"Among Men, As a Man"
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dochermes"Among Men, As a Man"
4/1217 DR
I.
On a grass-padded hill overlooking the harbor town of Terif, Romal the Mongrel shrugged off the straps of his pack and lowered it to his feet. He was weary of spirit. The fall of Myrrwha still haunted him, and all the battles and challenges of his life felt like a great weight on his shoulders. The Mongrel stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his heavy yellow cloak snapping in the wind, and gazed down at the harbor. Those people were not cursed to wander the world, with no kin or friends, alone as no other living being was. For Romal had not been born of woman, but spawned in the cauldrons of Maroch by Tollinor Kje himself.
He had crossed over the northern border into Signarm two days earlier, walking through the forests and trying to avoid meeting anyone. The capital city of Novato lay a good week's march to the south. But what waited for him there? Audience with King Firmalyn most likely, perhaps a night of feasting and hollow merriment. A day spent in conversation with Perenbram, the Silver Skull. And inevitably, some new menace to fight, some monster to slay. His skills as a warrior were well known in Novato.
A sudden thought came to his brooding mind, unbidden but irresistable. He was not known here in Terif. He had never been within sight of this town before. No one there had seen his face or heard or voice. They would know about him, of course. The infamous Mongrel, Seven-In-One, was part of many tales in this Age, but no person down there would recognize him.
Romal wet chapped lips with his tongue as a thrill of unfamiliar hope touched him. Maybe... he dropped his knees and opened his pack. There was no much in there. A soft bag of gold and silver coins from various realms, a kit of flint and steel for sparking fire, an iron frying pan and spoon, some fish hooks on a long cord. And a brown robe of coarse material that he had worn in Perjena as camoflauge among the Nekrosim. He yanked off his tunic of blue cotton and unfastened the clasp of his yellow cloak. Romal's torso was well muscled but slim and lithe rather than bulky, and several white scars crossed his darkly tanned skin. He tugged on the brown robe and tightened its sash around his waist, placing his normal garb in the pack. The colors he normally wore were too well known.
His mane of thick shaggy black hair was bound at the temples by a band of Trom-metal, and he took this off as well. It was his ears which would give him away, he knew, for no Human had ears that rose to distinct points. That was a trait possessed only by the Eldarin and Darthim. But his hair was long enough that he could brush it with his fingers to completely conceal those ears. Romal could not remember the last time he felt so excited and hopeful.
Rising again, tugging the brown robe down, the Mongrel almost laughed but it had been so long since he had last laughed that the sound died in his throat. He still wore the Trom-metal wristbands, and he slid them off as well. His black leggings and well-worn leather boots were common enough. At his left side his sword hung in its scabbard, a short weapon not so long as his arm. It was a good blade but nothing extraordinary, the latest in a long succession of swords he had weilded.
Romal picked up the pack and pulled its strap across his chest. Everything seemed so different than it had a few minutes ago. Even the sunlight was brighter, the spring air crisper, but he realized they had not changed. He had. Taking a deep breath, the dreaded Mongrel began to stride down the hill toward the waiting town.
II.
Being ignored was something new to him. Romal was used to frightened stares at his approach, to people stepping back into doorways and shutters being closed. Soon he relaxed and took in his surroundings. The huts and rude wooden cabins of the inhabitants circled the town itself; the center was occupied by shops. There seemed to be many craftsmen here, as he saw wooden boards over doorways announcing the services of a tailor and leatherworker, a blacksmith, a carpenter. At the end of the main street stood a tavern that caught his eye. The sign hanging from a horizontal post had a painting of a white crow with spread wings, and the double front doors hung open.
He entered a large, dim room that smelled of cedar and pine. Round tables were scattered across the floor with stools around them. Two wall hangings depicted a famous battle from Signarm's founding and a landscape of the harbor. To his left was a long bar, and behind it a counter holding bottles of wine and beer. As Romal approached, an old man with wisps of white hair over his ears glanced up from where he had been wiping pewter tankards.
"Welcome to the White Crow, stranger," the man said. "What's your fancy?"
"I am looking for a room for a few days," Romal answered cautiously.
"Oh, we can help you with that. Go upstairs. My daughter will see to it. Enjoy your stay in Terif, son." He went back to his chores.
