The Servant

     Grell frowned as a small splinter buried itself deep into his right hand, drawing a tiny stream of blood.  He let go of the rusty iron plow and let out an exasperated sigh as he began to pick the sliver out.  The sun beat down mercilessly upon the tiny Frelian monastery and the vegetable field that sustained those who dwelt there.  The mule, frustrated at the long pause, brayed stridently.  Grell glared at the beast with weary amber eyes.  “Quiet, Orith.  I’ll just be a moment.”

     His booted feet begrudgingly carried him to a nearby bench.  It was plain, as were all of the furnishings at the monastery, and made of faded stone.  He had been taught that living a simple life was honorable and built character, so he didn’t mind the lack of comfort.  He reached into the pocket of his faded gray habit and retrieved a small cotton cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow.  A sigh passed his lips, his body weary from labor.  He ran his fingers through hair that fell far below his shoulders.  The length was a sign that he had given his life in service to Haldor, the Celestial of Light, while the russet hue was evidence of his mixed heritage.

     Memories of his parents were dim, and as he reached for them they fled like darkness from a torch.  He knew his father had been a thael that served as a soldier during the War of Races.  As for his mother, he only knew she was human.  He dared not stray too far into the recesses of his mind - his parents did not matter.  He was a vagrant hated by both the thaelaar and mankind for his lineage, so he made his way to a temple of Haldor.  It was not the life he would have chosen, but it kept him fed.  Due to his blood, he was often chosen for the most difficult tasks, which he was surprisingly grateful for.  Many of the brethren grew fat as the years passed, but Grell only grew stronger and leaner.

     “Half-breed!”  The voice that carried to him through the blistering heat was sharp with contempt.  “Get back to work!  Haldor does not bless such blatant laziness!”

     Grell stood quickly and turned to face the man who approached him.  Each step he took seemed to be an almost insurmountable task due to his massive girth.  “Yes, Abbot Bularg, my humblest apologies.  I was removing a splinter.”  The half-thael knew the apology was in vain - he could have broken both legs and the abbot still would have expected him to plow the fields.

     The abbot’s mouth turned upward in a cruel sneer and his many chins shook with the motion.  “The sun has already begun its descent, Grell.  You must finish the task set before you if you wish to reap Haldor’s blessings.”  He pointed a fat finger at the sky as if Grell was not aware of the sun’s presence.

     “Yes, Abbot Bularg.  I am sorry.”  There were more words that he wished to say, but it was wiser to maintain humility.

     The abbot glared at the half-thael for a moment with heavy-lidded eyes and looked as if he were about to say more.  Deciding it was not worth the effort, he turned to lumber away, his labored breathing audible from a distance.  His foul body odor lingered, causing Grell to wrinkle his nose.  

     The half-thael returned to the plow, petting the mule.  “Come, Orith.  Let’s get this over with.  I don’t want to be out here the whole night through.”

     The mule began to pull the plow forward, and Grell lifted a prayer.  “Haldor, I beg for your help.  I desire nothing more than to serve you, but there must be something more to this horrid existence.  Is there no place for a half-breed in your plans?  I’ve worshiped you faithfully.  I’ve trusted you in all things.  I’m asking for a sign…”  A single tear made its way down the half-thael’s suntanned face.  “Please.”

---

     As the sun sank below the horizon, Grell stabled Orith and ensured that the beast had plenty of hay and water.  He ran his hand through the mule’s rough coat.  “Sleep well, my friend.”  The creature brayed in response.

     A visit to the dining area showed that the others had all finished with their evening meal, and that the plate which should have held his portion was empty.  This occurred on a fairly regular basis - it had probably been eaten by the abbot himself.  The half-thael let out a small sigh.  He was becoming increasingly accustomed to going hungry.

