The dwarf nearly took Shandril's nose off as he kicked back his chair and sprang to his feet, but Shandril jerked back just in time. Chairs overturned and men shouted. Adventure, she thought ruefully as she scuttled on hands and knees beneath the table, was upon her at last.
'They'll kill you, Ghondar!' said one of the old warriors, face white. Beside him, Ghondarrath stood defiant, his chair raised before him in his hands. He had no other weapon.
'I was never one to back down,' he said roughly. 'I know no other way. Better to die by the blade, Tempus willing, than grow old shamed and craven.'
'So be it, graybeard!' said one of the company's warriors viciously, striding forward, blade out.
'Stop!' the old man bellowed with sudden force, startling all there. 'If it's to be a fight, then let us go outside. Gorstag's a good friend to us all-I'd not see his house laid waste!'
'You should have thought of that a breath or two earlier,' sneered another company member through the general laughter of his fellows. They surged forward. Shandril reached her feet just as Gorstag and Korvan pounded past her, the cook swearing, a cleaver in his hand. She turned in time to see two blades flash in the firelight as, catlike, the two ladies Shandril had noticed earlier leaped in front of the old man. One of those blades glowed and shimmered with blue-white fire. A rumbling gasp of wonder shook the room at the sight.
'I apologize to this house and to its master for drawing steel,' said its silver-haired owner in a clear, lilting voice. 'But I will not see butchery done by young fools with quick tempers. Put up your blades, company'-her voice twisted that into a shaming quotation rather than rightful name-'or die, for we shall surely slay you all.'
'Or,' her companion added pleasantly over the point of her own ready blade, 'this can be forgotten, and all keep peace. The thief was caught and drew steel. The fault is his and his alone, and he has paid. That's an end to it.'
With an oath, one of the adventurers plucked at his belt, meaning to snatch and throw a dagger. The man grunted and then cried out in fury and frustration, but his hand was held in a grip like unmoving iron. Gorstag said quietly, 'Drop your blade. All others, put away your weapons. I will not have this in my house.'
At the sound of his voice, everyone relaxed, the dagger clattered to the floor, and blades slid back into scabbards.
'Have I your peace while you stay at The Rising Moon?' the innkeeper asked. The company members nodded, said 'Aye' in reluctant chorus, and returned to their seats.
Across the room, the silver-haired bard sheathed her glowing blade and turned to Ghondarrath. 'Forgive me, sir,' she said simply. 'They were too many. I would not shame you.' The chair trembled in the old man's hands.
'I am not shamed,' he said roughly. 'My friends sat all around, and when it came to the death, I was alone, but for you two. I thank you. I am Ghondarrath, and my table is yours. Will you?' He gestured toward a chair.
The two ladies clasped hands with him. 'Aye, with thanks. I am Storm Silverhand, a bard, of Shadowdale.'
Her companion smiled, too. 'I am Sharantyr, a ranger, also of Shadowdale. Well met.'
Gorstag passed them wordlessly, reached the bar, and turned. 'The night is hot,' he said to the crowd, 'so the house gives you all chilled wine from far Athkatla.' There was a general roar of approval. 'Drink up,' he added, as Lureene hastily started around with flagons, 'and let this incident be forgotten!' He lifted the limp body of the thief, its head dangling loosely, and carried it away.
Across the room, Marimmar removed a restraining hand from Narm's arm. 'Well done, boy,' he said. 'Continue to hold your peace, and life will be far easier for you.'
'Aye,' agreed Narm dryly. His master had certainly given him much practice in holding peace. All around them laughter and the clink and clatter of eating built up again. Tempers had been restored, and it was too soon to talk of the near-brawl. The company seemed in fairly good humor, as if the thief hadn't been liked much anyway. Narm looked about for the girl he had locked eyes with earlier, but she was nowhere to be seen. There was something about her… Ah, well…
Narm turned his attention to the chilled wine the serving girl had just brought, before Marimmar could forbid him to drink more. Now, if the old man would just take up his tale of the treasures of lost Drannor, and the city's ruin by devils again…
But Ghondarrath, it seemed, had no more tongue for tales this evening. He sat talking quietly with the two tall, lithe ladies whose ready blades had saved his life. His eyes shone and his face was ruddy, and he seemed more alive than for many a long winter. Several of the locals called on him to resume his tale, but he paid them no heed. Finally, the calls became more general, floating across the taproom to the travelers from afar.
