The Grey Pearl (Of Caladuin: Volume Two)

2

The next one wasn't so easy: a Dwarf of Nogrod called Baraz. He had been working in Eglarest almost as long as Caladuin but they had not yet met at the table. The Dwarf rolled up the sleeves of his brown smock; his forearms were like hairy hams and his shoulders were broad and round. He tightened his belt and sat opposite. Caladuin felt the hard callouses of the stonemason's tightened fist and broke into a sweat as his palm pressed against the Dwarf's. The crowd started chanting "Baraz! Baraz!" and the Dwarf grinned through his fiery beard, fixing Caladuin's gaze with his green eyes.

The crowd surged and someone lurched into the table. Caladuin saw his chance: he tightened his grip around the Dwarf's huge hand and bent his wrist over while leaning forward. Baraz gripped the edge of the table but it was too late. Caladuin straightened his wrist and eased him in. He felt resistance as the Dwarf's knuckles touched the table. Then his arm relaxed and Baraz was pushing himself up and away, knocking his stool over.

"Another lucky win! Tomorrow, green-leaf. Tomorrow I will take you." He threw some coins on the table and accepted a consolatory tankard of ale from one of his workmates.

Caladuin grinned and swept the money up. "Perhaps, Baraz." He took his goblet back to his corner, sat and watched the crowd. An unseen fiddler started playing a ballad. The air was close and heavy and full of strange accents. There were less Dwarves in Eglarest than last he was here but they made enough noise for twice their number. But there were other strange voices in the tavern: unfamiliar dialects of Sindarin. One of the gatekeepers had told him that recently there had been Dolendrim wandering around the city. Caladuin had only come across the Dark-elves once before on the northern borders of their home, Taur-im-Duinath. He'd never seen them on the coast before.

A small group of local fishers were muttering to each other and glaring at the Dwarves. Since the stonemasons from Nogrod had been in the city, arm-wrestling had been encouraged as a way to avoid higher forms of violence. The law was clear where arms were concerned: all civilians and visitors were permitted to bring them into the city as long as they left them at the armoury. Even so, the cellar master suffered no fools when it looked like a disagreement was about to turn physical.

Presently, Baraz and his friends had started singing: some rowdy Dwarvish drinking song. The fiddler took up the tune. They swayed in unison and ale spilled from their tankards. One of the fishers had risen from his table and found his way to the bar blocked by the raucous Dwarves. He gently pushed them aside as he made his way through and some of the Dwarves slapped him on the back as he passed.

Caladuin noticed three or four Dolendrim beyond the choir of Dwarves. They sipped from their goblets and stared at the Dwarves. The nearest and tallest of them wore a wide but curiously mirthless grin. Rather than enjoying the rowdy though good-natured singing, there was something else behind that grin. Something like hatred.

The fisher, newly stocked with three full goblets, again tried to navigate the crowd. He held the goblets high as he swayed and wheeled gracefully among the surging Dwarves. He was almost back at his table when Baraz stumbled and fell into him. Wine sloshed from the goblets all over the fisher's ivory-coloured tunic. He turned and stared at Baraz, who was oblivious. Still singing and dancing he turned and faced the Elf who was still staring.

The singing died down as one by one, the Dwarves noticed Baraz and the fisher staring at each other. Now everyone in the tavern was watching. The fiddler stopped playing.

Eventually, Baraz broke the silence: "Nice tunic." He threw his head back, laughing.

The rest happened very quickly. The fisher dropped his half-empty goblets and, placing his palm on the Dwarf's forehead, pushed him back into the Dolendrim beyond. Baraz staggered and his flailing arms caught the goblet of one of the Dark-elves. It was launched into the air, wine cascading over those nearby.

Baraz's friends now launched themselves at the fishers and soon fists were flying and tables and stools were being flipped. But Caladuin was more interested in the Dolendrim. The one who had been deprived of his goblet now held something shiny in his hand.

"Knife!" Caladuin bellowed and pushed himself to his feet. Then all turned to chaos. The crowd surged like an angry sea. The cellar master appeared, wielding a stout dark-wood club. Caladuin caught his eye and gestured towards the Dolendrim. "There!" As the crowd parted for the cellar master the Dark-elves were nowhere to be seen.

Baraz was on his back with his bloodied hand pressed against his flank. His friends rushed toward him and two of them helped him up. "The bastard stabbed me!" Someone pushed a tankard into his free hand and his friends helped him to sit.

"Has someone called for the guards?" Caladuin ventured.

But they were already barging through the door. Two tall Falathrim in silver armour with short swords by their sides. they were named. Caladuin was always trying to stay on the right side of them.

"Caladuin," Eldacar called out. Tarannon passed him to attend to Baraz. "We might have expected to find you here."

"Did you not see a group of Dolendrim outside? One of them wields a blade. They must be apprehended."

"Leave such matters to the guards, green-leaf. Lord Círdan is expecting you in his Halls. Wait outside until we have cleared up this mess."