything in Midkemia aided the silence, muffling the quiet shifting of soft shoe leather.

The lone figure wore a plain black cloak that covered him from head to foot. The full, black beard helped hide what the ash-smearings did not cover. Black gloved hands held the hilts of two sheathed daggers at the ready, with the location of five others just as easily accessible.

The hunter checked his progress against the group of five men gathered around the small campfire ahead. They sat lost in their lively conversation, oblivious to the danger that stalked them. Good, he thought. That's just the way I like it. The men laughed boisterously and wouldn't have heard him if he had simply walked up to them. They probably wouldn't even notice or pay any attention to him if they did. But with this, he would take no chances.

He knew that the men would all be armed. He could even see the glint of their swords flashing in the firelight, lying casually only a few inches from them. The Mendals were peaceful people, but centuries of public ridicule and bullying, from even the general populace of Midkemia, had taught them to defend themselves. With their incessant evangelizing and spouting of their unpopular religious beliefs to anyone who ventured near the monument in the center of the capital city, they gained little sympathy. Their persistent, rude approaches turned off far more people than earned them any measure of respect. But so vehement were they to their cause, they couldn't help being any other way.

How ideal, the dwarf had thought, considering this little exercise as much for fun as out of need. No one would ever question their deaths; just the result of one more non-believer that didn't care for their flagrant sermons against the use of magic. Midkemia, ironically the capital of Magica in all of Carrona, laughed at their prophecies and warnings and cared little for their loss.

A long time ago, what people now refer to as Ancient Midkemia, was an even larger and more powerful city -- until the dragons razed it from the face of Thear. The dragons turned the whole land around the proud city of elves into nothing but endless desert. Most of the citizens who eventually gathered around here didn't blame this terrible fate on magic. They blamed the hordes of dragons that had tormented that ancient place during the Great Elven Wars.

A brave man by the name of Duran Mendal was the first to adventure back into the wastelands of Midkemia. He found nothing left of Ancient Midkemia except for this strange, unexplained monolith. He accepted it as a grim warning from the gods against the use of magic. Despite his preaching, and that of the few that shared his beliefs, the following waves of opportunists quickly disavowed these claims. They used magic to rebuild that which the dragons destroyed. They built New Midkemia right around the mysterious black pyramid, as a timeless monument to the strength of that ancient city. The continually shifting sands of the deserts swallowed the ancient city forever.

It was the mysterious forces of magic that not only made life possible in the desert city, but also gave it its purpose. All those with any interest in the Arts of Magica gathered here to study it, practice it, and even worship it. The people rarely considered the anti-magic ranting of those that followed Mendal as anything more than annoying sacrilege.

If anything at all could concern the fortitude of this dwarf, it was perhaps that magic. Magic always bothered him, as it did any dwarf, but there was something about the unexpected effects of spells that more than innately troubled him. It was that unpredictability. You never knew what a mage might conjure up next, never really had any way of knowing what you might be facing when dealing with mages. They tended to complicate matters to no end. Especially on this mission, he wanted no complications; no surprises. He could feel the magic that emanated from not only the city, but the giant monolith as well. It tingled over his senses, filling his mind with a noise that dimmed his otherwise perfectly honed concentration.

He was but a few feet away from the men now, and he could feel their presence, could sense the outlines of their bodies, even with his keen eyes closed. He was well within striking distance now. He considered it, keeping in mind the closeness of their swords and the bright light of the intense fire, whose heat he could feel on his exposed face. But he knew that shadows couldn't be cast upon the monolith. It absorbed all light into its eternal darkness. It would not give away his form, and against its ebony surface he was almost invisible, even at this distance. He wasn't as worried about the men's swords as he was the noise they might make trying to scamper for them. He knew they would have no time to strike at him before his many daggers dug into their hearts, no matter how close their blades were.

But this was more than a simple assassination, the goal far beyond the deaths of these unfortunates. In fact, he mused, he may not have even bothered with them at all. If they didn't have the bad luck to camp out in the middle of where he needed to be, he would have happily avoided them. But as things stood, he could not risk their interference, that complication.

However, despite the arguments, he could not resist the greater sport of a close-ranged first kill. There was something about the delivery of a dagger; slipping it precisely through the back, between the third and fourth rib, angled upwardly into the heart. The thought sent a rush of excitement over him. He knew the risks were slight compared to this rush. He closed in the last few feet for the sure kill.

He sprung into action with a flood of adrenaline and a flash of instinct. He drew one dagger and thrust it through the back of the man seated closest to him, his back facing the pyramid. He fired a second dagger into the heart of the man sitting directly opposite him, before he even noticed anything wrong with his companion.

