Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [56]
The man standing inside looked tall and battered, and so did the stout wooden staff in his hand. They'd scarce got a look at him before lie leapt out, past Mirt-who turned automatically to keep his drawn sword facing the man-and raised his staff threateningly over the ragtag, awakened sleeper.
"Be off, you! Move, Baergasra! I've told you before away from the gate!" The staff thumped the tattered derelict solidly in the shoulder, and the tall man used it to shove and roll his bedraggled, gruntingly protesting target awry from their path.
"Please come in," he puffed over his shoulder. He raised the staff again as the bundle of rags moaned and tunibled hastily out of reach. "This old leper is always hanging about here-but we've never let her inside the gate. The Wyvern is clean, I assure you."
Mirt merely nodded and strode into the inn yard. The others followed.
The tall man came after them, closing the gate hurriedly. "Please go within," he said. "There, under the lamp. We've plenty of room tonight, and there's food hot and ready."
"Good, good. My thanks," Mirt called, and waved at Delg to lead the rest in. As Shandril followed, she noticed Mirt's sword was still drawn, and his eyes darted around alertly, peering into the shadows.
Their rooms were simple but warm and clean, clustered together at one end of a low-ceilinged gallery.
Broad stairs led down from the center of that passage to a landing overlooking the main taproom of the inn, and from there descended again to a lobby just within the front doors.
The Wanton Wyvern was old and dusty and dark, paneled in fine woods and hung with torn and faded, oncefine tapestries. "Battle spoils." Mirt identified them briefly as they passed; Delg nodded agreement. Everyone noticed the crossbows hanging ready behind the front desk of the Wyvern.
The place was warm and friendly, however, with perhaps a dozen other guests-two warriors, a rosyrobed priest of Lathander with two servants, and the rest merchants already drinking and joking in the taproom. The staff was easygoing and attentive; a serving lass whose girth matched Mirt's own showed them to a table against one wall, near the crackling hearth-fire.
Shandril looked around, taking in the colors and lights and warmth for a while, letting the talk and the strong smells of wood smoke and cooking wash over her. She heard Mirt rumble something about this being one of those inns you could feel at home in. and Delg growling something in reply, about too much wood and not enough honest solid stone, but at least they didn't give dwarves funny looks… and suddenly, even before the promised dinner came, Shandril felt something hard touch her forehead, hard and unmoving and restful…
"Thy lady, lad," Mirt said, reaching over to poke Narm. "She’s out dreamstalking already… Nay, nay, don't wake her. Just keep her hair out of the soup when it comes…"
Unmoving, Shandril lay face forward on the table, her hair spread out around her in a swirl of ashblond tresses. Narm's gentle hands gathered it back to her shoulders, combing out the worst tangles.
Shandril slept on, shoulders rising and falling faintly.
She was running barefoot through night-dark woods, flames of spellfire racing up and down her bare body like a beacon. Where her feet came down, flames leapt up and left a fiery trail. Behind her, she could hear wolves running, wolves and men… men with dark cloaks and cruel eyes. They rode skeletal dragons that laughed hollowly, even after she blasted them. There were more of them, more and more, and the spellfire in her hands was fading away and failing… They came nearer, the men laughing now along with the bony dragons… near, nearer… Dark hands shifted suddenly, fingers lengthening horribly into reaching, writhing black tentacles…
"No! No, you won't take me!" Shandril screamed, lashing out with her hands. She was somewhere warm and bright-sittingat a table at the inn. With her friends. Shandril blinked and stared about wildly, breathing