Die & Don't (Defense of The Land, Book 2)

By Vance Pumphrey

The friends one keeps. How can those dedicated in the service to their god possibly look their deity in the eye knowing they have made alliances with those in the service of another?

Twists and turns. Vance Pumphrey has become a master at surprising us with the unexpected. Yet this new volume throws alliances, debts, servitude and relationships into a quandary of tangled webs and unforeseen outcomes. Hang on to your butts, it’s about to get deep!

Can Jaramiile suppress her sworn teachings and lead this rag-tag band adepts of Praxaar and mercenaries into the face of near certain death? Or, possibly more importantly, can she lead them away when required?

Overmatched and outnumbered at every turn, can Jaramiile suppress her own doubts enough to lead friends and foes alike into a maelstrom from which none of them may return?

In Vance Pumphrey’s books, things are seldom what they seem. The scourge of evil has many faces, some of which appear to serve either side of the fence. Or none...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vance Pumphrey
• Release date: Jan 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9780463630921

Vance Pumphrey

Vance Pumphrey traces the evolution of his high fantasy novels from his Nuclear Engineering career in the U.S. Navy—not an obvious leap. He started playing Dungeons and Dragons while in the Navy, though, and the inspiration for Dragma’s Keep was born.Dragma’s Keep is the first book in the Valdaar’s Fist quartet. A second book in the series follows soon.Retired from the Navy, Vance lives in Seattle with his wife of thirty-plus years.To find out when the next Valdaar’s Fist book will be released, check out VancePumphrey.com.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

No Honor Among Thieves

A Great Nose

A Paladin of Praxaar

Alone

Jaramiile

A Dream Worthy of Dreaming

Vorpal

In Defense of Staggmire

He Will Die

Tactical Error

The Chase

Retreat!

Siege!

Rescue Squad

Ode to an Asshole

Regroup and Plan

Catching Up

An Uneasy Alliance

Foiled Again!

Occupied

Theremault

A New Plan

Turnabout Is Fair Play

The Isle of Grief

Valdaar’s Roost

Demons Within

War

Aftermath

Farreach

Frostheart

Ice Homme

Until We Meet Again

Acknowledgments

About the Author

The Valdaar’s Fist Saga continues . . .

Defense of The Land Book Two

Book Six in the Valdaar's Fist Saga

VANCE PUMPHREY

I dedicate this sixth book in my Valdaar’s Fist Saga to the fans. The patient fans. Die & Don’t has been a long time coming. A lot has happened in my life in the past two years, and this book is only part of that. Thank you for waiting and know that the seventh book, All Is Fair, will not be so long coming. Promise.

Die & Don’t

Prologue

In the much-documented battle between good and evil, who gets to decide what is good? And who gets to decide what is evil?

The so-called good guys?

IN THE FIRST book of this series, Live & Learn, a new band of heroes joined together to oppose the forces of evil that have taken root in The Land. There are those who would try via an ancient ritual to raise their god, Valdaar, from the dead—he who was slain by his brother, Praxaar, in the War to End All Wars more than two millennia ago.

This must not be allowed. The forces of Praxaar have enjoyed a relatively peaceful time since this war, carrying out the orders of their god, who has gone to serve on the Council of Gods. Those orders were to search out and kill all of his brother’s followers so that the atrocity of raising him—foretold by Valdaar’s own words as he lay dying—would not be possible.

Tens of thousands of men, women and children were slain under the umbrella of this decree, commonly known as The Purge. And yet The Land has flourished, seeing an unprecedented growth in all areas . . . except diversity. In the past thousand years, the need for vast armies has dwindled to the point that even the local townships maintain only small forces to deal with the occasional orc incursion or other such maladies.

Now the growing forces of Valdaar are uniting in an effort to return him to The Land. Those who oppose them are no longer strong enough to deal with this threat. Unless they too join forces.

War in its infant stages is brewing. Yet, in this epic battle of good versus evil, the lines are blurred. Our heroes have begun to question their own ideologies and even those of the ones they serve.

Join me as this time-worn struggle takes new twists and turns. Can Shaarna, Mesomarques and Jaramiile keep their group together long enough to thwart Thrinndor and his followers or will they themselves succumb to a different destiny?

History is being rewritten, both sides striving to ensure they are in the right.

Who gets to decide what is good and what is evil?

Chapter One

No Honor Among Thieves

GOLFINDEL TOOK A sip of wine and found himself—not for the first time—longing for the stuff Mesomarques had so recently shared. The assassin snorted and shook his head as he slammed his cup to the table, startling those seated with him.

What the hell is your problem? demanded the man seated to Goldie’s right, his eyes squinting suspiciously over the cards in his left hand.

Shut up and play! Golfindel snapped. Abruptly the half-elf threw down his cards in disgust and surged to his feet. I’m out! He raked a large pile of coins augmented with gems into a bag he snatched from his belt.

Hey! The man on his left licked his lips nervously as he watched no small amount of what had been his stash disappear into the leather sack. I’d like a chance to win some of that back!