     He headed toward the dormitories and silently entered the miniscule room he shared with one other monk.  Bora was already fast asleep, sleeping fitfully in a cot that was a bit too small.  Grell looked at his own bed and was surprised to see a cloth resting on it.  A crust of bread, a slice of cheese, and a partially shriveled apple sat upon the cloth, along with a small scrap of paper.  Grell lifted the paper to see some writing scrawled across it in Dainarian, the common tongue.  He reached for the candle that sat on his bedside table and lit it with a small flint so he could read the note.

     Abbot Bularg was making a big fuss about you being late to dinner, despite the fact that he has you plowing the fields with no help.  This is what I could salvage from the kitchen for you.  I know you must be hungry.

     A smile formed on Grell’s face.  Most of the inhabitants of the monastery ignored the half-thael completely.  Abbot Bularg and a few others singled him out, attempting to make his every moment horrid.  Bora was the opposite, however, with a gentle kindness and innocent naivety - almost like a child.

     As Grell devoured the meal and crawled into his cot, he tried to ignore the pangs of hunger that still gnawed at him.  He had imagined it would be hard to fall asleep, but exhaustion soon took over.

---

     Grell sat upright in his cot, flinging aside the rough woolen blanket and clutching at his chest with both hands.  His eyes opened wide as he fought the white hot pain that burned within him.  His senses seemed to be heightened, overwhelmingly so.  The faint smell of dirt, ever present in the monastery, was suffocating.  The absence of light burned brighter than a thousand suns, piercing the eyes that he could not control �" not even to blink.  The fibers in his shoddy mattress seemed to pierce the skin like hot irons, and a metallic taste rested in his mouth, gagging him.  The quiet snoring of Bora in the cot next to him assaulted his ears, causing such pain that he thought his skull would burst.  He tried to scream, attempted to cry for help, but his mouth would produce no sound.

     He caught a glimpse of a figure in the corner of his eye �" a great white cat, its fur as white as the snow that Grell had only read about.  The cat slinked toward him, its bright golden eyes glinting in the darkness.  As it moved, the monk attempted to back away, but his body would not obey.  The cat looked fierce, and moved with an almost supernatural grace.  It stopped near the foot of the bed and locked eyes with Grell.  The half-thael could feel the heat of its breath even from that distance.  Then it spoke.  “Be still, mortal.  It is you who have called me here.”

     As soon as it began, the pain faded.  Grell, confused, gaped at the great cat before him.  A number of thoughts rushed through the monk’s mind - an animal had spoken to him, which of itself was exceedingly strange, but the most peculiar thing was that the cat had stated that it had come on Grell’s request. “Haldor?”  It was a foolish question, the half-thael thought, but he could think of no other explanation.

     “It is I.”  The creature’s voice was deep and soothing, but there was something quite dangerous about it.  “Remain silent - if you wake your friend in the next cot, it would result in his death.”

     Grell furrowed his brow as confusion and excitement dueled within him, but he nodded in affirmation.

     “I apologize for the pain you felt as you were waking.  I have marked you as my own, as you claim to be my loyal servant.  I have a task for you, one on which rests the entire future of Dain.  It will require you to leave this life behind, however.  Are you willing?”

     The answer came easily to Grell.  He would have taken nearly any reason to leave the monastery, especially if it was a permanent one.  The fact that it was due to a task given to him by the Celestial of Light himself only made the decision easier.  He nodded fervently.

     “You must leave this place at dawn and travel west by Juren Road.  You will meet others who will travel with you eventually, but be wise in the counsel you keep.  This journey is one that demands secrecy, so I cannot share much more than that at this time, but I will keep in contact with you in one way or another.  Are my instructions clear?”

     Grell nodded a third time and mouthed a single word.  “Yes.”

     “Then I take my leave of you.”  The great cat turned.

     “Wait!”  Grell’s voice cut through the still night air, causing Haldor to stop and prompting a startled snore from Bora.  The half-thael paused for a moment, waiting for the other monk’s breathing to slip back into its normal rhythm before continuing.  “Why come now?  I’ve been calling out to you for years…”

     “I have heard your prayers, Grell, be assured of that.  I am also aware of all that takes place here - the memorized prayers and the half-hearted songs.  There was a time when those here worshiped me in earnest, but it has become a ritual rather than worship.  Above all of that, I heard your voice crying out to me, but it was not yet time.  Sleep now, my servant.  A long and difficult journey awaits you.”  And with those words, the great cat was gone.

