“Now you’ve done it!” snarled the man from the shadows. Two of the brown-robed creatures hung their heads, though a third seemed inclined to argue. “Be quiet! I’ll handle this!”
Leaning forward into the light, he gave the three young men an amiable smile from the depths of a full, glossy black beard and, raising his mug, said cheerfully, “Dougan Redhammer, at your service, young gents. Will you take a drink with an old dwarf?”
“That we will, and with pleasure,” Tanin said politely.
“Let me out,” grunted the dwarf to the brown-robed creatures, who were so packed into the booth it was impossible to tell how many of them there might have been. With much groaning and swearing and “ouch, that's my foot, you widget brain” and “mind my beard, gear-head,” the dwarf emerged—somewhat flushed and panting—from the back of the booth. Carrying his mug and calling for the innkeep to bring “my private stock,” Dougan approached the table where the young men had taken seats.
The others in the inn, sailors and local residents for the most part, returned to their own conversations—the subjects of which appeared to Palin to be of a sinister nature, judging from the grim and ill-favored expressions on their faces. They had not welcomed the brothers nor did they seem interested in either the dwarf or his companions. Several cast scowling glances at Dougan Redhammer. This didn’t disconcert the dwarf in the least. Pulling up a high stool that compensated for his short stature, the stout and flashily dressed (at least for a dwarf) Dougan plopped himself down at the brothers' table.
“What’ll you have, gentlemen?” asked the dwarf. “The spirits of my people? Ah, you’re men of taste! There’s nothing better than the fermented mushroom brew of Thorbardin.”
Dougan grinned at the brothers expansively as the innkeeper shuffled to the table, carrying three mugs in his hand. Putting these down, he thumped a large clay bottle stoppered with a cork in front of the dwarf. Dougan pulled the cork and inhaled the fumes with a gusty sigh of contentment that caused Sturm’s mouth to water in anticipation.
“Aye, that’s prime,” said the dwarf in satisfaction. “Hand your mugs round, gents. Don’t be shy. There’s plenty for all and more where this came from. I don’t drink with strangers, though, so tell me your names.”
“Tanin Majere, and these are my brothers, Sturm and Palin,” said Tanin, sliding his mug over willingly. Sturm’s was already in the dwarf’s hand.
“I’ll have wine, thank you,” Palin said stiffly. Then he added in an undertone, “You know how Father feels about that stuff.” Tanin responded with an icy glare and Sturm laughed.
“Aw, loosen up, Palin!” Sturm said. “A mug or two of dwarf spirits never hurt anyone.”
“Right you are there, lad!” said Dougan roundly. ” 'Tis good for what ails you, my father was wont to say. This marvelous elixir’ll mend broken head or broken heart. Try it, young wizard. If your father be the Hero of the Lance, Caramon Majere, then he lifted a glass or two in his day, if all the tales I’ve heard about him be true!”
“I’ll have wine,” Palin repeated, coldly ignoring his brothers' elbow-nudging and foot-kicking.
“Probably best for the young lad,” said Dougan with a wink at Tanin.
“Innkeep, wine for the youngster here!”
Palin flushed in shame, but there was little he could say, realizing he’d said more than enough already. Embarrassed, he took his glass and hunched down in his white robes, unable to look around. He had the feeling that everyone in the inn was laughing at him.
“So, you’ve heard of our father?” Tanin asked abruptly, changing the subject.
“Who hasn’t heard of Caramon Majere, Hero of the Lance?” said Dougan. “Here’s to his health!” Lifting his mug, the dwarf took a long pull of the spirits, as did both Tanin and Sturm. When the three set the mugs down, there was no sound for the moment except slight gaspings for air. This was followed by three satisfied belches.
“Damn good!” said Sturm huskily, wiping his streaming eyes.
“I’ve never had better!” Tanin swore, drawing a deep breath.
“Drink up, lad!” said the dwarf to Palin. “You’ll surely drink a toast to your own father, won’t you?”
“Of course he will, won’t you, Palin?” said Tanin, his voice dangerously pleasant.
Palin obediently took a sip of his wine, drinking to his father’s health.
After that, the others quickly ignored him, becoming absorbed in conversation about the parts of the world each had been in recently and what was transpiring where. Palin, unable to take part in the conversation, fell to studying the dwarf. Dougan was taller than most dwarves the young man had known and, although he called himself “old,” he couldn’t have been much over one hundred years, an age considered to be just suitably mature for a dwarf. His beard was obviously his pride and joy; he stroked it often, never failing to draw attention to it when possible. Shining black, it grew thick and luxuriant, tumbling over his chest and down past his belt. His hair, too, was as black and curly as his beard and he wore it almost as long. Like most dwarves, he was rotund and probably hadn’t seen his feet below his round belly in years. Unlike most dwarves, however, Dougan was dressed in a flamboyant style that would have well become the lord of Palanthas.
Outfitted in a red velvet jacket, red velvet breeches, black stockings, black shoes with red heels, and a silk shirt with puffy sleeves—a shirt that might once have been white but was now stained with dirt, spirits, and what may have been lunch—Dougan was an astonishing sight. He was remarkable, too, in other ways. Most dwarves are somewhat surly and withdrawn around members of other races, but Dougan was jovial and talkative and altogether the most engaging stranger the brothers had come across on their travels. He, in his turn, appeared to enjoy their company.
“By Reorx,” said the dwarf admiringly, watching Tanin and Sturm drain their mugs, “but you are lads after my own heart. If s a pleasure to drink with real men.”
Sturm grinned. “There are not many who can keep up with us,” he boasted, motioning the dwarf to pour the spirits. “So you better have a care, Dougan, and slow down.”
“Slow down! Look who’s talking!” The dwarf roared so loudly that all eyes in the common room turned on them, including the eyes of the small creatures in the brown robes. “Why, there isn’t a human alive who can outdrink a dwarf with his own brew!”
Glancing at Sturm, Tanin winked, though he kept his face solemn.
“You’ve just met two of them, Dougan Redhammer,” he said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked beneath his weight. “We’ve drunk many a stout dwarf under the table and were still sober enough, Sturm and I, to guide him to his bed.”
“And I,” returned Dougan, clenching his fist, his face turning a fiery red beneath the black beard, “have drunk ten stout humans under the table and not only did I lead them to their beds, I put their nightclothes on them and tidied up their rooms to boot!”
“You won’t do that to us!” vowed Tanin.
“Wanna bet?” roared the dwarf, with a slight slur.
“A wager, then?” cried Sturm.
“A wager!” shouted Dougan.
“Name the rules and the stakes!” Tanin said, sitting forward.
Dougan stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll match you lads one on one, drink for drink—”
“Ha!” Sturm burst out laughing.
“—drink for drink,” continued the dwarf imperturbably, “until your beardless chins hit the floor.”
“It’ll be your beard and not our chins that hits the floor, dwarf,” Sturm said. “What stakes?”
Dougan Redhammer pondered. “The winner has the very great satisfaction of assisting the losers to their beds,” he said, after a pause, twirling a long moustache around his finger.