Me too! said a fourth at the table, rubbing his unkempt beard. That’s the better part of a month’s stake for me.

You shouldn’t be so careless with your stake, then, Goldie sneered, "because you suck at cards!" He turned to walk away.

That’s it! The man on the left snarled, his hand diving toward the shortsword sheathed at his belt.

The blade showed only a couple of inches before a strong hand from across the table stopped him. Don’t pull your blade, idiot! the man hissed, his eyes following the back of the half-elf as he crossed to the bar. Don’t you know who that is?

Stubbornly, the held man struggled to both draw his weapon and rise. Let me go!

"That’s Golfindel, you moron!"

The man ceased his struggle as the half-elf slowly turned back around. Yes, let him go, Goldie said evenly. His eyes never left the man with his hand on his sword handle. His own hands remained curiously empty, yet his fingers twitched ever so slightly at his side.

The man ripped his hands free—empty of blade—and raised both of them above his head as he slumped back into his chair. I—I didn’t know!

Disappointment flickered in the assassin’s eyes as he spun to continue his trek toward the bar. Not knowing can get a man dead, he said over his shoulder.

Those who remained at the table silently watched the bard stop at the bar and order a drink.

The man who had been across from Golfindel slapped the man he had saved from certain death on the back of his head. What were you thinking, Jourmall?

I didn’t know! Jourmall complained.

"You should always know who you’re playing cards with!" the man who had been on the bard’s right said.

Jourmall’s eyes shifted to the man who spoke. "Yet you knew, Ureferre, he said insolently, and you played cards with him!"

Ureferre shrugged as his eyes wandered back to the topic of their conversation. He is known to drink too much on occasion, he said softly. "And not really be that good at cards."

That’s what I heard, as well, the remaining unnamed man said, his hand scratching the stubble on his cheeks. It seems either our information was wrong or we’re just worse at cards than him.

Why’re we letting that skinny little shit of a half-elf walk away with all of our coin? Jourmall demanded, his anger returning. The three of us can take him! He stood suddenly, sending his chair skittering noisily across the wood plank floor as the steel of his blade scraped against leather. Dim light from the many lanterns glinted on the sword that was now in his hand.

Just as suddenly, Jourmall stumbled back a step. He tripped over his own feet and landed on his ass. A confused look crossed his face as he slumped backward, his head hitting the wood floor with a thud and his unseeing eyes staring up into the rafters. The haft of a small dagger protruded from his throat just below his larynx.

I never even saw him turn! Ureferre whispered, making sure he kept his hands on the table in plain sight. All other conversation in the tavern had ceased.

He turned, the unnamed man said as he slowly got to his feet and walked over to stand above the body of his former friend. He dropped to one knee, closed Jourmall’s eyes with a swipe of his hand and then pulled the blade free. A quick inspection revealed a serpentine-shaped dagger that shone razor sharp in the light of the table lamp. The blade had obviously severed the carotid artery with ease.

The man sighed, wiped the blade on the dead man’s shirt and pushed himself back to his feet with a grunt. He then turned and started toward the bar.

Shivluur, where are you going? Ureferre hissed.

To return the dagger, of course.

Are you sure that’s a good idea?

The bigger man appeared not to hear. Instead, he made his way to the bar, shuffling his feet noisily as he went. He didn’t want to give the grouchy assassin any idea that he was being sneaked up on.

Shivluur had no problem sidling up to the long bar, as no one else was within ten feet of Goldie. He stopped close enough that the two men nearly rubbed shoulders. Shivluur set the dagger on the bar’s surface and slid it over with two fingers. Nice throw.

Thanks. The bard looked down at the blade. He dead?

Yep.

The pained expression that momentarily crossed Goldie’s face was quickly replaced by one of aloofness. He was a moron.

He was useful, Shivluur countered. He turned and looked as a pair of men picked up Jourmall’s body and carried him out of the side door. Was. He returned his gaze to the half-elf and then raised a hand, attracting the attention of the barkeep. Silently he signaled for a round of whatever the assassin was drinking. What’s eating you, Goldie?

Nothing. He waved a hand dismissively. Leave me alone.

Shivluur raised an eyebrow. All right. But, you’re going to have to stop killing the patrons. He looked around the half-empty tavern. Normally the place was near teeming with customers this time of day. It’s bad for business.

He was about to attack! Golfindel said defensively, yet his tone indicated even he wasn’t convinced.

Shivluur snorted. "I could have handled Jourmall without killing him."

Then maybe you should have! the half-elf sneered as he quaffed what remained of his drink and slammed the empty cup to the counter.

The bartender set two more cups of wine in front of them and hurried away.

What’s his problem? Goldie demanded, watching him go.

Shivluur took a sip from his cup before answering. You smell like death. His eyes also followed the barkeep to the other end of the room. He has a mate and a brood of kids to take care of.

So?