---

     Morning was quick to arrive and Grell found that sleep had been far too elusive the night before.  Bora was already awake, straightening his cot and humming contentedly.  Grell knew the tune - “Our Great Defender”, a hymn to Haldor.  Bora smiled when he saw that the half-thael had awoken.  “You best get ready, brother Grell.  It’s almost time for the morning prayer.”

     Grell rubbed his eyes as he groggily sat up in bed.  In an instant, the events of the night before returned to him, and he remembered the task that had been set before him.  He stood to his feet.  “I don’t think Haldor cares much for memorized prayers, Bora.”

     The plump monk’s eyes widened in shock.  “Hold your tongue, brother Grell!  The thaelaar have worshiped Haldor since their creation.  It is the rituals and prayers they developed that we follow to this day.”

     The half-thael grimaced.  “But I am not a thael.”  He pulled a poorly woven shirt on and slipped into a wrinkled pair of trousers.  “I never have been.”

     “You are more thael than I.”

     Grell did his best to keep his voice calm.  “And you are more human than I, Bora.  Do you not think that I know my own history?  I know it all too well.”  He grabbed his old leather pack which hung by a rusty nail from the wall next to his cot and proceeded to stuff a second shirt and pair of trousers inside.  He left the old gray habit on the bed - he refused to take it with him.

     “Grell?  What are you doing?”

     “Packing, obviously.  I’m leaving.”  He was growing frustrated with Bora’s inquisitiveness.

     “What?  Where are you going?”

     “Anywhere but here.”  Grell did not think that Bora’s eyes could have opened any wider.

     “But what about your duties?  What about Abbot Bularg?”

     “The abbot is a farce!”  Grell spat out the words, unable to contain his anger any longer.  He glowered at the portly monk who stood only a few paces away from him.  “Not even Malmortis would accept him in his embrace.”  He paused.  “I suggest you leave here too, as soon as you can.”

     Bora looked hurt - it was more than the soft-natured young man could handle.  “What happened to you Grell?  You’re not yourself.”

     The half-thael took a deep breath and softened his voice.  If anyone in this forsaken monastery deserved kindness, it was Bora.  “I know.  I am truly sorry.  You have been a good friend - my only good friend - and I thank you for that.”  He placed a hand on Bora’s shoulder.  “I must go.  Do not expect my return.”

     Bora sniffed heavily, determination hardening his expression.  “Then I will not deter you.”  With uncharacteristic speed he darted to the chest that kept most of his possessions that sat at the foot of his cot.  He pushed open the lid and reached inside before pulling out something obscured in cloth.  “This was my grandfather’s.  He was a warrior of Frelia before it had been named as such.  He fought alongside the first Archcleric before he was anointed - before Frelia chose to follow Bahralt instead of Haldor.”  His voice was heavy with emotion.  “I know there is no great wrong in worshiping a Paragon - the Celestials even commend it!  I would rather this go to a worshiper of Haldor, though.  I want you to have it.”  He pulled back the cloth, revealing a polished steel mace, and grinned slightly.  “I have kept it here for years, right under the abbot’s watch.”

     Grell lifted the mace and held it gingerly in his hand, testing its weight.  Then his fingers wrapped around the leather bound shaft.  He was no warrior, but the mace felt well balanced.  The flanges that protruded from the end were fierce and the weapon was topped off with a simple spike.  He hoped that he would not need to use it, but there was no point in refusing assistance.  Using the leather strap, he hung it from his belt.  “Thank you, Bora.  I will never forget you.”

     “Nor I you, Grell.  I will pray for you in earnest.”

     Grell nodded his appreciation.  “Pretend you did not see me leave.  I would not wish for Abbot Bularg to harbor any anger toward you.”