The Mongrel headed up the wide staircase that stood beside the far wall. A bannistered walkway stretched the length of the tavern, with five unmarked doors in a row. Hesitantly, Romal rapped with the knuckles on the first one and the door swung open so promptly he jumped.
"Yes?" said the girl. "And what would it be you want?" She was young, no more than twenty, a slim tanned girl with straight brown hair and startling hazel eyes. Over her plain cotton tunic was tied a white apron with a few stains. In one hand, she held a bundle of sheets and pillowcases which seemed to be getting away from her.
"Just a room," Romal answered, taken aback by the direct stare from the girl. "For a few days, perhaps more."
She sniffed. "We have two fine rooms empty. Meals are extra, of course. Let me see the color of your coins."
The Mongrel held out a few gold coins from Skandor, and she nodded. "Those are good. Very well. One of the larger pieces, with the king's face, is worth three days stay. Agreed?"
"Yes," Romal said, handing it to her.
"My name is Elura, I'm the tavernkeeper's only child and the one who does most of the work here. This will be your room, Mr...?"
"Tomasek." That was a common enough name in Skandor. "I was a blacksmith in my homeland, but I hired out for the army and now I wish to see more of the world. This town seems friendly."
"It is," said Elura with a sudden smile that lit her face, "and so are some of its people. Dinner will be ready at dusk, Tomasek." Still smiling at him, she spun and trotted out of the room and down the stairs, leaving him filled with emotion he had no name for.
III.
Three days passed. Romal quickly grew used to sleeping without keeping an ear cocked for intruders. The food at the White Crow was simple but fresh and tasty, and he spent one evening sitting at the bar, listening to conversations and sipping ale. Slowly, he learned to relax. No one gave him hateful glances, no one drew back as he approached. For the first time in his life, he walked among men, as a man. The second day, Elura came up and offered to show him the town and introduce him. They chatted easily, made jokes and sat in the shade of the huge oak in the village square. He could not tell her his true life story of course, but she was eager to inform him about hers. On the evening of the third day, after the tavern closed, Elura crept silently into his room and slipped beneath the blankets with him. She left at dawn, with a whispered promise there would be more such nights to come.
Without quite realizing it, the Mongrel had decided to stay indefinitely. He thought it best to have a trade, for his supply of coins would not last forever. In Skandor, he had indeed been taught by the local blacksmith and he quickly found Terif's smith would take him as an apprentice. Romal had the strength of a fighting Troll condensed within his Human-looking body, and the heavy hammer was easy for him to weild. Soon, the blacksmith trusted him enough to take long naps in the afternoon while Romal pounded on the anvil. Useful work done well gave him a satisfaction he had not experienced before.
In the late afternoon of his eighth day in Terif, Romal lounged on the side porch of the White Crow, with Elura leaning up against him. She had helped him select a loose white silk blouse and baggy trousers like the townsfolk mostly wore. As they watched people come and go, Elura filled him in on gossip and he found himself laughing easily. Life should always have been this good, he thought. The horrors of his warlike past seemed to belong to someone else, like bad dreams half-forgotten.
The conversation had turned to some of the more enigmatic persons of the Darthan Age. "So this golden Benazar is really an earthbound god, I should think," Elura chatted happily. "Perhaps one of the Lords of Elvedal. I have never seen an Eldar in the flesh, Tomasek, have you? I hear they are so beautiful it breaks your heart to gaze upon them.."
"Have you ever heard of the called Romal? Romal the Mongrel?"
"Ugh! The Seven-In-One? Indeed I have. The thought of such a monster makes me ill. Unclean, of no one Race but an unnatural blending of all seven. He has the worst of every Race in him!"
"Is he not a hero?" the Mongrel asked in an almost inaudible tone.
"What? No indeed. Haven't you heard the tales of his cruelty? The cities he has burned, the mountain of corpses he has slain. By Jordyn, I wish our Silver Skull might cross his path and put an end to him." She made an exaggerated shudder.
Romal hung his head, though she did not notice. "I have heard otherwise. I heard tales he was not that bad, that he fought to protect those who are downtrodden."
"Bah!" she said. "Come, let us speak of fairer things, of the laughter of children and the air after a summer rainstorm."
