The Jewel of Turmish - Mel Odom [68]
At the top of the stairs, he gazed through a wide doorway into the tavern proper. Dim light glowed through dingy lantern glass and scarcely made a dent in the shadows that filled the room.
Scarred and dark, the bar ran the room's length against the opposite wall. A fat human with a curly wheat-colored beard leaned on the bar and talked with a dwarf woman showing considerable years. Three men dressed in the torn clothing of sailors talked at one of the half-dozen tables scattered across the middle of the room. An elf dressed all in black sat at a table by himself, fingers twining around a glittering silver dagger resting point-down on the table top. Two women, both showing signs of a hard night's work, sat listless and uncaring, not interested in attracting the attention of potential customers.
It was, Borran Kiosk reflected, the dregs of night. Creatures of flesh and blood slowed during these hours, but the mohrg felt stronger than ever.
The bartender glanced at the new arrival. His head was a massive boulder set atop the broad mountains of his shoulders.
"Something I can do you for, friend?"
Pulling himself up in disdain, feeling the thick purple tongue moving with anticipation in his body, Borran Kiosk stepped into the room. The dead priest's robes whirled around him and dripped scarlet-tinted water onto the hardwood floor.
"Maybe you should have stayed in the hallway a little longer," the bartender growled, "instead of coming into my place and making a mess of it."
He reached for a mop leaning against the wall behind him and came around the bar. The dwarf woman said something too low for Borran Kiosk to hear, but she laughed at her own wit and reached for the schooner of ale before her.
"Aye, Serrim," the bartender said, "an' Til thank ye to keep such comments to yerself." He glanced back at Borran Kiosk. "An' if ye've come to sup here, friend, ye're a mite too late, ye see. The victuals has all been put away for the e'ening."
"What there was of it," the dwarf woman agreed.
The bartender stopped in front of Borran Kiosk and un-limbered his mop.
Borran Kiosk stood his ground. Though his emotions weren't the same as they had been before his transformation, he still felt a twinge of anticipation.
"Mayhap ye'd care to move them big feet of yers," the bartender suggested as he mopped toward the mohrg.
"No," Borran Kiosk said.
Stooping, the bartender peered toward the mohrga concealed face. "What did ye say, little man?"
With brazen boldness, Borran Kiosk reached up and swept the hood back from his head.
"No," Borran Kiosk repeated.
He knew even the dim lighting would reveal his flesh-less face and hollow-socketed skull. He didn't care what he looked liked. That such a sight caused fear in those who still had blood coursing through their veins served him well.
"What the hell are ye?" the bartender asked in a hoarse voice. His eyes rounded in fear as he stumbled back a step.
"Kiosk!" the dwarf woman croaked, spewing ale. "Borran Kiosk! He's returned!" She hefted a battle-axe from the floor beside her.
If Kiosk had possessed lips, he would have smiled. Though he was certain he'd been gone a long time, his name and deeds had been remembered.
"Yes," the mohrg spat, T am Borran Kiosk. Fear me."
The bartender lashed out with the mop, trying to push Borran Kiosk away. The mohrg reacted with blinding speed. Before his transformation he'd been a warrior as well as a mage, and though the men he raised from the dead did not retain their memories, he had.
The rain-drenched robes whirled as Borran Kiosk spun. He knotted a hand into a hammer-like fist, caught the broom in his other hand, and snapped the end of the mop off. Before the collection of dirty rags fell to the floor, he stepped in, pulled the mop across his body, and brought his fist back up. The mop handle snapped again, leaving the bartender with only a precious few inches jutting from his hands.
Stuttering a surprised oath, the bartender stumbled back, but Borran