Shivluur rolled his eyes. So, he doesn’t want to end up like Jourmall. When the half-elf didn’t reply, he went on. Goldie, I’ve known you since you were a young punk kid. The bard didn’t bother to acknowledge that, either. I’ve never seen you like this. What’s going on?

Golfindel stared into his cup of wine. When he looked up, his gaze was far away. You know he killed her, right?

Shivluur felt his blood turn cold. Who killed who? he asked slowly, not sure he wanted the answer.

"Savinhand. Goldie spat. He killed my sister."

Shivluur stopped, his drink halfway to his lips and his mind whirling as he fought to assess what he’d just learned. You sure?

You’re damn right I’m sure! Golfindel turned to jab a forefinger in his mentor’s face. "She was good! No one else could have killed her like he did! He gasped with the effort required to contain his emotions. For that, I will gut that sorry excuse for a rogue and watch the life leave his eyes while I laugh!"

Shivluur frowned. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.

What? Confusion twisted Golfindel’s face.

He’s the reason we’ve had to wait for over a month now to begin the Rite of Ascension.

What? He was even more confused than before. The wine wasn’t helping.

Shivluur put a hand on his student’s shoulder. The Rite cannot get underway until Savinhand gets here. He swallowed hard. He’s been nominated and agreed upon as one of the participants.

"What?"

For you to kill him—or even try—when he gets here will certainly get you banished from the guild in what would appear to be an attempt to take control . . . or get you killed yourself.

Golfindel’s eyes narrowed as he leaned close to his master. I don’t give a shit about this guild, their motives or that goddamned Rite of Ascension! His jaw muscles twitched with the effort he was expending not to shout. But make no mistake, Savinhand is going to die and he’s going to do so with my blade deep in his gullet.

Whether it was the wine or his overwrought emotions, Golfindel never saw the leather sap in his master’s hands. Nor did he see the blur of motion as that sap whipped through the air to catch him behind his right ear. Light and sound exploded as one in his head as consciousness left in a flash. He slumped to the floor and didn’t move.

Shivluur stared down at him as two nondescript men approached and waited for orders. Bind him tight, hand and foot, the chief assassin said quietly. Take him to my cabin in the hills north of here. There is an iron cell in the back room. Strip and search him—leave nothing to chance. Lock him in that cell and leave him there until I send for him.

The two men nodded, but the chief was not finished. His hands shot out and gathered a fistful of leather tunic from each of the men. You will guard him night and day, never leaving him alone. Do you understand? Both men nodded. Good. For your efforts you will be compensated well. But—Shivluur clinched his fists tighter—"if you fail . . . well, it won’t matter, because if you fail you’ll be dead!"

The men looked at one another. We will not fail, both men said together.

See that you don’t. He released their tunics at last and returned to his drink at the bar. See that you don’t, he muttered as he raised his cup to his lips.

* * *

THROUGH WAVES OF nausea and pain, Golfindel clawed his way slowly toward consciousness. Fighting deep nausea caused by the excruciating throbbing in his head, he opened his eyes and tried to focus on a glimmer of sunlight streaming in from a partially covered window. Ugh! A gasp escaped his dry, cracked lips as he tried to lift his head and turn it to face this inviting beacon of luminosity.

He’s awake, the bard heard someone say nearby.

Check the door, another voice said.

Goldie heard metal clang against metal not far away and then the rattle of chains. It’s good, the first voice said. Both padlocks too.

What? Where am I? Golfindel demanded, his voice cracking.

Don’t you worry about that none, the second voice said. You’re here until we’re told otherwise.

I imagine you’re hungry.

Doubt it, the other said. A knot on the head like that will mess with a man’s appetite.

Indeed, any thought of food resulted in Goldie’s stomach turning flips. Why am I here?

You might find this part hard to believe, the first speaker said, but you’re here to ensure you remain alive.

What? Golfindel fought the nausea as he twisted his body around and sat up on the cot. Make some sense, man! He rubbed at the painful knot just behind his right ear. How in the hell did that get there? The last thing I remember was talking to Shiv at the―Shivluur! That rotten bastard! He jumped to his feet and nearly blacked out as white-hot pain seared through his skull.

The bard gritted his teeth against the agony in his head, and his hands shot out to grasp the bars he could barely make out though the haze of pain. He held himself there until he could keep his eyes open for more than an instant. Bars? What the—? Release me or you’re dead men. Golfindel used his best intimidating tone, which was probably not at optimum given the circumstances.

The second man laughed. Let’s see, we let you out and we’re dead. If you escape, we’re dead. Either way, we’re dead. He shrugged. We’ll take our chances with our ability to keep you locked up until the boss says otherwise.

That made sense even to Goldie. It was hard to fault the man’s logic. His nausea under some semblance of control, the half-elf studied his surroundings. He was in a smallish cell, approximately eight feet by ten. Three of the walls were stout iron bars set about six inches apart and the fourth was solid stone, as were the floor and ceiling. The only door was made of the same iron bars, with a single hinge held in place by a seamless pin. The lock plate was inaccessible from the inside, and had only a miniscule gap between it and the jamb. There were chains at the top and bottom, each held in place with a different type of padlock.