     “Of course.”

     “Farewell, Bora”

---

     Grell struggled down Juren Road, cursing his own lack of forethought.  Although he was used to difficult work, he was not prepared for a full day’s trek in the heat of summer.  Worse, he had not brought much food and the small waterskin he had prepared was already dry.  The realization that the monastery was so removed from civilization struck him hard.  This journey was likely going to be far more difficult than he had thought.  He sniffed when a familiar scent invaded his nostrils.  Smoke.  He lifted his eyes, shielding them from the afternoon sun.  A short distance away he could see a tendril of smoke rising.  Someone could be in trouble.  The thought urged him onward.  He tried to run, but his legs would not cooperate, forcing him to settle for a sort of stumbling hurried gait.

     “Oy there.  Where are ya headed to in such a hurry?”

     A stocky figure stepped into view from behind a rocky outcropping.  His skin was covered with bronze scales and his limbs rippled with muscle.  A khavar - the half-thael had never seen one in person.  He tried to speak, but his throat was so dry he was unable to form any words.

     “You okay there?”  The khavar held an axe in one hand and a round shield in the other.  The top of his head came to about Grell’s chest, and a black braided beard, as coarse as wire, hung to his waist.  Dark eyes were set deeply above a broad, flat nose.  He was older, but not elderly, although the scales made it difficult to determine any sort of age.  “Ya look as though you’ve seen an apparition or somethin’.  Where ya headed?”

          Grell summoned all the moisture he could to let out a single word.  “Fire.”  He pointed to the column of smoke that trailed lazily into the sky.

     The khavar looked at the smoke before letting out a hearty laugh.  “Well, sure there’s fire!  How else do you expect ‘em to cook food at the inn?”  He turned his attention back to Grell, curiosity glinting in his eyes.  “Where are ya from, stranger?”

     The half-thael could only point back in the direction he had come.  “Monastery.”  He forced the word out.

     “A worshiper of Haldor, eh?  Did ya walk the whole way here?”

     Grell nodded.

     “By the Paragons, son!  Come on then and let’s get you settled.  You must be worn to the bone.  The name’s Cormag.”

     “Grell.”  He was barely able to croak out his own name.

     “Grell, eh?  Looks like you could use a drink.  Follow me.”

     Grell followed the khavar, all of his effort focused on putting one foot in front of the other.  The khavar talked as they ambled onward.  “I’m not sure why you’re here or what you’re doin’, but to be honest, that’s not really any o’ my business.  All travelers are welcome to the Juren Road Inn as long as they don’t cause any sort o’ fuss.  There’s hot food and cold beer and a warm bed if ya need it.  I’m sort o’ the captain of the inn.  I don’t own it, but I keep it safe - me and a few others.  There have been some strange things happening in the world of late, and with no town to provide protection for the inn, old Smithe went on and hired us to look after the place.”

     As the khavar rambled about the history of the inn, it came into view.  Grell had never seen a building so large, although he was aware that his knowledge of the outside world was lacking.  Three large chimneys jutted from the bright red roof, out of one of which poured the smoke that Grell had seen.  Ornate windows were set on either side of a set of double doors, each one masterfully carved.  Elaborate vines framed the windows, drawing Grell’s gaze - such craftsmanship was unheard of at the monastery.  A small stable stood proudly next to the inn.  The half-thael had only seen four horses in his entire life, but now he could see and hear dozens of them.  However it was the smell that poured from the inn that excited him the most - food.

     Cormag noticed the look on the young man’s face.  “Haven’t been off the farm much, eh?”

     Grell managed a weak smile and a shake of his head.

     “Well come on then, son!  In ya go.”  The khavar pulled open one of the heavy wooden doors.  The noise was deafening - laughter and loud conversation threatened to overwhelm him.  “Go on, son.  They won’t hurt ya.  They’re just people.”