"As you wish," he said with sudden weariness. The thought had played in his mind of someday confiding in Elura who he really was, but he saw now that could never be. Let Romal the Mongrel be never seen again, he would remain Tomasek the rest of his days. Living a lie, he thought sourly.
Reaching for his tankard, Romal suddenly sat upright, dislodging Elura from his shoulder. Why were the townsfolk hurrying down the street toward the harbor? Why were their faces so fearful? He rose and gazed down the hill to see a slim white dragonboat anchored by a pier, its sails bearing the arcane emblem in green of Maroch itself.
The Darthim.
Three tall, slender figures strolled languidly up the hill toward the village square where the crowd had gathered. They were dressed in fine silk robes, wearing needle-thin swords in their belts. The tyrannical masters of this Age, the Darthim had skin and hair white as milk, with long narrow eyes of a cruel cat-green. Their ears had the same sharp upper points as those Romal concealed beneath his hair. Warlocks of a level no Humans could match, their spells made them invincible against the other Races.
The villagers had drawn back into a solid mass, staring in open terror. One of the Darthim raised a delicate hand and his voice sang out, "We shall not tarry long, miserable Humans. On a voyage from Veganora, we fell prey to boredom and feel the need for diversion.."
Cold anger tightened in Romal's chest. A creation of the Kjes, raised for the first few years of his short life on Maroch, he knew too well what the Darthim found amusing. The cruelest Human sadist was a saint compared to the rulers of Maroch. Torture was a fine art, discussed critically and refined through practice. No members of any other Race ever returned from Maroch.
Yet, what could he do without revealing himself? His sword hung from a peg on the wall of his room, not drawn since he had arrived here. He cursed himself for a fool. The circle of warmth he had thought secure around him seemed hopelessly fragile in this world that suffered under the Darthan heel.
The lead Dartha, who wore a green sash across his narrow chest to show his rank in their aristocracy, spotted Romal and leered wickedly. "You! Northern barbarian. Approach me."
Elura gripped his arm with both hands, but the Mongrel gently disengaged and rose to his full height. His blood seemed to roar in his head as he fought down rage, walking over to stand before the warlocks. "Well. Here I am," he said.
"An odd Northerner," the Kje remarked to his comrades. "Is not dark hair uncommon in such cattle? I do not care for the defiance in your eyes, Human. Do you not know who we are?"
"Aye, all the world knows and curses you," Romal snapped.
The Dartha's thin white hand lashed out, long fingernails scraping to lay open a gouge across Romal's cheek. The Mongrel made no move in response, not even to touch the wound. But his eyes turned chill beneath heavy black brows, cold as the eyes of the Snake men whose genetic structure he shared in part. Hard, shining, unblinking, they glittered with hatred.
Whether even the Dartha was taken aback by that glare or whether he simply sought more docile prey cannot be known. Stepping back, he raised one hand in a sorcerous gesture. Lurid red lightning crashed like a whip to slam into Romal and throw him bodily back off his feet. As the Darthim turned back to the ground, the Mongrel got stiffly to hands and knees and forced himself upright. Smoke curled from a hole burned in his shirt.
Elura rushed to him. "Oh my love, are you hurt?" But her answer was a deep growl that rumbled from deep in the Mongrel's chest. She drew back in alarm. No Human ever made a sound so like a Troll. Romal rose unsteadily, hurrying toward the White Crow Tavern, and with each step his striding grew firmer. The Eldar blood he possessed made him unusually resistant to gralic force. By the time he stalked up the staircase to his room, he had thrown off the effects altogether.
Angrily, the Mongrel tore off his new garments and drew on the clothing he had not worn for the past week. In the blue long-sleeved tunic and yellow travel cloak, he suddenly felt himself again. He tugged the Trom-metal wristbands on and fastened the Trom-metal diadem at his temples, holding his long hair back out of his eyes and revealing his ears. Romal buckled the swordbelt and yanked its baldric up across his chest, then hesitated. Did he have to do this? Did he have to throw away the only chance he might ever have to live as other men did? He could wait here until the Darthim left and seem no more a coward than the people of the village...
A shriek echoed from the village square, rising and growing shrill.
