A few of them looked and pointed at the barbarian who had been invited to the event, but he got the feeling that most had already been warned of his presence and didn't think it as uncommon as he was led to believe it was.
It wasn't long before Brahgen ran to where he stood.
Unlike Skharr, he wore clothes that were more appropriate for a feast, probably prepared beforehand when they were informed of his imminent arrival.
"Look at you." He smirked as the youth punched him hard in the shoulder. "You look like a little princeling—about what I imagined the emperor looked like when he was ten years old."
"And you look like a troll covered in face paint and dressed in clothing," his friend countered smoothly. "Who someone tied a fake beard and hair to."
"Trolls do grow hair and beards, although they are mostly gray," he told him. "And putting face paint on one would be mighty difficult, even for me. Unless it were dead."
"Have you fought a troll before?"
Skharr nodded. "It came fucking close to killing me as well. They are large bastards but they have little in the way of a sharp mind for battle. They charge at anything with their head lowered like a bull."
"You've fought a bull too?" Brahgen laughed. "Fucking hells, barbarian, is there anything under the sun that you haven't crossed blades with?"
He paused and inclined his head in thought. "I've never fought sheep before."
"Goats?"
"I've fought a goat. But, in my defense, the goat did start it. And even I know better than to pick a fight with woodland fae. Those bastards could leave you suffering from ill-luck for decades even after they are killed."
"Are you sure? It might merely be a myth."
"It could be. But would you truly want to risk ten years of bad luck when you can simply negotiate your passage through their woodlands?"
"Wait—you've met a woodland fae?"
"A long time ago. I was still a young barbarian then. He asked that I help him carry his pack. He'd been wounded and had difficulty walking. I assisted him with his burden and left him with food for the rest of his journey."
Brahgen narrowed his eyes as they moved through the crowd that grew larger with every passing minute. "They are said to give good luck to those who help them in a time of need."
"True, but I was soon involved in a war that compelled me to kill one of my best friends immediately after, so I assumed he forgot to provide me with whatever fucking blessing he meant to."
"Or his luck was for you to survive the war. I can imagine there are a great many who didn't."
Skharr couldn't argue with that, although he didn't like to think the same luck that ensured his survival was what caused him to bury his sword in Tristan's chest.
Most tales insisted that there was a twisted humor in all agreements reached with the fae. Perhaps he would find himself in the presence of that little fucker again and if he were responsible, he would see him dead, bad luck be damned.
"Brahgie, come!"
The barbarian turned where his friend’s mother called for his attention again.
"Not…a fucking…word," the youth muttered.
"As you say, Brahgie."
"Fuck you."
She looked like dwarvish royalty with her thick brown hair bound in an intricate braid, a bright red dress, and a flowing silk cloak draped around her shoulders and held in place by a silver broach with a sapphire in the center.
"Skharr, you are welcome to join us at the head table," she stated, although with considerably less affection in her voice. "You must tell us more about your travels. Throk said you would be arriving almost a week earlier."
"We were delayed," Brahgen interjected quickly. "We needed to circle a little more than planned and were in need of coin on the way. Skharr used his membership in the guild to find us some."
"Some work, aye," the warrior said as he slid into the seat he was offered at the main table. It was a little smaller than was comfortable and Skharr needed to pull the stool away for him to be able to sit on it. "We were contracted to clear the dungeon on the Groll Oak Orcs' Isle. Brahgen was able to communicate with the orcs and arrange safe passage to the dungeon that was being guarded by a handful of swamp hags."
"A story about how Skharr conquered a dungeon?" one of the dwarves called. "And before the bards get around to butchering it and removing all the good violence from it. This has the makings of a good story."
The barbarian laughed. "In all honesty, I had less to do with it than I have had in the past. I managed to eliminate a small clan of lizardfolk that the hags used to protect themselves, but when the crones revealed themselves, I was easily bested. A little too easily for any of the bards to like if they've made their coin by telling folk how powerful a barbarian I am."
The dwarves all shared a round of laughter at that, and he realized that he had an audience of at least three dozen listening to what he had to say.
"As the hags tried to drag me to their cauldron—there was considerable mention of how sweet my blood would taste and how stringy my muscles would be—Brahgen picked my bow up."
Every gaze turned to the young dwarf, whose eyes were wide, and Skharr could see that his mother studied the two of them with a disapproving glare. He realized that he was already drawing to the end of the story and he needed to make it last a little longer. Years of entertaining fellow soldiers with tales told him more detail was required.
"He knew in that moment that even if he did manage to shoot the bow and kill one of the hags, the other two would capture him as easily as they did me, so he devised a clever plan. In my quiver, he found one of my arrows that had a small load of blasting powder. He took it and the bow and fired the arrow into the fire over which the hags intended to cook me."
A few gasps issued from the young children in the audience.
"In that moment, a loud explosion filled the cave," the warrior continued. "And Brahgen drew his dagger and attacked the hags, who had no idea what had happened. He slew one almost before she realized he was there and gutted the next with a keen slash of his dagger. It was an impressive strike that I must take credit for teaching him."
That drew a laugh from his audience.
"Unfortunately, the third gathered her senses, moved to attack him, and forced him back. Before she could deliver the killing blow with her venomous claws, however, I reached out, still struggling to breathe from the spell they cast on me. It was not much but it was enough to distract her as Brahgen lunged forward with a dwarven battle cry I could not understand on his lips, slashed the hag's throat open from ear to ear, and broke the spell they had cast on me and saved my life in a single stroke."
The dwarves all cheered at the ending and a few of them uttered bellows of “GoldHoard,” possibly imagining that was what the youth had shouted.
The matriarch grinned and shook her head as the attention moved to the other side of the room where a song had broken out.
"I saw the bow you carry, barbarian," she stated. "I know for a fact that Brahgen would not be able to draw it. So, what truly happened?"
"There were no lies in my tale, milady," Skharr answered.
"Salah," she answered smoothly. "And if there were no lies, how did he loose that arrow?"