'Restrain yer enthusiasm,' Delkin said with a clap on the shoulder that startled Alin out of his tune. The bard looked at the priest in shock, but Delkin smiled. 'And getyeself some rest. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow.' He gestured at Alin's rapier. 'I haven't even asked. Ye know how to use that thing?'
'Ah… of course!' Alin said. 'I've taken lessons since I could walk, and-'
'Good,' the cleric rumbled. 'Ye might need it tomorrow.'
'Tomorrow?'
'There be dragons 'ere, boy,' Delkin said. 'Hope ye paid attention at those lessons, though them beasts don't take to fencing much.'
The priest rumbled with laughter and walked back to where Thard was cooking, a dozen paces away.
Alin smiled. He pulled his harp out of his saddlebags and unwrapped it carefully. Easing it into its accustomed position against the calluses inside his arm, he strummed a few notes on the strings. He wondered if he might spend a few hours that evening working on the new lay he was composing: The Ballad of Dragonclaw.
'Eyes like fire, atop a golden spire…' he sang. 'Surveying the land, queen of the hunting game…'
He stopped himself. He had not meant to sing those words. It was just something Ryla had said, words that were running through his mind. The hunting game…
'A dangerous game,' he breathed.
'I can't eat this!' Ryla's angry voice came. 'It's practically raw.'
Alin turned his head just in time to see Ryla hurl a haunch of venison in Thard's face. The barbarian barely caught the seared meat before it smacked into his nose. Sizzling juices still came off the meat, however, spattering his skin, beard, and fur coat.
' 'Ware, ye wench!' he roared, as though castigating an impulsive child who was throwing a tantrum. He slapped the meat aside and into the dust.
Delkin tried to save the venison but his fingers were too clumsy and he dropped it.
'Justiciar's hand!' the priest cursed. 'It's ruined!'
Delkin rounded on Ryla and the Moor Runners fell silent. From the looks on their faces, Alin guessed that he had just discovered how one went about making the normally ebullient cleric furious: wasted food. Putting his hands on his hips, he gazed death at the dragonslayer.
Ryla was not about to back down. She drew herself up even taller than her intimidating frame should have allowed and faced the broad-shouldered priest. Her pursed lips said nothing but Alin could see them trembling a tiny bit. He got the distinct sense, however, that it was not from fear.
Delkin seemed to have composed himself, though Alin could see his hands trembling.' 'Twas cooked in the Uthgardt style,' he rumbled. 'Perfectly seasoned, lovingly handled. Thard is a master cook, and ye have insulted him. Apologize.' It was not a request.
'It wasn't cooked enough,' Ryla retorted with a dismissive wave. 'Your master cook is a master fool.'
' 'Twas well done-half burned, even, just as ye asked!' Delkin roared. 'Apologize!'
'I refuse,' responded Ryla.
'Ye insult all o' us!' Delkin shouted. 'Apologize!'
'No.'
There was silence. The four adventurers stared at the dragonslayer in varying degress of shock. Thard's gaze was stony, Inri's suspicious, and Delkin's outright furious. Alin looked at Ryla with sympathy, and he could not keep the longing out of his gaze.
The dragonslayer looked around at the four faces and found nothing that pleased her in any of the gazes. Her lip curled up in a self-righteous sneer.
'Is this what passes for heroism these days?' she asked. 'Rudeness? Discourtesy? Suspicion?' She looked at Delkin,
Thard, and Inri respectively as she spat those three words. 'Are all of you adventurers this unwelcoming to those who would call you friend?'
There was no response. The Moor Runners looked at her with wide eyes, but no one spoke. Alin gaped. Thard brooded. Delkin flushed. Inri just looked at Ryla with a baleful glare.
Ryla made a dismissive sound in her throat then said, 'Pathetic-'
With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the campsite toward the trees.
The three Moor Runners looked at Alin, dumbfounded.
'She'll get over it,' the bard assured them. 'She's not really angry.'
'I hope a dragon eats every one of you!' the dragonslayer shouted back, rage hot in her voice.
The Moor Runners, all but Inri suitably chagrined, sent helpless looks the bard's way.
'Ye go and talk to the lass,' suggested Delkin with downcast eyes. 'She be in no mood for any o' us.'
Before the suggestion even passed the cleric's lips, Alin was already following the dragonslayer.
She walked only a short way before picking up the pace, and even began running. The bard followed without hesitation, clutching his deep indigo cloak against the night's chill. She was making excellent time, and his talents had never exactly run to running.
Alin decided to file that joke away for future use.
In a few minutes, Ryla passed between the tall redwoods at the edge of the Forest of Wyrms and Alin pulled up short, perhaps a hundred yards behind her.
He reached into his tunic and drew out a silver coin on a leather thong. Then he gave a short prayer. 'Lady Luck, for the love I bear thee, don't let a dragon pounce on me!'
He kissed the symbol and jogged toward the wood. Clouds came over the moon, so he pulled out a sphere of glass and strummed a high note on his harp. With the touch of his bardic magic-little more than a cantrip of power- the large marble began to glow with a soft, red-white radiance akin to a torch.
He came upon Ryla in a small grove near the edge of the forest. Her katana discarded, she was punching one of the trees with her spiked gauntlet, taking off chunks of reddish wood with each left-handed strike. The bard watched for a moment, awed at her strength, and cleared his throat.
Ryla stopped punching the tree and leaned against it, her back to him, as though the strength had gone out of her.
He took a step forward and said, 'Ryla…'
She turned, her eyes burning. Her features were luminous and almost feral under Sehine's glow. Water had stained her cheeks and seemed to gleam crimson in his magelight.
'What do you know?' she demanded. 'What gives you the right to judge me?'
'I'm not judging you,' Alin said.
'Then why are you here?' pressed Ryla.
'I…' The bard trailed off. How could he speak, when she was so beautiful in the moonlight? Somehow, he managed, 'I only thought I'd ask you… about my ballad.'
'A ballad?' Ryla looked intrigued. 'What ballad?'
She took a step toward him.
'Ah! A-about you,' he stammered. 'The ballad of-of Dragonclaw.'
'A song about me?' Ryla said, one scarlet eyebrow rising.
As she walked toward him, her hands deftly unbuckled the black breastplate she wore and slid it over her head. It fell to the ground, revealing her gray undershirt-an undershirt soaked with sweat and clinging tightly to her skin.
Alin swallowed. It had grown even harder to think coherently.
'Ah, yes… a ballad.'
She stepped within reach, unbuckled her black leather skirt, and stepped out of it.
'Wri-written b-by me.' Alin stuttered. He felt warm all over.
'Tell me, good sir bard,' Ryla purred. He had had no idea she could sound like that. She raised her right hand and ran the back of her fingers down his cheek. Her touch sent tremors through his body. 'Is there anyone… special, back home, waiting for her dark-haired, blue-eyed hero to come home a dragonslayer?'
She stepped closer and stared into his eyes.
'N-no,' Alin said.
Ryla pressed her body against his, and chills shot through him. He could see tiny flecks of what he thought was crimson in her eyes. She was so beautiful…