     With his confidence boosted by his newfound friend, he entered the inn.  In his mind, it was as though he had entered the Empyrean itself.  The smell of roasting meat and potatoes, bread straight out of the oven, and a sweet scent that he couldn’t quite place delighted him.  There were scores of people sitting at various tables scattered throughout the room.  Some were laughing raucously, others flirted, and still others sat in silence, watching the room with wary eyes.  Grell was surprised to see people of nearly all races present - humans, thaelaar, khavari, even a few kurgans and a couple of tarruk.

     Cormag prodded him onward.  “Go on, son.  Find a table.  I’ll be there in a moment.  Don’t look so lost.”

     Grell stumbled around the crowded room until his gaze fell upon a small empty table.  He moved to it, awkwardly pushing past those in his way, and sat down roughly.  He was glad to be off his feet.  After a brief moment, a young woman approached his table, a human with blonde hair and a pleasant smile.  “Can I get you anything, friend?”

     The half-thael struggled to speak.  “Wat…”  His dry throat failed him as he tried to speak, opening and closing his mouth like a fish on dry land.

“Water, sir?”

     Grell nodded in appreciation, attempting to smile back at her.

     “I’ll be right back.”

     The half-thael watched as she strode away, skirt swaying with the motion, and disappeared through a door into what he presumed was the kitchen.  He could not recall a time in his life that he had seen a woman that was not many decades older than he was, and he was in awe.

     Cormag slid into the seat across from him, a knowing smile on his face.  “Find yourself a friend, son?”

     Grell only shrugged, but he could not keep the red from his cheeks.

     The khavar set down a couple of large wooden mugs and pushed one toward the half-thael.  “Here ya go.  It’s on me.  I don’t know if you had beer back at the monastery, but by Sargoth’s blade, it’s damn good stuff.”

     Grell reached for the drink and downed about half of it in one go.  He had never had beer before, but he knew in that moment that he would certainly be having it again.  A light citrus taste filled his mouth as he swallowed.  After taking a moment to catch his breath, he spoke.  “That’s amazing!”

     “He speaks once more!”  Cormag laughed.  “Go ahead and finish that one and I’ll get ya another.  Two is all though - I don’t fancy the idea o’ taking care of an inebriated friar tonight.”

     Grell nodded, already lost in the rest of the beer.  “Thank you so much.  I have no money or I’d pay you back.”

     “Don’t worry about it.”  After a moment, the bar maiden came back with a cup of fresh cool water and set it in front of Grell.  Cormag motioned to Grell’s empty beer mug.  “Another for him, Leera, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, mister Cormag.  Is he alright?”

     Grell interjected.  “I’m fine, thank you.  It’s been a long journey.”

     Leera gave him a skeptical look.  “If you say so.”

     “The lad’s a little lost, but he’ll be alright, Leera.  I’ll make sure of it.”

     The young woman’s lips curved upward in amusement.  “Of course.  I’ll get that beer.”

     Cormag sipped at his beer.  “So, Grell.  What brings ya this far from your monastery?  Ya no longer want to be a man o’ the cloth?”

     The half-thael shook his head.  “No, that’s not it.  It’s kind of a long story, and one that’s not quite believable.”

     “We have time.  Ya won’t be able to get to the nearest town come nightfall.  We’ll set ya up with a room here.  And I’ve seen and heard some mighty unbelievable things in my time.  Talk to me.  What’s going on?”

     Grell wasn’t sure if it was the beer or the exhaustion, but he felt as though he could trust the grizzled khavar.  He relayed the events of the day and night before, and Cormag listened intently.  When Leera brought Grell another beer, she pulled up a chair to listen as well.  He wasn’t sure how long it took to explain everything, but when he was done, both the khavar and the young woman sat quietly.  It was Cormag who broke the silence first.

     “You’re serious, son?  Ya sure you’re not crazy?”

     “I can hardly believe it myself.”

     Leera interjected.  “I thought you looked a little odd for a thael.  A half-thael - that’s rare.”

     Grell fixed her with a withering glare.  “I am aware.”