Something within Romal snapped. He wheeled around and sped down the stairs in reckless bounds. Sword in hand, the Mongrel hurtled out of the tavern and across the square to where the crowd still stood paralyzed with terror. In a split-second, he saw that one of the Darthim was holding the hands of a pregnant young woman and the leader had sliced open her dress to expose the round hard belly. He twirled the wavy-bladed dagger near that stomach.
"Boy or girl?" he asked cheerfully, "There is but one way to find out."
From the crowd, voices yelled, "Romal! Look!" "It is Romal the Mongrel!" The Darthim froze in surprise as their heads turned to recognize the dramatic figure in blue and yellow, and in that moment he was upon them. The sword whirled in a horizontal arc, backed by muscles that condensed the strength of a fighting Troll into a Human form. That Dartha's head spun wildly to one side and rolled in the dust.
The second Dartha turned and drove his dagger at this strange attacker, but Romal defly blocked it with the Trom-metal wristband and slid his sword into the chest of the Maroch sorcerer. The Mongrel tugged it free. All this had happened in less than a full second. Romal saw dark red force crackle furiously around the open hands of the sole remain Dartha, gralic bolts were about to be launched. The Mongrel leaped straight up above his own head level, with an ease that showed he could have jumped much higher, and as he came down, he split the Dartha's skull from crown to jaw in a gruesome burst of blood and brains. As he touched down, Romal automatically whirled his sword in a figure eight pattern to fling some of the gore off it.
It took a moment for him to calm himself, to be satisfied that the threat was over. The pregnant girl had fled into the crowd, which was itself drawing back away from the carnage. Romal glared down at the three dead Darthim and growled like a beast. He glared up again, his fighting spirit still high, and saw the townsfolk shrink back in fear... fear of him.
The Mongrel's breathing slowed as his heart broke. He saw Elura standing almost within reach, her hazel eyes wide and her face pale. The girl pressed a hand over her mouth as if she were about to retch, then she turned and ran blindly away, down the street. The crowd was silent as if holding its collective breath.
Romal's shoulders sagged. He knelt to clean his sword on the clothing of the dead warlocks. "A hundred Darthim shall die for this day," he whispered.
1974 - Rev 6/25/2014
4/1217 DR
I.
On a grass-padded hill overlooking the harbor town of Terif, Romal the Mongrel shrugged off the straps of his pack and lowered it to his feet. He was weary of spirit. The fall of Myrrwha still haunted him, and all the battles and challenges of his life felt like a great weight on his shoulders. The Mongrel stood with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his heavy yellow cloak snapping in the wind, and gazed down at the harbor. Those people were not cursed to wander the world, with no kin or friends, alone as no other living being was. For Romal had not been born of woman, but spawned in the cauldrons of Maroch by Tollinor Kje himself.
He had crossed over the northern border into Signarm two days earlier, walking through the forests and trying to avoid meeting anyone. The capital city of Novato lay a good week's march to the south. But what waited for him there? Audience with King Firmalyn most likely, perhaps a night of feasting and hollow merriment. A day spent in conversation with Perenbram, the Silver Skull. And inevitably, some new menace to fight, some monster to slay. His skills as a warrior were well known in Novato.
A sudden thought came to his brooding mind, unbidden but irresistable. He was not known here in Terif. He had never been within sight of this town before. No one there had seen his face or heard or voice. They would know about him, of course. The infamous Mongrel, Seven-In-One, was part of many tales in this Age, but no person down there would recognize him.
Romal wet chapped lips with his tongue as a thrill of unfamiliar hope touched him. Maybe... he dropped his knees and opened his pack. There was no much in there. A soft bag of gold and silver coins from various realms, a kit of flint and steel for sparking fire, an iron frying pan and spoon, some fish hooks on a long cord. And a brown robe of coarse material that he had worn in Perjena as camoflauge among the Nekrosim. He yanked off his tunic of blue cotton and unfastened the clasp of his yellow cloak. Romal's torso was well muscled but slim and lithe rather than bulky, and several white scars crossed his darkly tanned skin. He tugged on the brown robe and tightened its sash around his waist, placing his normal garb in the pack. The colors he normally wore were too well known.
