Stokely Silverstream needed to hear it, too.
“Just keep fillin’ her, or I’ll put me fist into yer eye so hard, I’ll wiggle me fingers out the back o’ yer head,” Athrogate said, and all around him, particularly Genesay the barmaid, knew he wasn’t likely talking lightly. She moved fast to refill the dwarf’s glass.
“Here now, don’t you go talking such to Genesay,” a man sitting next to Athrogate said.
“It’s all the fine, Murley,” the bartender said, and with every word, she kept her focus on Athrogate, who sat there simmering with rage.
The dwarf took a long and deep draw, draining his flagon again, and he looked at Genesay and pointed to the mug, then slowly turned to regard the man at his side.
“Ye wouldn’t be flappin’ yer jaw at me, now, would ye?” he asked.
“Show some manners to Genesay,” Murley insisted as he stood up and squared his shoulders to the dwarf.
“Or?”
“Or I’ll …” Murley began, but he trailed off as a couple of his friends moved up to flank him, both grabbing him by an arm.
“Let it go, Mur,” one said.
“Aye, don’t you be playing with this one,” said the other. “Mighty friends he’s got. Black-skinned friends.”
That took a bit of bluster from Murley, and Athrogate realized that everyone in the tavern was looking at them then.
“What’ve me friends got to do with anything?” the dwarf asked. “Ye think I’d be needin’ help in putting the three o’ ye to the ground?”
“Good dwarf, your mug is full,” Genesay said.
Athrogate turned to regard her, grinning at her attempt to distract him and deflect the conversation.
“Aye, so it is,” he said, and he picked it up and swung his arm, launching the ale at Murley and his two friends.
“Now fill it again,” he told Genesay.
Murley snarled and pulled free of one of his friends, who fell back as the ale washed over him. He took a step toward Athrogate, but the dwarf just smiled and glanced at the man’s belt, at the curved sword he had strapped to one hip. It seemed a pitiful weapon indeed against the mighty twin morningstars Athrogate kept strapped across his back.
“Ye might get it out,” Athrogate teased. “Ye might even stick me once afore yer head makes a fine poppin’ sound.”
“Aye, don’t fight him, Murley!” one woman called from the other side of the tavern. “His weapons are full of magic you cannot match.”
“Oh, but you’re a tough one, dwarf,” Murley taunted. “You hide behind the damned drow elves and you hide behind the magic in your weapons. Oh, but I’d love to catch you without either, and teach you some manners.”
“Murley!” Genesay scolded, for she had seen the same play before, and knew the pirate Murley walked dangerous ground.
“Bwahaha,” Athrogate laughed, but not with his typically boisterous exclamation. It was just a sad, soft sound. He turned to his mug, which was still empty. “Fill it!” he barked at Genesay.
“Dwarf!” Murley shouted at him.
“Ah, but ye’ll get yer chance to shut me mouth,” Athrogate promised.
The moment Genesay put the filled mug in front of him, he scooped it up and quaffed it in one gulp, then hopped from his barstool and faced Murley and his two companions.
“Ye think I’m hiding from ye, do ye?” Athrogate said. He grabbed the buckle of his harness and flicked it open, and with a shrug let the vest and his morningstars fall to the ground behind him. “Well, here now, boy, ye got yer wish.”
He took a step forward and staggered, having drained more than a dozen mugs that night.
Murley broke free of his companions and rushed forward, and before the dwarf could catch his balance, the man unloaded a heavy right cross into Athrogate’s face.
“Bwahaha!” Athrogate howled in response.
He ignored the left hook and right jab that followed, lowered his shoulder, and charged at Murley.
The man spun to the side and almost got away, but Athrogate caught him by the wrist. The dwarf couldn’t stop his forward momentum, though, having overbalanced, and he continued ahead, falling to the floor and dragging Murley along behind him. Murley didn’t lose his footing, though, and although Athrogate’s strong grip must have felt as if it was crushing his left wrist, the man moved over the prostrate dwarf.
Up on his right elbow, twisted back to the left and with his left hand holding fast to Murley’s wrist, Athrogate had no defense against the man’s right arm—no defense other than his hard head. He took a hit and pulled Murley’s wrist closer,