The Second Generation

After that, the others quickly ignored him, becoming absorbed in conversation about the parts of the world each had been in recently and what was transpiring where. Palin, unable to take part in the conversation, fell to studying the dwarf. Dougan was taller than most dwarves the young man had known and, although he called himself “old,” he couldn’t have been much over one hundred years, an age considered to be just suitably mature for a dwarf. His beard was obviously his pride and joy; he stroked it often, never failing to draw attention to it when possible. Shining black, it grew thick and luxuriant, tumbling over his chest and down past his belt. His hair, too, was as black and curly as his beard and he wore it almost as long. Like most dwarves, he was rotund and probably hadn’t seen his feet below his round belly in years. Unlike most dwarves, however, Dougan was dressed in a flamboyant style that would have well become the lord of Palanthas.

Outfitted in a red velvet jacket, red velvet breeches, black stockings, black shoes with red heels, and a silk shirt with puffy sleeves—a shirt that might once have been white but was now stained with dirt, spirits, and what may have been lunch—Dougan was an astonishing sight. He was remarkable, too, in other ways. Most dwarves are somewhat surly and withdrawn around members of other races, but Dougan was jovial and talkative and altogether the most engaging stranger the brothers had come across on their travels. He, in his turn, appeared to enjoy their company.

“By Reorx,” said the dwarf admiringly, watching Tanin and Sturm drain their mugs, “but you are lads after my own heart. If s a pleasure to drink with real men.”

Sturm grinned. “There are not many who can keep up with us,” he boasted, motioning the dwarf to pour the spirits. “So you better have a care, Dougan, and slow down.”

“Slow down! Look who’s talking!” The dwarf roared so loudly that all eyes in the common room turned on them, including the eyes of the small creatures in the brown robes. “Why, there isn’t a human alive who can outdrink a dwarf with his own brew!”

Glancing at Sturm, Tanin winked, though he kept his face solemn.

“You’ve just met two of them, Dougan Redhammer,” he said, leaning back in his chair until it creaked beneath his weight. “We’ve drunk many a stout dwarf under the table and were still sober enough, Sturm and I, to guide him to his bed.”

“And I,” returned Dougan, clenching his fist, his face turning a fiery red beneath the black beard, “have drunk ten stout humans under the table and not only did I lead them to their beds, I put their nightclothes on them and tidied up their rooms to boot!”

“You won’t do that to us!” vowed Tanin.

“Wanna bet?” roared the dwarf, with a slight slur.

“A wager, then?” cried Sturm.

“A wager!” shouted Dougan.

“Name the rules and the stakes!” Tanin said, sitting forward.

Dougan stroked his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll match you lads one on one, drink for drink—”

“Ha!” Sturm burst out laughing.

“—drink for drink,” continued the dwarf imperturbably, “until your beardless chins hit the floor.”

“It’ll be your beard and not our chins that hits the floor, dwarf,” Sturm said. “What stakes?”

Dougan Redhammer pondered. “The winner has the very great satisfaction of assisting the losers to their beds,” he said, after a pause, twirling a long moustache around his finger.

“And loser pays the tabs for all,” added Tanin.

“Done,” said the dwarf, with a grin, holding out his hand.

“Done,” said Tanin and Sturm together. Each shook Dougan’s hand, then the dwarf turned to Palin, his hand outstretched.

“I want no part of this!” Palin said emphatically, glaring at his brothers.

“Tanin,” he said in a low voice, “think of our funds. If you lose, we—”

“Little Brother,” Tanin interrupted, flushing in anger, “next journey, remind me to leave you home and bring along a cleric of Paladine! We’d get preached at less and probably have more fun.”

“You have no right to talk to me that way!” Palin snapped.

“Ah, it must be all three of you,” Dougan interrupted, shaking his head, “or the bet’s off. There’s no challenge in a dwarf outdrinking two humans. And it must be dwarf spirits. Why, the lad might as well be drinking his mother’s milk as that elf water!” (Elf water—a name dwarves use for wine, which they can’t abide.)

“I won’t drink that—” Palin began.

“Palin”—Tanin’s voice was stern and cold—“you are shaming us! If you can’t have some fun, go to your room!”

Angrily, Palin started to rise, but Sturm caught hold of the sleeve of his robes.

“Aw, come on, Palin,” his brother said cheerfully. “Relax! Reorx’s beard! Father’s not going to walk through that door!” He tugged at Palin’s sleeve until his brother slowly resumed his seat. “You’ve been studying too hard. Your brain’s gone all cobwebby. Here, try some. That’s all we ask. If you don’t like it, then we won’t say any more about it.”