     The young woman cast her eyes downward, her guilt visible.  “I’m sorry.  I’ve never met one before.”

     Cormag cleared his throat.  “There are no arguments here at the Juren Road Inn about race.  We’re all people.”

     Grell nodded, relaxing as he did so.  “Forgive me.  I am used to my bloodline being used to belittle me.”

     “Well, I can assure ya that won’t happen here.  We’ll get ya a room for tonight, and ya can continue your journey in the morning.”

     “Thank you, Cormag.”  He turned his gaze to Leera.  “And thank you, Leera.  I know little about Dain, I realize that.  I have no idea what I’m doing.”

     The khavar offered him a smile.  “Well, if Haldor sent ya on a mission, I’m sure it will all work out.”

---

     The bed was comfortable, more so than any he had encountered in his life.  The mattress was soft, the sheets were light and cool, and the pair of pillows were filled with down instead of the straw he was accustomed to.  Grell breathed a heavy sigh of relief, grateful for the kindness that had been shown him.  Leera had even brought an extra meal up to his room, although he was more than a little suspicious that Cormag had paid for it.  After the day of hard travel he had suffered, he welcomed the second serving of pork and potatoes, as did his still rumbling stomach.  He rolled over in the bed, unable to sleep despite the comfort of his surroundings.  Excitement outweighed his exhaustion, and a bit of fear gnawed at the back of his mind.  The coming days were uncertain, and he was loath to admit that the thought frightened him.

     His bare feet landed gently on the wooden floor.  He crossed the room toward the small stone wash basin against the far wall, and lit the candle that had been left there for him.  His pointed ears glared back at him from within the looking glass mounted on the wall above the basin.  His reflection mocked him, jeered at him.  Half-breed!  Other than his ears and oddly angular facial features, he looked nearly human.  He lacked the feline eyes and the imperceptibly fine body hair of the thael, but there was no denying who he was.

     “Haldor guide me.”  As he whispered the simple prayer, a pleasant peace washed over him.  It was an odd sensation - something that he had never felt in all of the thousands of prayers he had spoken before.

     A crash from below shook him from his reverence and the sound of yelling that followed lent him haste.  He dressed quickly, and shoved his feet into his dusty boots, making sure to retrieve the mace Bora had given him.  As he threw open the door to the room, he could see Cormag emerging from his own room, axe and shield at the ready.  The khavar nodded in greeting.  “Good to see ya, lad.”

     From another room stepped a large kurgan, a longsword held effortlessly in one hand, with the other furiously trying to rub the grogginess from his eyes.  It was the first kurgan that Grell had seen up close, and even in the poor light he cut an imposing figure.  He stood more than head and shoulders taller than the half-thael, and his blue-gray skin and fierce yellow eyes were intimidating.  The kurgan spoke, his voice a deep rumble.  “What is it, Cormag?”

     The khavar shook his head, his beard swaying with the motion.  “No idea.”  He motioned to the half-thael.  “Ruk, meet Grell.  Grell, Ruk.”

     The kurgan nodded at Grell, and Grell in return.  The fact that the massive warrior was friendly immediately put Grell’s mind at ease.  The trio descended the stairs quickly, stopping at the top of the final flight.  Cormag had to place a hand in front of Grell so he didn’t topple down the wooden steps.  Voices could be heard from the common area below.

     “Why, Leera?  Why would you do that?  You know we don’t have the money.”

     “He was exhausted, for Sena’s sake, and hasn’t a dainar to his name.  It’s my job to be hospitable.”

     “It’s not your job to buy food for others!”

     Cormag looked at Grell with heavy eyes and whispered.  “Leera’s father - he’s a bum and a drunk.  Let’s get out of here.  This is a domestic dispute.”

     Grell glared at the khavar in response.  “It sounds like she’s in trouble because she bought me food.”

     “It was her choice, son.  It would not be wise to get involved in their family affair - he’s an angry man.”

     The sound of hand against skin resounded twice.  “Father!”