Continuing in a single, fluid movement, he drew two more daggers. They flew into the chests of two others, one on each his left and right. The fifth and last member of the campfire reached out for his sword. Paralyzed by a mortal wound, his hand stopped inches away from the hilt of his weapon. The thief stood among the crumpled bodies, a fiery bloodlust burning in his eyes.

The encounter ended, having lasted only a couple of seconds. He quickly set about retrieving his daggers. He paused only a moment to bathe in the glow of the easy victory. He wiped the bloodied blades clean on the clothes of his victims. Knowing that the Mendals would have nothing of value, more a reflection of their support than their religious beliefs, he forewent the frisking and looting of the corpses. He picked up a sword, probably the man's only possession of any value, and examined it. Noting it was of poor quality at best, he used the sword to prop the man up in a more natural pose. No use attracting any more attention than necessary, he thought.

The fun part over with, the dwarf fished out a chain from under his cloak that hung from around his neck. At the end of the chain hung a large pendant, shaped like a diamond, with a smaller diamond on each of its four corners.

He held it up in the air, and chanted the chant he learned. He struggled against his usually rock-solid nerves to make sure that every stress and pronunciation was perfect. There was no room for error in this, he knew. Again, an uncomfortable wave of tingling flowed through him. The mystical pendant glowed with a magical blue light. He had to fight his instincts to drop the foul magical item and run.

Then, just when he thought nothing would happen, a very faint outline appeared in the wall of the monolith before him. Mentally, he marked the spot, and ceased the chanting, preferring the solitude of the silence.

The thief glanced down at the sign that hung on the rope that wrapped its way around the perimeter of the monument. Written in the common tongue, and in bold, black letters, it read, Warning - Do Not Touch. He had long heard, even before arriving in Midkemia, the terrible tales of what happened to those foolish enough to actually defy these simple orders. The countless bodies of all those who thought they had discovered a way to enter the ancient, door-less structure, had melted right into the surface of the black, soulless pyramid. Unless pulled off the monolith, they disappeared completely into the depths of the stone. It was a burning, agonizing death. He smiled at the simplicity of the understated sign. He looked at the ring of dead men behind him, knowing that they would not pull him from the wall if this did not work.

The uneasy dwarf looked around. He hoped no one else noticed the soft, still-glowing outline on the black wall. At this late hour, no one was on the streets except for the five silent corpses behind him.

He replaced the pendant about his neck, and tucked it safely under his cloak. With only the faith of the gods to protect him, he stepped forward, climbed over the warning rope and signs, and simply walked right into the side of the monolith.

Chapter 2

Good Friends

Gerrod gazed up into the dark night sky. Even though it was clear and crisp, he couldn't see any stars. The flickering torches on either side of the old inn door blotted out anything above the city walls where the King's Guard patrolled. Shame, Gerrod thought to himself, There's nothing like saying goodnight to the stars before turning in from a rough day on the road. Gerrod hated the city; but unfortunately, it was a good place to do business.

That night, though, Gerrod didn't have any business to do. Gerrod tossed the inn's stable boy a whole gold bill, even though he didn't have to give him anything, and turned to go inside.

The dwarven stable boy, Ace's son, was like his own. Aric looked up and smiled. Thanks, Gerrod! It must have been a good trip for you, I hope, he cried as he pulled a feeding bag over the horse's head.

Gerrod returned the child's wishes with a wave, and opened the familiar oak door to the lively inn.

It was a brisk, fall night when Gerrod stumbled back into the Wefpub. It was instinct, more than any conscious decision he had made, that led him to the familiar bar. This was the fine establishment run by his dear, dwarven friend, Ace. While all of them owned a part of the business, they let Ace run it and keep more than his share of the profits. It gave all of them a place to go for a good drink and good friends. That's all any of them ever asked for out of the place, and they always got that and much more.

Gerrod walked through the front door, and was surprised by what he saw. There was a halfling swinging from the chandelier! Gerrod got there just in time to see the spry little man fly off the swinging light fixture. He did a double somersault, and landed face first into a giant pool of mud. The mud flew from its huge vat, all over the place, and halfway up the wall. The goopy, brown mess covered many of the people who watched the game. But, most importantly, everyone was having fun.

The small common room was packed. Incited to near riot by the halfling's fantastic leap, the people at the bustling bar, and the people crowded around the tables all pounded their mugs in appreciation. With all this pounding and stomping, most of the beer in their mugs spilled out. The busy bar maidens quickly refilled the empty steins, collecting the patrons' coins off the tables, and everyone was happy.