The bed on which he’d recently slept was a two-foot-high slab of stone with a canvas cover and a single blanket wadded up on top. Wise. His clothing had been removed and the only thing that kept the assassin from being completely naked was a loose, one-piece robe. He had no belt. Also wise. There was nothing else in the cell.

Surreptitiously he raised a hand to scratch behind his left ear, his fingers probing for the thin wire he kept there for just such a purpose.

We removed that.

Damn.

"You may rest assured that if you had an implement that would have aided you in any way, we have found and removed it."

Golfindel frowned. Very thorough. He fought the urge to look down at his feet.

That piece of wire wound like a ring on your right big toe? We have that too.

And—the other man present spoke for the first time in a while—those bars contain anti-magic alloys. So, none of that hocus-pocus bullshit you are known to be capable of will work, either.

Damn. Very well, the assassin said with a sigh. How long do you plan on keeping me prisoner?

Prisoner? One of the guards snorted. Consider yourself a captive houseguest. He laughed at his own joke but then his face turned serious. As I said, until Shiv gives us orders otherwise.

What the hell? Time to change tactics. Why would the great Shivluur want to keep me as a ‘captive houseguest’? He deliberately kept his tone non-combative.

Why? Hell, the boss doesn’t share his plans with the hired help, and you know it! Apparently the man felt talkative. But, if I had to guess, it has something to do with the upcoming Rite of Ascension. He shrugged. I know that he plans on participating.

"Participating? Shivluur? An assassin can’t be leader of Guild Shardmoor!"

Shiv feels he can. He’s been invited as a participant.

No assassin has been invited to participate in the Rite in . . . hell, I can’t even remember the last time! There’s no way the guild leaders would make an exception for Shiv; he’s not particularly liked by any of them. Unless . . .

You had better let me out of here, Golfindel demanded suddenly.

Now why in the name of the nine hells would we want to do that?

Because they plan on killing Shiv!

Both men sat bolt upright in their chairs. Shivluur paid them.

What are you talking about?

Who’s planning to kill him?

Golfindel rolled his eyes—only to discover that was something else that sent the tiny men with painful hammers back to work inside his skull. Note to self . . . The guild! he tried to shout through clenched teeth. However, that act sent blinding lights flashing behind his eyelids. What in the hell did that old man hit me with, anyway?

Explain, both men said at the same time.

The half-elf shook his head. Damn! That hurt too! How long have I been out? he asked, unwilling to open his eyes. He hung onto the bars with white-knuckle effort to keep from going back to sit on the bed.

The better part of two days. The man speaking tried to guess the time based on the light filtering through the curtain on the window. It’s approaching noon on the second.

That explains the grumbling belly. Golfindel forced his eyes open. You’ve got to let me out of here!

Not a chance.

Shiv warned us you would try to talk us into letting you out.

Among other tricks.

Look. Goldie’s eyes pleaded for them to listen. Why would the guild allow the chief assassin to contend for leadership of their establishment? The two men only stared back and blinked a couple of times. "The senior guild members don’t even like him! Blink. Or us!"

Go back to sleep.

Shiv obviously scrambled your brain some. I’ll have to tell him he needs to ease up some next time. He smiled at the thought of telling his boss that.

"You’ve got to take me to see him!"

The man doing most of the talking shook his head. Not a chance. However, Krogmat here—he nodded toward his companion—will let him know of your concerns when he goes into town to see him this afternoon.

Into town? Goldie straightened. Where are we?

Shiv’s cabin.

Cabin? Shit! I know he has a place up in the hills, but I’ve never been there. Or, maybe he has another place in town. He licked his dry lips and was about to argue further but was cut off.

This is how this is going to work. The man speaking stood up and approached the cell, but stayed a couple of feet beyond arm’s length. You’re going to go sit down while I explain some stuff to you.

But―

Sit down.

Goldie opened his mouth to protest but decided that he needed to gain his captors’ trust and fighting with them was not the way to do so. He spun and returned to the stone slab and sat on the edge with both hands in his lap.

Thank you, the surprised speaker said. At each meal, a plate of food will be slid through the bars. You will only be fed if you sit as you are now. There is only the one plate. If you do not return it once empty, you will get nothing else to eat. You will eat with your fingers, as you will get no utensils. Water will be given in a small wooden cup. Again, there is only the one cup. Return it or you will be thirsty. Do I make myself clear?

The half-elf nodded.

Good. Your personal business will be taken care of there. The man pointed to where a rag partially covered what looked to be a small hole in the floor. Once a day we will throw a bucket of warm water on you, allowing you to clean yourself should you desire to do so. He shrugged. One last item. We will not approach the cell for any reason unless you are seated as you are now. And we will do so only when both of us are in the room and one of us with a weapon at the ready. Understood?

Goldie rolled his eyes, but nodded again.

