I.
Many are the songs that have echoed from the rafters of the inn men call the Black Dragon. It's common knowledge that enough ale can cause even the most somber of men to break into some rendition of their favorite tune, no matter how badly he mangles the cadence and melody. Patrons of that ancient tavern had heard songs tortured in this manner from nearly every part of the Lemurian Empire.
The inn stands on the crossroads between the borders of Manatrus and Dajuron and has a reputation for serving the best ale in the North Lands. It was an ancient place. A fire constantly roared upon the soot-blackened hearth, and this fire burned from the first days of fall to the last days of spring, casting it's crimson glow on scenes both comic and tragic. The oak panels were stained dark with both blood and history, and the oil lamps which flickered in iron stanchions had illuminated scenes of such wild debauchery and deranged depravity as would make many a soul shudder with revulsion.
The innkeeper's name was Jakkar. He brewed his own liquors and took a great deal of pride in his chosen craft. He'd inherited both the recipes and the inn from his father, and these had been also passed down to him from his father before him. They had been part of the family inheritance for countless generations and he was very proud. He was the keeper of one of the busiest inns in Dajuron. He once said he'd encountered every manner and race of man that had ever walked the earth in those times. But he'd never seen a man like the one who came into the inn late one snowy winter's eve.
He was obviously a barbarian. There was no mistaking that. But Jakkar couldn't be sure from what land he had originated. His wild mane of dark hair reminded him of the primitive Ukkars, but his eyes smoldered sky blue, like those of a blond haired Dajurikan. He'd heard legends of strange barbarians dwelling in the far North beyond the razor-edged ramparts of the Yazgan mountains, but he'd never believed these tales before now. Though the barbarian was not an overly large man, he had the appearance of someone who shouldn't be trifled with. He carried himself with a lithe, cat-like grace and his thews had an iron hardness that seemed to have never a moment of ease. His body was composed with a brutal economy of flesh that was almost frightening. His face was filthy, his dark hair like the tangled mane of a lion. A lethal looking broadsword was strapped across his back. He wore a primitive iron link mail shirt that was so torn and slashed in several places so that Jakkar wondered how he held it together. His boots were so worn they were little more than scraps of leather held together with strips of rawhide. It was obvious he had traveled no short distance. Yet he had ambled into the inn with an easy confidence as though it were his own home, settling himself at a table in the corner where he could watch the entire room with his back to the wall. He then silently beckoned Jakkar over to his table.
"I am Jakkar, the innkeeper here," he said. "What might your pleasure be this evening, sir?" he asked in his best subservient voice.
The warrior glanced him over quickly. His iron blue eyes seemed colder than ice. "I am Mantegor, once from Arcturus," he growled. "I want ale. Strong ale!" "Yes,sir," answered Jakkar automatically. "I have the finest ale ever brewed!"
"I doubt that, but bring me a flagon anyway!" Jakkar rushed off to do his bidding, avoiding his usual habit of indulging in witty conversations with newly arrived strangers. He had never heard of the land of Arcturus, but he could sense that this grim warrior was in no mood for talk. He filled a tankard to the brim swiftly and returned to set it before him.
Mantegor quaffed his ale in silence and listened to the laughing, ribald songs that echoed from the rafters of the ancient inn. He heard ribald songs sung by dark-eyed Orquazians, mournful, monotonous dirges of Manatrusian sailors. He even tolerated a ballad or two sung by a thin, sad-faced minstrel from Calamyr. He heard songs of loves lost and loves regained. He heard songs of ancient, mythical battles, of warriors who fought with the courage of gods against impossible odds. He heard songs of glory and songs of tragedy, songs of love and songs of joy and of sorrow.
Once, a gray-robed Lemurian priest who'd drank far too much rum began to chant a verse from the Song of the Black Fire, causing men to glance fearfully over their shoulders and murmur prayers to their respective gods.
None of these songs did much more than irritate Mantegor. He was in a foul mood. He was now nearly a pauper. He didn't even have enough silver left in his pocket to get decently drunk. The weak ale had little effect on him, having tasted far cruder and more potent mountain brews much of his young life. The dragon's treasure had indeed been cursed, for he had lost most of it in the mountains during a blizzard, and he had almost lost his life when he had fallen a great distance down the mountainside. He had lain for several hours unconscious buried in the snow and this was the only thing that had saved his life, for the snow had prevented his limbs from becoming entirely frost bitten.
He had come here simply as a place to warm himself. Outside, the storm relentlessly howled. Within, the light of the fireplaces was thankfully dim. He was glad. He had no desire to see more clearly the cheap furnishings or the even cheaper brass jewelry worn by the few half-naked whores that still remained awake. The place reeked of piss and shit and vomit. He wondered how civilized men could bring themselves to stand it.
He drained the last of his ale and checked his belt pouch. Five silver coins remained. Enough for three more rounds of this useless weak ale.
"Innkeeper!" he called.
In his youth, Jakkar had been a monster of a man, a warrior to be feared. But this was many years past. His head had long ago gone bald and his massive strength had since turned to huge rolls of fat. It wasn't an easy thing for him to conduct business so near the borderlands. The barbarians and cold-blooded mercenaries that often passed through the area were often extremely dangerous if displeased. They would cut your throat or smash your skull in without a moment's hesitation over an insult, whether it was real or imagined. Jakkar however, possessed one warrior's quality still that had stood him in good stead. He had a shrewd and unscrupulous mind, and he'd used it to stay alive by instinctively knowing the right thing to say or do in every situation that arose.
But he'd never seen a man like Mantegor before. Here was clearly some savage tribesman from the far North with his gruff accent and fair skin. Yet he was dressed much like a Manatrusian peasant, save for the shirt of silver mail which gleamed beneath his ragged cloak and the lethal looking broadsword on his back. His long, lion-like mane of dark hair was wild and unkempt, giving him an even more dangerous appearance. With every move he made, the muscles of his body rippled with iron cords beneath his sun-bronzed flesh. There was a reckless gleam in those icy blue eyes, so it was with no small amount of wariness that he approached the young barbarian's table once more.
"May I be of service to you, sir?"
"Another mug of ale, to start," the barbarian replied gruffly. "And some information if I can get it." "Information, sir?"
"Yes," answered the barbarian. "You look like a knowledgeable man in these parts. Tell me, is there any sword work to be had here or in Angkor?"
"Not here and certainly not in Angkor, which is controlled by the Lemurians and would never suffer a Northerner in their armies. No offense meant, sir. To the west, however, a war is being continually waged against the Yazgan trolls in northern Dajuron. The war has been going on for fourteen years and the armies are desperate for mercenaries to fight the trolls in the mountains. The pay and food are good, and men sometimes retire rich if they find the cache of some troll king who has been hoarding it for centuries. It's rare, but such things have happened."
Mantegor pondered these words for a few moments while Jakkar poured his ale. "These trolls," he said. "What are they like? Are they terrible fighters? Do they have the power to read men's minds like dragons? Or are there wizards amongst them who control mighty magic, as I have heard dwell in Orquaz and Karkalos?"