To Narm's quiet embarrassment, Marimmar cleared his throat importantly, squared his shoulders, and turned about grandly in his chair. Oh, gods, thought Narm despairingly, deliver us all. His eyes sought out the ceiling.
Before the Mage Most Magnificent could draw breath, however, one of the company of adventurers had turned to another and said, 'Rymel! A tale! Give us all a tale!'
'Aye! A tale!' echoed other companions.
'Well, I don't know,' Rymel began, but he was drowned out in a roar of protests.
'Tell you what?' Rymel asked. 'What would you hear?'
'Wha-well, man, you know! Anything. Delg,' the man added, turning to the dwarf, 'you choose. You know more of the old days, and-'
'Odd things, aye,' the dwarf of the company said sourly. 'Odd myself, am I not?' He chuckled away their protests, hefted his drink consideringly, and said, 'Well, Rymel, if you will, tell the tale of Verovan's last race. It's been awhile, and I would hear it again.'
Narm noticed that Marimmar, who had been hemming and puffing in his seat, forgot his vanity at hearing the dwarf's request and leaned forward in interest. The two ladies who had defended Ghondarrath also fell silent and turned to listen. The bard Rymel looked about at all the attentive faces and said slowly, 'Well enough then. It's a little tale, mind, not a great saga of love and battle and treasure.'
'Tell on,' the lady called Sharantyr bade him simply from across the room. Rymel nodded, and spoke quietly. Silence fell but for the snap of the fire as those in the taproom leaned forward to hear the better.
The bard was good, and his gentle words brought the tragic tale of the last king of Westgate to chilling life. All listened, in the cozy room where the old axe hung.
The mood of the evening had changed, the danger past and forgotten, Gorstag affably at ease again. Marimmar the mage never did tell his tale…
The Company of the Bright Spear drank much and went up to their room late. Rymel, his lute left upstairs with their travel gear, had led the locals in a score of ballads with his fine voice alone. Delg the dwarf had lost his favorite dagger somewhere and was moody and suspicious. The burly fighter, Ferostil, was very drunk, and-as usual-trading coarse jests in voices loud and slurred, and the wizard Thail, grim and sober, was guiding him up the stairs with many a sigh and jaundiced look.
'Lend me a hand, Burlane,' he pleaded, as Ferostil nearly fell back on top of him. 'This lout is nearer your size.'
'Aye,' their burly leader said good-naturedly. 'We've lost enough tonight.' He leaned back to grab Ferostil's shoulder. 'Come then, Lion of Tempus,' he said, hauling hard. 'Now, where's that room?'
'This one,' the wizard said, and threw the door wide.
Within, all was as they had left it-packs strewn about, cloaks thrown over racks. A single lantern had been lit.
'My spear!' Burlane roared suddenly. 'Where is the Bright Spear?' They peered all about, alert upon the instant, but there was no place in the room that could have concealed its flickering radiance. Their greatest treasure was gone.
'By all the gods!' Burlane bellowed. 'I'll have this inn apart stone by stone if need be! That thieving bastard of an innkeeper! Delg-quick, run to demand it of him! Thail, look to our horses! Is anything else missing?'
'Aye,' said the wizard thickly. His hands trembled above his opened pack. 'All my spells.' His face was ashen; he sat down on the bed suddenly and stared at nothing, dazed.
'Thail!' Burlane roared, shaking him. 'Come, we must-'
'My axe also,' the dwarf's sour voice cut through Burlane's rage. 'I see no sign of our charter from the king, nor Ferostil's shield. Rymel?'