Ace had proven himself a master at the business, and was always finding new ways to keep the 'Pub different and popular. People never knew what they'd find there, and that's what kept them coming back. Wefpub always did well. In the end, they all agreed that it was a very wise decision to let Ace run the business.

Wefpub had always been a place for adventurers, such as themselves, to meet and swap tales of their great exploits. A place of rumor and tall tales, it could also be the perfect place to find information on just about anything. There always seemed to be someone there who knew what you were interested in. You may have had to pick your facts from the bull, but usually you'd learn something of value. Wefpub was the perfect place for adventurers. It was the perfect place for Gerrod.

Ace could tell, by the look on his friend's face, that something was wrong. He reached under the bar and poured a tall mug of the finest ale from the private stock. He greeted Gerrod at the end of the bar with it and his always-comforting smile.

It's good to see you again, Old friend, he said in his gruff voice, handing him the mug of fine ale.

It's good to be back, Ace, he replied.

Argunthu again? A pained, sympathetic look came on his face.

Gerrod nodded. That's where he had spent the last several years, and every time he had returned to Wefpub, it was for the same reason.

Who was it this time? Not Lokai, I hope, Ace asked. Even though Ace had never been to the stone dwarven mines to the North, he had come to know the good people Gerrod had found there through his tales. He'd even gotten to like some of them; warriors he'd never met.

No, it was Mika, Gerrod lamented. Even saying it then brought back bitter visions of the tip of the orcan spear puncturing the brave dwarf's armor. He heard his final battle cry. Mortally wounded, Mika still revenged his own death. With a will as strong as his stout legs, Mika had pushed the spear clear through his back, just to bring the vile invader within reach of his short sword. Using every bit of his remaining strength, Mika had sliced into the skull of the shocked orc. Tears began to well in Gerrod's eyes for his lost friend. It was Mika, he repeated.

Awe, man. Ace felt his pain; their pain. He knew how Mika had become a very close friend. Because of his prominent position as an 'Outsider,' Gerrod had gained many friends and much influence among the troubled stone dwarves. Don't those orcs ever give up?

It's the dangedest thing, Ace, Gerrod said shaking his head. Those orcs are persistent if nothing else. They win any battle by sheer number, not by any kind of strategy. If you kill fifty of them, there are at least a hundred more to take their place. We can beat them all the way back to the foothills, but in only a few months, they'll come right back.

Nasty, smelly creatures, they are, Ace agreed.

And they always seem to have a knack for finding cavern openings that lead them back into the dwarven mines, too. Then we have to flush them out, and drive them back up to the surface, and to the foothills again.

Well, you're a good friend to these people, Gerrod, Ace encouraged him. Sometimes I don't think they know what kind of friend they have in you.

Mika knew. We'd gotten to know each other pretty well, for me being an Outsider, I mean. He saw past my blade, and really cared about me. Gerrod thought a moment about all the good, honest folk he'd met in the darkness of the mines, and how they accepted him. They respected him as he respected them.

He still couldn't have cared like we do, though, Ace said with an infectious smile Gerrod couldn't help returning. "Them stone dwarves

Reviews for Reunion

[meromana_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

J.L. Penn’s Reunion is longer than a typical romance or “Chick Lit” read at 82,000 words, yet never feels so, due to the smooth pacing throughout most of the book. Only the first couple chapters seemed bumpy and unpredictable to me; after that, the scenes and the plot unfolded quickly and held my interest throughout. The book is written in first-person, present-tense, which I personally dislike, but must admit, gives the story an ultra-modern polish, entirely appropriate for this tale of virtual flirtation and temptation and where they may lead. While the content is not appropriate for young audiences, neither is it overtly sexually graphic, and handles the necessary sexuality gracefully.The one bone I would pick with this author is with her consistent failure to use commas before conjunctions that join complete phrases. While I firmly believe a fiction author can and should bend grammatical rules to suit his story, his characters, and his voice, this particular omission makes it difficult to read the longer sentences and seems like more of an oversight than an intentional stylistic choice. That one minor flaw probably only caught my eye, however, because the book is otherwise so well edited.Overall, Reunion really hit the spot for me with its delicate balance of drama and humor. It is not laugh-out-loud funny from start to finish, but I did find myself chuckling, giggling, and grinning throughout the story, while simultaneously feeling pensive, thoughtful, and at times, even a bit misty-eyed. I eagerly await the next production from J.L. Penn.