His mane of thick shaggy black hair was bound at the temples by a band of Trom-metal, and he took this off as well. It was his ears which would give him away, he knew, for no Human had ears that rose to distinct points. That was a trait possessed only by the Eldarin and Darthim. But his hair was long enough that he could brush it with his fingers to completely conceal those ears. Romal could not remember the last time he felt so excited and hopeful.
Rising again, tugging the brown robe down, the Mongrel almost laughed but it had been so long since he had last laughed that the sound died in his throat. He still wore the Trom-metal wristbands, and he slid them off as well. His black leggings and well-worn leather boots were common enough. At his left side his sword hung in its scabbard, a short weapon not so long as his arm. It was a good blade but nothing extraordinary, the latest in a long succession of swords he had weilded.
Romal picked up the pack and pulled its strap across his chest. Everything seemed so different than it had a few minutes ago. Even the sunlight was brighter, the spring air crisper, but he realized they had not changed. He had. Taking a deep breath, the dreaded Mongrel began to stride down the hill toward the waiting town.
II.
Being ignored was something new to him. Romal was used to frightened stares at his approach, to people stepping back into doorways and shutters being closed. Soon he relaxed and took in his surroundings. The huts and rude wooden cabins of the inhabitants circled the town itself; the center was occupied by shops. There seemed to be many craftsmen here, as he saw wooden boards over doorways announcing the services of a tailor and leatherworker, a blacksmith, a carpenter. At the end of the main street stood a tavern that caught his eye. The sign hanging from a horizontal post had a painting of a white crow with spread wings, and the double front doors hung open.
He entered a large, dim room that smelled of cedar and pine. Round tables were scattered across the floor with stools around them. Two wall hangings depicted a famous battle from Signarm's founding and a landscape of the harbor. To his left was a long bar, and behind it a counter holding bottles of wine and beer. As Romal approached, an old man with wisps of white hair over his ears glanced up from where he had been wiping pewter tankards.
"Welcome to the White Crow, stranger," the man said. "What's your fancy?"
"I am looking for a room for a few days," Romal answered cautiously.
"Oh, we can help you with that. Go upstairs. My daughter will see to it. Enjoy your stay in Terif, son." He went back to his chores.
The Mongrel headed up the wide staircase that stood beside the far wall. A bannistered walkway stretched the length of the tavern, with five unmarked doors in a row. Hesitantly, Romal rapped with the knuckles on the first one and the door swung open so promptly he jumped.
"Yes?" said the girl. "And what would it be you want?" She was young, no more than twenty, a slim tanned girl with straight brown hair and startling hazel eyes. Over her plain cotton tunic was tied a white apron with a few stains. In one hand, she held a bundle of sheets and pillowcases which seemed to be getting away from her.
"Just a room," Romal answered, taken aback by the direct stare from the girl. "For a few days, perhaps more."
She sniffed. "We have two fine rooms empty. Meals are extra, of course. Let me see the color of your coins."
The Mongrel held out a few gold coins from Skandor, and she nodded. "Those are good. Very well. One of the larger pieces, with the king's face, is worth three days stay. Agreed?"
"Yes," Romal said, handing it to her.
"My name is Elura, I'm the tavernkeeper's only child and the one who does most of the work here. This will be your room, Mr...?"
"Tomasek." That was a common enough name in Skandor. "I was a blacksmith in my homeland, but I hired out for the army and now I wish to see more of the world. This town seems friendly."
"It is," said Elura with a sudden smile that lit her face, "and so are some of its people. Dinner will be ready at dusk, Tomasek." Still smiling at him, she spun and trotted out of the room and down the stairs, leaving him filled with emotion he had no name for.
III.
Three days passed. Romal quickly grew used to sleeping without keeping an ear cocked for intruders. The food at the White Crow was simple but fresh and tasty, and he spent one evening sitting at the bar, listening to conversations and sipping ale. Slowly, he learned to relax. No one gave him hateful glances, no one drew back as he approached. For the first time in his life, he walked among men, as a man. The second day, Elura came up and offered to show him the town and introduce him. They chatted easily, made jokes and sat in the shade of the huge oak in the village square. He could not tell her his true life story of course, but she was eager to inform him about hers. On the evening of the third day, after the tavern closed, Elura crept silently into his room and slipped beneath the blankets with him. She left at dawn, with a whispered promise there would be more such nights to come.
