Some of the Sharshun Dwerkhar would trade with the humans in their city to the south. At times Garm would accompany them to learn more about the humans, their manners and customs, their numbers, their strengths and their weaknesses. He wanted to know them nearly as well as he knew his own people so that he could rout them utterly. Before they did not know enough about the humans and underestimated them to their grief, but that mistake would not be repeated.

He was returning from one such trip to the city and the caravan was entering the foothills leading up to the mountain when he caught sight of a lone figure standing in the middle of the path. The figure made no move to stand aside as the caravan drew nearer and so the wagons came to a halt.

The figure cast aside his cloak to reveal a young human male, tall and lean-muscled, with a wild mane of black hair. A large sword was strapped to his back and he wore a cuirass of boiled leather. Garm could smell others closeby but out of sight. Bandits, was it? Bold of them to waylay a caravan so close to the capital, but the Zephyrians had no interest in patrolling near the mountain.

Garm promptly took up his axe, hidden among their wares. A hand rested on his shoulder as if to stop him. It was Gorn, a Sharshuner sworn to his service.

Though he had pledged to wage a war of craft to lay low his enemies, old habits die hard. Taking his axe, Garm dismounted the wagon and approached the young man.

The young man sneered, "Half the measure by your stature."

The young man gripped the hilt of his sword, saying, "I fear I can't cut you any lower."

The young man drew his sword and rested the heavy blade on his shoulder, beckoning Garm with his free hand.

Garm roared a warcry and charged forward with a great swing of his axe that would have been enough to cleave most foes like dry wood, but the young man easily sidestepped the attack. Garm then swung wide to take his legs out from under him, but the young man hopped back before the blade could connect. He tried quicker, diagonal chops, one woven into the next, and still he could not strike his foe.

For as large as his sword was, the young man's swing was surprisingly quick, batting away Garm's axe with enough force to make the steel ring. The young man laughed.

The greatest advantage of axe fighter is overwhelming offense. You chop and chop unrelenting and precious few wielding sword or spear can stand up to it. That was how you won with an axe. You charged forward, screaming at the top of your lungs, attacking and attacking. Your foe would lose heart quickly and then lose his head, both in figure and in truth.

This too-proud human should have been no different, but he was not shaken by Garm's onslaught. He let his sword take most of the punishment. Whatever his boast about the virtue of the blade, it could not take too many such blows without breaking. One way or another, his defenses would fail and Garm would claim victory.

But the battle did not go as he thought it would. It was not the human's blade but Garm's own that shattered on an unlucky stroke. It was a double-headed axe, though, so without hesitating, he turned the axe around and struck with the other edge, but by then the steel was too weak and that edge shattered as well. Garm stared at the ruined axe for the briefest moment. It had no cutting edge, but it could still serve as a club. He continued his attack, but it would seem that the young man had his fill.

With a deft stroke, he lopped off the broken head of Garm's axe, leaving him with nothing but a part of the shaft, not nearly enough to stand up to that dread blade. It did not stop Garm from trying, though. Even with only a couple hands' length of wood, Garm resumed the charge.

This time the young man sidestepped and tripped the Dwerkh lord, laying him out flat on his belly. Garm quickly rolled over to find the young man's blade waiting for him a few inches from the tip of his nose.

Garm knew that he was beaten. Part of him wanted to fight to the last no matter how futile was, but another part wanted to salvage what little dignity he had left.

He wanted to form a league? He had to be mad.

The young man grinned and asked, "How about now?"

It would have been easy to dismiss the proposal out of hand, but Garm took a moment to think on it. He had pledged to fight this war with more than mere strength of arms. He needed craft to overcome the Zephyrians and for that, what was more natural than an alliance? He could make use of these humans. If nothing else, they could provide a distraction that would prevent the Zephyrians from bringing the full force of their numbers to bear on Garm's own. It was worth considering.

The young man—Rowland—replied, "Your fighting men, your engines of war, your forges..." He paused, then grinned wryly as he added, "and perhaps one of your women as a concubine. Are they as hairy as people say?"

Rowland lowered his sword and extended a hand to Garm. Normally, a Dwerkh's pride would have forbidden it, but Garm made an exception this time. He could appreciate a man like this.

Garm nodded.

Rowland sheathed his sword and gave Garm a hearty pat on the back.

The words were bitter in his mouth. They were the words of an old dotard whose blood had chilled and his warrior's fire had gone out. It was the job of any lusty young Dwerkh to scoff at such words, no matter how true they were, but Rowland was no Dwerkh.

Perhaps there was hope for this one.

Garm could not help but grin and reply, "Aye, 'tis."