Very well. Remain where you are and Krogmat will slide a plate of food through the bars. The water will come first. The man watched as his companion readied the plate with fruit, meat, cheese and bread from a basket. When he nodded that he was ready, the speaker slid a bow off of his shoulder, pulled an arrow from the quiver at his back, notched the arrow and eased the string back to his ear. Only then did he nod at Krogmat. Know that the tip of this arrow has been dipped in the venom of the Ygrandal snake. You’ll take a long time to die, but you will die. Painfully.

Goldie grimaced but made no other move as Krogmat slid first the cup and then the plate between the bars. The Ygrandal snake was very rare and not to be trifled with. There was no known antidote for the venom. I doubt his arrow is laced with it. That stuff is expensive!

When Krogmat had stepped away from the cell, his companion lowered the bow and nodded. Without making any sudden moves, Goldie stood, walked over to the bars and bent to retrieve his meal. With the plate and cup in hand, he returned to his stone bed and sat down.

Golfindel ate in silence while his captors talked quietly in the corner about Krogmat’s upcoming trip to the village. The bard could easily hear them as they made a list of things they needed for an extended stay. He was fairly certain he was supposed to hear every word. A wheel of goat cheese, if you please. He smiled as both men turned to look at him and frown.

They got to their feet and went through a door in the opposite wall, slamming it behind them. Since Goldie didn’t see sunlight spill through the opened door, he surmised that the door led to another part of the cabin. His face twisted in thought. Maybe they hadn’t known that I could hear them after all. He shrugged and downed the rest of the water, setting the empty implements aside so he could study his surroundings in more detail.

The bars were over an inch thick and spaced so that even his slight frame had no chance of squeezing through. They were inset into the stone at both the top and bottom by a means he didn’t understand, but he was pretty sure he wasn’t supposed to and doubted it would matter if he did.

The single hinge on the door was held in place by a thick pin that went the entire length. It had been expertly hammered on both ends, ensuring that it didn’t come out, by accident or otherwise.

The back of the lock plate hid the inner workings of the mechanism, but Goldie could tell that it had not one but two thick, key-triggered bolts that slid home in the stout iron frame. Probably different keys too. The thick chains on the top and bottom were identical, but the padlocks were not. The one used on top was new and of a type he had not encountered before. The thick shank held the links tight and further inspection showed no sign of a key hole. What? The lower chain had an older, more conventional lock. But, it too was stout, well maintained and not going to open without the proper key—or possibly a pick set, but he was pretty sure they hadn’t left one of those lying around.

Golfindel turned his attention to the bed. It was a single stone slab, rough-hewn from the wall it was attached to. No seams, no cracks, no sign even that tools had been used in its fabrication. Interesting. The thin cover meant to be used as padding was also seamless. He removed it anyway, expertly sliding his hands along the hem, his fingers probing for any irregularities he could exploit. Nothing. He repeated the motions with the blanket, finding more of the same.

Next he studied the cup and plate, discarding them as useless almost immediately. They were both carved from a single piece of soft wood, such that even if he was able to splinter off a piece, that sliver would be far too fragile to be of any assistance.

The only other feature in the chamber was the hole in the floor, which his body informed him he needed to make use of. While doing so he noted that the hole was only as wide as his hand and went as deep as the eye could see into solid rock. I’m not getting out that way!

Not being one to give up, he stood and went back to the door. Tentatively he reached out with his meager magic to see if he could do anything with the lower padlock. The lock began to glow red as if hot and emitted a soft noise that sounded vaguely like the howl of a dog.

The door burst open and both captors ran in, weapons drawn. When they saw that their prisoner remained in his cell, the two men lowered their weapons and laughed. We thought you would try that!

Tsk, tsk. Now you’re going to have to do without dinner. The as-of-yet unnamed man put his sword away. Slide the cup and plate back out, please.

And no tricks! Krogmat said. His sword remained at the ready.

Golfindel stayed where he had been when the two charged in. He eyed the pair with an aloof expression. You were waiting for me to do that. The bard pointed to the lock. The howl was diminishing as was the red glow.

Of course. Your ability to use magic is widely known. The man smiled. We took precautions.

Of course you did.

Now be a good prisoner and return the plate and cup.

Or you’ll do without meals tomorrow too, Krogmat sneered. His tone indicated that he hoped their captive did just that.

Golfindel shrugged, turned and retrieved the requested items. He placed the cup onto the plate, then put both on the floor near the bars and used his right foot to push them though.

He stood there for a moment, trying to figure what his guards were going to do next. They didn’t move. With a sigh, Goldie walked back over to the bed, sat down and put his hands in his lap.

Get the stuff, Jarrool. Finally, a name. I’ll make sure he doesn’t move.

Jarrool retrieved the items then stood glaring at Golfindel. It was clear he was trying to decide how much—if anything—to reveal next. Very good, he said finally. Krog is going to go pick up some supplies. He’ll make contact with the boss to see if he can be bothered to come up and listen to your bullshit.

Goldie thought about that and considered several replies. In the end he simply nodded. There was nothing he could say at this point that would sway them any further.