     “Shut your mouth, Leera!  I’ll teach you to waste my money on strangers!”  The dull thud of fist against flesh sounded twice, but Leera did not cry out again.

     “By Haldor, he’s beating her!”  Grell moved down the stairs.

     “Don’t, Grell.”  Cormag tried to grab the half-thael’s arm, but failed.

     Grell strode confidently into the empty common room, lit only by a single torch.  The bar and kitchen were long closed for the night, leaving only Leera and her father.  “Stop it!  Leave her be!”

“Grell?”  Leera was on the ground, nose bleeding and a dark bruise forming on one cheek.

     Her father turned.  He was a beast of a man, his face red with anger and his fists still clenched.  He regarded Grell with a derisive laugh.  “Is this the runt?  Run along boy, this isn’t your problem.”

     “No.  Leave her alone.  I’ll pay you back when I can.  You have my word.”

     “Your word’s no good to me, boy.”  His words slurred together.

     Anger began to well up from deep within Grell, anger the likes of which he had never experienced before.  He refused to allow Leera to be beat by her own father, no matter the situation.  The pungent scent of old alcohol hung on the man’s breath, even from several paces away.  “Leave her.”

     The drunken man fumbled at his hip for a moment, a wild look in his eye, and for the first time Grell realized that he was wearing a sword.  The blade came out sloppily, but gleamed dangerously in the low light.  “Back off, child.  This is not your fight.”

     The half-thael glanced at Leera, who only shook her head.  Perhaps standing up to her father was not the wisest course of action, but he knew in his heart that it was the right thing to do.  “No.”  Grell stood his ground.

     A drunken grin spread across the man’s face.  “If you insist.”  He charged at Grell, sword aimed for his chest.

     The next moment passed in a blur, and Grell could make little sense of it.  Perhaps it was because Leera’s father was drunk, or sheer dumb luck, or maybe even Haldor’s own intervention.  Whatever the reason, Grell brought his mace up to counter the sword that was meant to end his life.  As metal struck metal, the blade soared through the air and landed with a thud, stuck point first into a table.  The half-thael maintained his hold on the mace, however, and watched as it kept moving all the way to the larger man’s neck.  Grell felt flesh and bone give way to steel, and in an instant Leera’s father lay dead on the common room floor.  A pool of blood formed as it poured from his mouth, and his eyes, still open, were fixated on Grell.  For a breath’s span, all was silent.

     Leera sobbed and Cormag cursed as Ruk quickly set about cleaning up the blood.  Grell looked at Leera, tears forming.  “Leera… I…”  He could not find the words to say.  She glared at him.

     Cormag grabbed his arm.  The khavar's scaled flesh felt strange against his own. “Hurry, lad, through the kitchen.  Ya really don’t want to be here when the rest wake up.  He wasn’t a well-liked man, but you’re a stranger - you’ll be found guilty for sure.  Go on.  I’ll cover for ya.”

     Grell moved slowly, as though there were weights chained to his feet, and his thoughts were a terrifying storm.  I killed a man.  He made his way to the kitchen and froze, horrified by the crime he had committed.  Escape was the furthest thing from his mind.

     A shove from behind startled him from his stupor - Leera.  She pushed past him and grabbed a leather travel sack.  After filling it with dried meat and bread, she scowled at him.  “What are you doing?  Can’t you at least grab a couple of water skins?  We need to get out of here.”

     “I…”

     “You damn fool.  Here, take these.”  Without warning she tossed a pair of water skins at him.

     Surprised, he managed to catch the skins without dropping them.  “You’re coming with me?”

     “I shouldn’t.  Shut your mouth before I change my mind.  The back door leads to some smaller roads.  Let’s go.  Mister Cormag can’t prevent them from looking for us for too long, even with Ruk’s help.”

     Anger and determination flashed in her eyes, and Grell knew it was no use arguing with her.  He offered a quick prayer to Haldor before he shouldered the water skins and followed her out the door.