The dust from the road settled on his worn boots as Rizzen stopped to survey the building on the horizon. Squinting against the setting sun, he determined that it would be one half hour before he came to the door of Comfort's End. Shifting his head deeper into the hood of his cloak, Rizzen resumed his brisk pace along the road, his hand slipping under his cloak to finger the pommel of the dagger at his waist.

* * *

"Snake eyes," cursed Krish Maddy as he watched Jonson sweep another armful of steel into his already considerable mound. "You may be the best swordsman in all of Istar, Krish, but you've got a few things to learn about orc bones," Jonson dryly pointed out, not for the first time that afternoon.

"The gods are smiling on you, Jonson, and that's the only reason for my light purse," replied Krish. "You know, some of the strong ale they serve here sure would taste good right about now. I think I'll find that barmaid and order us a couple; you're buying."

Jonson didn't bother trying to stop Krish. After all, winning all that steel was thirsty work. For the first time in about an hour, he took a moment to observe the atmosphere of Comfort's End. True to its name, the inn had a homey feel. The place was filling up at a steady pace as people came in for a hearty meal, and voices could be heard around the inn engaged in all sorts of dinner conversation. The smoke from dozens of pipes began to eddy along the roof beams and away from the door as a heavily cloaked traveler drifted into the common room.

"I didn't find it that cold this morning," commented Jonson to no one in particular.

* * *

A rush of heat and smoke met Rizzen's face as he opened the door to Comfort's End and absorbed the scene. Walking to a secluded corner of the common room, he dismissed the barmaid's inquiries of what he wished to drink with a wave of his hand. It wasn't long before Rizzen found a man fitting Krish's description. A man with long red hair, a beard and moustache, was making his way between the crowded tables (not an easy job for a man of his build) with two frothing mugs of ale. Rizzen scanned the common room, confident that all of Daylen's men were just waiting for him to make his move.

* * *

Jonson gladly accepted the mug from his friend as Krish made his way back to their table. "You've got to admit, Krish, we just aren't cut out for the easy life. Well, maybe you are, but I can only sit around playing orc bones for so long. What are you planning to do now?"

"I guess we're both restless spirits," conceded Krish, "and I've heard a few rumours I'd like to check up on. There's been talk of war recently; of a band of mercenaries hiring on as we speak. I don't have any names right now, but I figured we could meet up with a caravan that's traveling on this road to Istar. They could probably use any help they can hire to guard that metal for the Kingpriest, and there's sure to be some hard facts in Istar to support these rumours."

"Sounds great, but I guess this means we're going to have to suffer through a little more relaxation in the meantime," smiled Jonson.

"I think I could handle that. What do you say to another game? Double or . . ." Krish lost track of what he was saying when he saw Jonson's expression of disbelief as he stared at something over Krish's left shoulder. At that moment, Krish saved his own life by beginning to turn to his left to see what had disturbed Jonson.

In the instant that he felt the fiery pain of a dagger piercing his left shoulder, he heard Jonson yell in protest and jump from the table toward Krish's unseen attacker, long sword in hand. Krish fought through the haze of pain that was taking hold of his thoughts and went with the momentum of the attack, spinning to his right while moving into the table. In a futile attempt to avoid the deadly arc of Jonson's long sword, the attacker pulled back and leaned to his left. However, his hand lingered on the pommel of the dagger for an instant, and the blow, aimed to take out both the attacker's arm and torso, came down at an angle on his wrist instead.

A scream of agony and a trail of blood followed as the long sword finished its arc. The common room was a mess of bodies now, as people who were a table apart a moment before were now shattering each other's jaws with tankards and fists. Wood splintered as the weight of many bodies was thrown against it, and blood flew as the losers of the night were knocked to the floor.

Amid the chaos, Krish Maddy pulled the bloody dagger from his shoulder, only to find a hand still attached. With a dull thud that was swallowed by the commotion, the delicate ebony hand, unmistakably drow, hit the floor of the common room. With the help of strong arms that Krish assumed belonged to Jonson, he proceeded toward the door of the inn with little opposition, since most of the people standing were victors who saw little through their own blood.

The cool air hit Krish like a wall as he opened the door, for which he was thankful, since it brought him to his senses. "The drow . . . damn it where is he!" yelled Krish into the night.

"Someone broke a chair over my back right after I wounded him. When I looked back after finishing the thug, all that remained of the drow was a pool of his cursed blood," apologized Jonson through teeth clenched in pain.

"I'm not going to rest until I spill enough of it to kill that spawn of Lolth," vowed Krish.

Jonson didn't doubt it for a moment.

* * *

Rizzen fled into the welcome arms of the night, clutching the bleeding stump of his arm close to his side. "Why did none of Daylen's mercenaries occupy Maddy's friend in time? Their incompetence has cost me dearly," muttered Rizzen through gritted teeth, well aware that he could have been killed if they had failed to occupy Jonson at all.

Once off the road, he stumbled into a copse of trees and collapsed near their roots. Fighting to keep his only hand steady, Rizzen reached beneath his heavy cloak to remove his belt. Bending it at an angle, he was able to dislodge a small, corked, metal vial.

"Praise Lolth that my life was not a casualty of their stupidity," said the drow as he removed the cork with his teeth and drank the contents of the vial. "I must be patient. There is no wisdom in the vengeful thoughts of the weak," escaped through damp lips before the dark elf lost consciousness.

What do you think? This excerpt is taken from a joint effort of many years past between myself and a good friend of mine. I laughed as I dusted it off the other evening. It certainly has the makings of pulp fiction. Having said that, I feel that some of the style that I have learned to take pride in does show through. That's why I have taken the time to share it. Thanks for reading.

Last modified: April 7, 1998

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Many thanks to my contributors.

The background of For the Strength of a Giant (Excerpt) is courtesy of jezebel.