Good, Jarrool said. He looked over at his partner. You have the list? Krogmat nodded. All right. Try to get back before dark. I don’t trust shit-for-brains over there enough to have to watch him all night by myself.

Krogmat looked over at the cell. He ain’t going nowhere!

Jarrool nodded. Just the same, don’t dawdle in town.

When Krogmat had gone, Jarrool walked over to a chair and sat down. Next he set his bow and a familiar-looking arrow beside it onto a nearby table. He then looked at the bard, his expression deadpan. I’m going to put my feet up and probably doze off. If you so much as fart, I’ll be on my feet with that arrow on its way before you blink. He smiled, but that smile didn’t extend to his eyes. I’m not always good at stopping said actions once begun.

Noted.

Golfindel sat on the edge of the bed and watched his captor get as comfortable as possible in a hard chair. Eventually the man’s breathing took on a regular rhythm, and the bard was fairly certain he was asleep. Fairly certain. He suspected Jarrool was faking, but couldn’t be sure. Either way, Goldie knew he wasn’t getting out of his cell with him close by. He considered his options but ultimately decided to do the unexpected. He stretched out on the bed, pulled the blanket up to his chin and emptied his mind. Soon he too was fast asleep.

BOTH MEN WOKE with a start when the door to the outer room swung open. True to his warning, Jarrool was on his feet with his arrow notched and ready before anyone could blink. He didn’t, however, actually loose the arrow.

Sleeping, huh? Krogmat jeered.

Jarrool lowered the bow. "You should consider knocking before entering a room where surprise would be a disadvantage!"

You should consider staying awake! The bigger man dropped the large canvas bag he held with a thud.

Whatever! You try staying awake with him snoring all afternoon!

I don’t snore.

You snored most of the afternoon.

Correction: I don’t snore when I sleep.

Jarrool glowered at the bard. Noted. He hesitated. I don’t sleep in a chair.

Krogmat’s eyes cycled back and forth between the two. So neither one of you slept. I’m proud of you.

Jarrool snorted. What news have you?

Krogmat opened his mouth, but hesitated. He then shook his head and motioned toward the door.

Golfindel watched them leave. He got to his feet and rushed to the bars. There, he held his breath and forced his heart to slow as he strained his ears to hear what was being discussed in the other room. All he got for his efforts, however, was indistinct murmurs and shushed whispers.

When the two men returned, Golfindel was again seated on the edge of the bed with his hands in his lap. Jarrool and Krogmat exchanged looks. Each took a step, putting distance between themselves and also staying at least ten feet from the bars of the cell.

Shivluur said to let you know he appreciates your concern. Krogmat did the talking. He also said to tell you that he is aware of the risk and has the situation under control.

But―

He would have come up himself to allay your fears, but he’s busy preparing to fight your friend Savinhand tomorrow. He grinned.

"What?"

It turns out Savin has been in Shardmoor for a week now, Jarrool continued. Both he and Shiv easily won their matches yesterday―

—and now they will meet tomorrow for what will be the final time, Krogmat finished. For one of them, at least.

Chapter Two

A Great Nose

MESOMARQUES LOOKED OVER the steaming pot of venison stew he was stirring to see Shaarna enter the kitchen, resplendent in a brilliant red robe-and-cape combination with a matching cap.

The cleric dropped his spoon into the cauldron and hustled around the iron cookstove to sweep the beautiful young woman into his arms. He hugged her tight, lifting the slight-of-frame sorcerer clear off the floor and spinning her around twice in his excitement.

The magicuser threw her arms around his neck and buried her face in his shoulder as she returned the embrace. Then she noticed the others in the galley staring openly and she pushed back. Put me down at once! she demanded, the sternness in her voice not matching the twinkle in her eyes.

Whatever! Meso exclaimed as he kissed her lightly on the cheek and let the woman slide down to where both feet touched the floor. His smile broadened as he snaked an arm around her waist and turned to face the others. Ladies and gentlemen, he began formally, may I present Shaarna! Sorcerer and friend of mine for several years now.

You’ve got to be kidding, one of the other cooks grumped. You present her like this every time she comes in here! The middle-aged woman went back to stirring the pot in front of her, shaking her head.

Another woman present—also in her middle years—grunted a Humph! in agreement and did likewise.

The only other male in the kitchen said, Be silent, you old biddies! He rounded the cookstove and vegetable carts more slowly than Mesomarques had and wrapped his arms around the red-clad woman, hugging her tightly. When he pushed back, he looked into her beautiful green eyes. It is always good to see you, Shaarna. How have you been?

Thule! Shaarna replied, only slightly less excited than this new admirer. "It has been so long since last we shared a bottle of your magnificent wine. She stole a glance at the cleric and grinned impudently as she freed herself from the portly man. Hopefully you have managed to pass on to Meso a few of your secrets! She clucked her tongue. I fear if his cooking doesn’t improve, he’ll chase away all those I worked so hard to recruit!"

Meso! Thule admonished. Tell me it’s not so! Have you learned none of what I have spent so many months—nay, years, even!—laboring to teach you?

