Free Between Dark and Light by D. A. Adams Page A

Hope, and the long march home. Roskin was grateful Krestreon didn’t mention his status as the exiled heir to the Kiredurk kingdom, for he wasn’t sure how that would be received.
    “I always hoped Hemelreon was safe and sound somewhere, and it hurts to hear he died like that. But welcome home, young one. Let me get you dwarves a round of ale, on me.”
    Krestreon thanked him, muttering about not being so young anymore, and as Kohldorn chuckled, Roskin’s apprehension diminished slightly. At least the barkeep seemed friendly, but the dwarves at the bar hadn’t even glanced in their direction. Something about this town wasn’t right, but other than a nagging feeling, the dark fear had offered no vision of what was amiss. The barkeep returned with seven tankards of ale and, after serving them, raised his own and proposed a toast to the safe return of Krestreon. Roskin took a long drink, the ale sweet and fruity on his dry tongue.
    “Do you still make your rabbit stew?” Krestreon asked.
    “Of course, boy!” Kohldorn exclaimed, stroking his gray beard. “I remember how much you and your papaw loved my stew. Six servings coming right up.”
    “Actually,” Roskin said, stopping the barkeep. “Can you make it eight servings and two more ales? Two of our companions are outside with the horses.”
    “Certainly,” Kohldorn said. “Have it right out. Oh, this is a good day.”
    When the barkeep returned with the bowls of steaming stew, Roskin took two bowls, the crockery hot against his bare hands, and started for the lobby, but he was greeted in the hallway by ten well-armed Ghaldeons with menacing expressions. One he recognized as the Ghaldeon who had left the porch. Roskin stopped mid-stride and stepped back to allow the dwarves into the tavern.
    “It’s nice to see travelers on such a fine day,” one of them said, advancing towards Roskin.
    “We’re just passing through,” Roskin responded, his hands burning from the bowls.
    “That so? Well, since you’re strangers, I’ll forgive you for not knowing our customs.”
    “Actually, I’m from here,” Krestreon said, rising from his seat and moving beside Roskin.
    “Really, now? Then, why don’t I know you?”
    “He’s Krestreon,” the barkeep said. “The young one who disappeared so many years ago.”
    “Shut up, gray beard,” the Ghaldeon said, pointing his finger at the old dwarf who lowered his head and stepped back. “Not another word.”
    Roskin clenched his jaw and considered tossing one of the bowls of hot stew in the dwarf’s face, and under different circumstances, he might have followed the impulse, but his mission was too important to squander time on a bully. Instead, he slowly turned and set the bowls on the table, hiding the pain in his hands and fingers.
    “Krestreon, eh?” the Ghaldeon asked. “Do you recognize me?”
    “Afraid not,” Krestreon said, squinting to study the dwarf’s face. “Too many years have passed.”
    “A shame. I’m Alganeon, magistrate of Horseshoe Bend.”
    “Alganeon!” Krestreon exclaimed, extending his hand. “We learned to fish together on Willow Bank.”
    At his gesture the nine other dwarves drew their swords and readied themselves in low guard, but Alganeon raised his hand to stop them. The dwarves didn’t advance but held their stances, glaring at Krestreon, Roskin, and the others. Roskin braced himself, preparing to grab a chair to defend himself if necessary.
    “Please, forgive my guards,” Alganeon said, smiling. “They’re overly protective. Since you’re an old friend, I’ll forgive your transgressions this time, but all who enter this town must pay the toll for using my roads.”
    “Since when is there a toll?” Krestreon asked, his voice rising an octave.
    “Since I said so,” Alganeon sneered. “Now, that’ll be one gold coin each, plus the horses.”
    “That’s absurd,” Krestreon scoffed.
    “Let me handle this,” Roskin said, grabbing Krestreon by the elbow and