Without quite realizing it, the Mongrel had decided to stay indefinitely. He thought it best to have a trade, for his supply of coins would not last forever. In Skandor, he had indeed been taught by the local blacksmith and he quickly found Terif's smith would take him as an apprentice. Romal had the strength of a fighting Troll condensed within his Human-looking body, and the heavy hammer was easy for him to weild. Soon, the blacksmith trusted him enough to take long naps in the afternoon while Romal pounded on the anvil. Useful work done well gave him a satisfaction he had not experienced before.
In the late afternoon of his eighth day in Terif, Romal lounged on the side porch of the White Crow, with Elura leaning up against him. She had helped him select a loose white silk blouse and baggy trousers like the townsfolk mostly wore. As they watched people come and go, Elura filled him in on gossip and he found himself laughing easily. Life should always have been this good, he thought. The horrors of his warlike past seemed to belong to someone else, like bad dreams half-forgotten.
The conversation had turned to some of the more enigmatic persons of the Darthan Age. "So this golden Benazar is really an earthbound god, I should think," Elura chatted happily. "Perhaps one of the Lords of Elvedal. I have never seen an Eldar in the flesh, Tomasek, have you? I hear they are so beautiful it breaks your heart to gaze upon them.."
"Have you ever heard of the called Romal? Romal the Mongrel?"
"Ugh! The Seven-In-One? Indeed I have. The thought of such a monster makes me ill. Unclean, of no one Race but an unnatural blending of all seven. He has the worst of every Race in him!"
"Is he not a hero?" the Mongrel asked in an almost inaudible tone.
"What? No indeed. Haven't you heard the tales of his cruelty? The cities he has burned, the mountain of corpses he has slain. By Jordyn, I wish our Silver Skull might cross his path and put an end to him." She made an exaggerated shudder.
Romal hung his head, though she did not notice. "I have heard otherwise. I heard tales he was not that bad, that he fought to protect those who are downtrodden."
"Bah!" she said. "Come, let us speak of fairer things, of the laughter of children and the air after a summer rainstorm."
"As you wish," he said with sudden weariness. The thought had played in his mind of someday confiding in Elura who he really was, but he saw now that could never be. Let Romal the Mongrel be never seen again, he would remain Tomasek the rest of his days. Living a lie, he thought sourly.
Reaching for his tankard, Romal suddenly sat upright, dislodging Elura from his shoulder. Why were the townsfolk hurrying down the street toward the harbor? Why were their faces so fearful? He rose and gazed down the hill to see a slim white dragonboat anchored by a pier, its sails bearing the arcane emblem in green of Maroch itself.
The Darthim.
Three tall, slender figures strolled languidly up the hill toward the village square where the crowd had gathered. They were dressed in fine silk robes, wearing needle-thin swords in their belts. The tyrannical masters of this Age, the Darthim had skin and hair white as milk, with long narrow eyes of a cruel cat-green. Their ears had the same sharp upper points as those Romal concealed beneath his hair. Warlocks of a level no Humans could match, their spells made them invincible against the other Races.
The villagers had drawn back into a solid mass, staring in open terror. One of the Darthim raised a delicate hand and his voice sang out, "We shall not tarry long, miserable Humans. On a voyage from Veganora, we fell prey to boredom and feel the need for diversion.."
Cold anger tightened in Romal's chest. A creation of the Kjes, raised for the first few years of his short life on Maroch, he knew too well what the Darthim found amusing. The cruelest Human sadist was a saint compared to the rulers of Maroch. Torture was a fine art, discussed critically and refined through practice. No members of any other Race ever returned from Maroch.
Yet, what could he do without revealing himself? His sword hung from a peg on the wall of his room, not drawn since he had arrived here. He cursed himself for a fool. The circle of warmth he had thought secure around him seemed hopelessly fragile in this world that suffered under the Darthan heel.
The lead Dartha, who wore a green sash across his narrow chest to show his rank in their aristocracy, spotted Romal and leered wickedly. "You! Northern barbarian. Approach me."
Elura gripped his arm with both hands, but the Mongrel gently disengaged and rose to his full height. His blood seemed to roar in his head as he fought down rage, walking over to stand before the warlocks. "Well. Here I am," he said.