But, but—  the cleric stammered.

Shaarna laughed and placed her hand on the master cook’s arm. I’m kidding, of course. She chuckled again, reveling in the discomfort of her friend. "I have fighters, bards and paladins lining up to team with us because of what he has learned from you. However, I fear his cooking is making them fat and slowing us down." She winked at Meso.

Is that so? Thule asked as he draped an arm across the young woman’s shoulders. Well, perhaps I can show him some secrets that are less fattening. It was his turn to wink at the cleric.

That would prove most helpful, I believe, Shaarna said as she allowed herself to be guided to a side door and into the next room.

Once clear of the bustling galley, Thule waved the pair toward a small table. Sit! Sit! the chef encouraged while he walked over to a wooden rack along one wall that held several small casks. He made a show of inspecting each and dismissing several with a wave of his hand before plucking one from its resting place and tucking it under his arm. Yes! This one will do nicely. His practiced fingers picked up three glasses from a nearby cupboard, then he made his way over to the table. He plunked the cask down in front of the cleric and carefully deposited the glassware next to it. If you would do the honors—he bowed toward his student― I will see if I can find a proper spigot.

But of course, the cleric said formally as his hands lovingly wiped the dust from the small wooden vat. He cocked a critical eye on the date hand-stamped into the lid. From your seven-year-old stock. He nodded approvingly. That is outstanding! Meso glanced over at the rack. But, is this your last cask? We do not want―

Nonsense! the big man interrupted, having retrieved the required implements from the same cabinet as the glassware. "I insist! He dropped the spigot, pry tool and wooden mallet onto the table and slid them across. While that is indeed my last cask of that most excellent vintage, I would much rather share it with the two of you than with the imbeciles who reside in this backwoods excuse for a township! Most here wouldn’t know a good wine from the swill they serve in the local taverns! Thule rolled his eyes. Now be a good lad and tap that properly whilst I see if I can scare up something suitable for us to eat!"

Mesomarques watched his friend exit the room and then turned his attention to the cask. He slipped a small, thin dagger from a sheath tied at his waist and used it to easily cut away the wax seal that encased the cork. Sheathing the knife, he picked up the pry tool and worked his way around the large stopper, taking care not to damage it.

Have you seen—  Shaarna began.

Shh! The cleric stole a quick glance at the door Thule had gone through and shook his head. Not here, he added in a whisper. The cork came free and he first looked it over for damage and then held it to his nose. Ah, he said much louder, this is indeed his best vintage to date!

Confused, Shaarna’s eyes traveled from the doorway to the healer and back. Finally she shrugged. Meso must have some reason not to speak here. I’m sure it’s good, but I have yet to develop your taste for that stuff. The sorceress’ eyes roamed to the rack the cask had so recently come from. I’d hate for some of Thule’s prized wine to be wasted on my flat palate.

Nonsense! the big man exclaimed as he reentered the room, carrying a platter laden with sliced meats, cheeses and breads. "A flat palate is nothing more than an untrained palate! Thule set the platter on the table, swept two of the glasses by their stems away from Mesomarques and sat down next to the young woman. Meso, do hurry and fill your glass, then slide that cask over here!"

The cleric raised an eyebrow and picked up the tap, inspecting it carefully before inserting it into the opening of the cask. Next he picked up the mallet and lightly rapped on the spigot while twisting it into the wood of the keg until it locked into place. Meso was in the process of inspecting his newly formed seal when Thule jumped to his feet and snatched the keg.

Oh, for pity’s sake! Give me that before I grow old! The cook held the cask above a glass and twisted the handle. He allowed only a small amount to fall into the glass before twisting the handle again, shutting off the flow. He repeated the process for the next glass. After shutting the tap a second time, Thule set the cask on the table and slid it back across to the cleric. You pour your own and try to see if you can remember any of what I’m about to impart to this lovely young lady! His lips twisted into a smirk at the amused expression on his friend’s face.

Thule didn’t wait for the cleric. He picked up the two glasses, handing one to Shaarna. The first thing to know about how to tell a great wine from that drivel they serve down the street is the ‘nose.’

The nose? the sorceress asked as she accepted the glass.

Correct, the chef replied. First you need to swirl the glass like so. He did so with his wine. This will help put air back into the wine, only to be released again for this. He pointed to his nose. Now put your nose deep into the glass.

Shaarna held the glass under her nose and took a tentative whiff.

No! Like this. He held his glass up to his face such that his nose was completely inside the vessel, with the rim of the glass making a seal all the way around. He could be heard drawing in a huge amount of air. When he pulled the glass away, his eyes glowed. "Damn, this has a great nose!"

Indeed, Mesomarques agreed, having put the requisite amount in his glass and applied the glass to his face in a similar manner.

Like this? Shaarna asked, her voice muffled slightly due to the lower edge of the glass being pressed against her upper lip.

