His comradeship with the dwarf, Gart the Renowned, began as the result of a drunken brawl in the garrison-house tavern. Between the two of them, they had wrecked the place, and all the staff and patrons had fled.
In the aftermath, Gart found himself standing before his unyielding foeman, fist cocked, and suddenly shook his head.
"I can't remember what the devil we were fighting about!" he grumbled, and going over to the bar, poured himself a flagon of ale. Akaru, still breathing hard, the heat of battle yet flaming in his eyes, calmed himself with a great effort of will, and joined the dwarf at the bar. From there, they surveyed the wreckage.
"It must have been important," said Akaru as he too poured himself a flagon, though of the mead he preferred.
"Aye," said Gart. "I think you broke my nose." He checked his lumpish appendage, gingerly.
At once, several soldiers burst into the bar, swords drawn. "Who is killing who?" one of them cried.
Gart leaned on the bar nonchalantly and drained his flagon. "It's `killing whom.'" he corrected. "H'm. Wicked ale, this. Why, I was doing handsprings, and all me hair was standing on end!"
Akaru chuckled at this, for Gart had little hair. He pointed to a mirror over the bar.