"An odd Northerner," the Kje remarked to his comrades. "Is not dark hair uncommon in such cattle? I do not care for the defiance in your eyes, Human. Do you not know who we are?"
"Aye, all the world knows and curses you," Romal snapped.
The Dartha's thin white hand lashed out, long fingernails scraping to lay open a gouge across Romal's cheek. The Mongrel made no move in response, not even to touch the wound. But his eyes turned chill beneath heavy black brows, cold as the eyes of the Snake men whose genetic structure he shared in part. Hard, shining, unblinking, they glittered with hatred.
Whether even the Dartha was taken aback by that glare or whether he simply sought more docile prey cannot be known. Stepping back, he raised one hand in a sorcerous gesture. Lurid red lightning crashed like a whip to slam into Romal and throw him bodily back off his feet. As the Darthim turned back to the ground, the Mongrel got stiffly to hands and knees and forced himself upright. Smoke curled from a hole burned in his shirt.
Elura rushed to him. "Oh my love, are you hurt?" But her answer was a deep growl that rumbled from deep in the Mongrel's chest. She drew back in alarm. No Human ever made a sound so like a Troll. Romal rose unsteadily, hurrying toward the White Crow Tavern, and with each step his striding grew firmer. The Eldar blood he possessed made him unusually resistant to gralic force. By the time he stalked up the staircase to his room, he had thrown off the effects altogether.
Angrily, the Mongrel tore off his new garments and drew on the clothing he had not worn for the past week. In the blue long-sleeved tunic and yellow travel cloak, he suddenly felt himself again. He tugged the Trom-metal wristbands on and fastened the Trom-metal diadem at his temples, holding his long hair back out of his eyes and revealing his ears. Romal buckled the swordbelt and yanked its baldric up across his chest, then hesitated. Did he have to do this? Did he have to throw away the only chance he might ever have to live as other men did? He could wait here until the Darthim left and seem no more a coward than the people of the village...
A shriek echoed from the village square, rising and growing shrill.
Something within Romal snapped. He wheeled around and sped down the stairs in reckless bounds. Sword in hand, the Mongrel hurtled out of the tavern and across the square to where the crowd still stood paralyzed with terror. In a split-second, he saw that one of the Darthim was holding the hands of a pregnant young woman and the leader had sliced open her dress to expose the round hard belly. He twirled the wavy-bladed dagger near that stomach.
"Boy or girl?" he asked cheerfully, "There is but one way to find out."
From the crowd, voices yelled, "Romal! Look!" "It is Romal the Mongrel!" The Darthim froze in surprise as their heads turned to recognize the dramatic figure in blue and yellow, and in that moment he was upon them. The sword whirled in a horizontal arc, backed by muscles that condensed the strength of a fighting Troll into a Human form. That Dartha's head spun wildly to one side and rolled in the dust.
The second Dartha turned and drove his dagger at this strange attacker, but Romal defly blocked it with the Trom-metal wristband and slid his sword into the chest of the Maroch sorcerer. The Mongrel tugged it free. All this had happened in less than a full second. Romal saw dark red force crackle furiously around the open hands of the sole remain Dartha, gralic bolts were about to be launched. The Mongrel leaped straight up above his own head level, with an ease that showed he could have jumped much higher, and as he came down, he split the Dartha's skull from crown to jaw in a gruesome burst of blood and brains. As he touched down, Romal automatically whirled his sword in a figure eight pattern to fling some of the gore off it.
It took a moment for him to calm himself, to be satisfied that the threat was over. The pregnant girl had fled into the crowd, which was itself drawing back away from the carnage. Romal glared down at the three dead Darthim and growled like a beast. He glared up again, his fighting spirit still high, and saw the townsfolk shrink back in fear... fear of him.
The Mongrel's breathing slowed as his heart broke. He saw Elura standing almost within reach, her hazel eyes wide and her face pale. The girl pressed a hand over her mouth as if she were about to retch, then she turned and ran blindly away, down the street. The crowd was silent as if holding its collective breath.
Romal's shoulders sagged. He knelt to clean his sword on the clothing of the dead warlocks. "A hundred Darthim shall die for this day," he whispered.
1974 - Rev 6/25/2014