Deeper. Thule reached over, put his fingers on the base of her glass and lifted, forcing the magicuser’s nose even deeper. Breathe deep with your mouth closed. Both men easily heard Shaarna inhale. Now, tell me what you smell.

Shaarna lowered the glass and her eyes drifted toward the ceiling. Wine, she said coyly. Thule took in a deep breath of his own to announce his displeasure, but the young woman smiled sweetly and continued before he could. No, wait. She put the glass to her face as she’d been shown and inhaled again. I think I get the faint aroma of damp earth and maybe some citrus—lemon, I believe.

Very good! Thule bellowed. Now, try it again, this time with your eyes closed. Shaarna raised the glass to her nose again. Hold the aromas in your lungs for a moment before expelling them. Slowly.

Shaarna’s eyes flew open. Old leather! She was excited. And possibly fresh tobacco. She put the glass to her nose again.

The chef was getting excited as well. "Keep in mind that there is no wrong answer. Each nose—each palate—perceives what he or she detects differently. The deep, husky aroma that you’re describing as citrus—lemon, I think you said—I would call more of a petal flower, possibly one of the rose family."

And I would call that same aroma more herbal, Mesomarques said, taking another whiff of his wine. Dried herbs sometimes used in fine perfumes.

Thule nodded. As I said, each nose might describe the same scent differently, and none would be wrong. He frowned. However, if you were to tell me you smelled week-old socks, we might have a problem.

The three of them got a good laugh out of that.

Take a small sip, Thule instructed, his eyes still smiling. Swish it around in your mouth and then swallow. All three did that. That was the cleansing sip—designed to remove food, dust and whatever else that might block your palate from the trueness of the wine. The chef raised an eyebrow to Meso, who nodded. Now breathe in through your mouth a couple of times to pull the scent of the wine down into your lungs. He did so to show how to do it properly. OK. He smiled at the beautiful young woman seated next to him. Ready? Shaarna nodded. Take another sip—a little more this time. She did. Roll that back and forth across your tongue, then allow it to sit near the back of your mouth. Finally, allow it to slowly trickle down your throat.

Shaarna’s eyes opened wide.

Now, Thule said sternly, "don’t tell me what you taste, tell me what you feel!"

"It’s amazing! Shaarna said. She put the glass to her nose and took a deep breath. I taste the tobacco, now! The citrus is still there, but it feels more like lime, now—or a lemony lime! The mage took another small sip and did as before, this time with her eyes closed. The earthiness is deeper, but that has combined with the leather to give the feel of a freshly plowed field!"

Now you’re getting it! Thule said. He shot a look over at his wine rack. Let’s test your new palate on . . .

And so the afternoon passed to evening. The meat, cheese and bread platter turned into just the appetizer for a five-course dinner that Thule personally supervised the preparation for. With wine pairings selected from his best whites and reds, the chef brought in a special port to go with the dessert of fresh baked pastries, which they were all too full to eat but did anyway.

Evening passed into the wee hours of the morning as they sat around the same table in the same side chamber illuminated by a single oil lamp. The other cooks had been sent home hours before, leaving the three alone in the back of the inn.

Suddenly Thule looked around, leaned forward and whispered, his conspiratorial demeanor exaggerated by copious amounts of wine. "So, you know he’s in town?" He did a slow wink at Mesomarques.

Who? The cleric too had imbibed somewhat more than he would have liked, but he was fairly certain he hadn’t missed any conversation that led up to his mentor’s announcement.

Vorgath! Thule answered louder than he intended. He looked around to see if anyone had snuck in since the last time he had looked. Shh! he shushed himself, the action exaggerated by a finger to his lips. "This damned town has ears everywhere! His eyes took on a dreamy look. Oh, for the days when I ran a line camp in the hills outside of Hargstead! He took another sip of his wine. Nobody cared about who was chasin’ who! Good wine and better company were all that mattered!"

Mesomarques sat up straight. "Vorgath is here?" The effects of the wine disappeared in an instant.

Shh! Thule admonished, his eyes going unnecessarily to the two open doors. He pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to close both of them.

Shaarna watched the portly man stumble from one to the other. Who’s Vorgath? The mage’s speech slurred heavily. Her slight frame couldn’t handle the strong wine as well as the men, but that hadn’t kept her from trying.

"Shh! the cook repeated. He mustn’t know he’s being watched!"

Who’s washin’ him? Shaarna’s face contorted as she tried to place the name and remember why she should be concerned. Nope. No help. She reached for her glass but the cleric clamped a hand on her wrist before she could get there. Hey!

You have had enough, Meso said, harsher than he meant to.

I’ll say when I’ve had enough!

The cleric whispered a few words in the elven tongue and waved his hand over the young woman’s forehead. In the blink of an eye the alcohol was washed from her system.

What’d you go and do that for? the sorceress demanded. I was working hard on that drunk. Now I have to start over again. She scowled at the healer. And that seems like a waste of some mighty good wine!

Hear, hear! Thule agreed, raising his glass.

Meso repeated the spell for the cook.

Was that necessary? Thule no longer slurred his words. He