Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [67]
It was time for the bard to die.
*****
Flickering torchlight glittered on gold coins, silver bracelets studded with jewels, and shining wealth in a thousand forms. Robyn caught her breath in astonishment, and Tristan failed to suppress a low whistle. Pawldo, meanwhile, sprinted soundlessly forward and darted into the treasure room before anyone could react.
Tristan muffled a curse and held his sword ready in case the sleeping Firbolg awoke. He showed no sign of leaving his grunting dreams, however. Before the prince could react, Robyn too slipped past him and into the room. Sighing in resignation, the prince watched the guard for any alarming movement.
Through the door, he could see Pawldo kneel down amid a great pile of coins and jewels. His nimble figures picked up and discarded object after object, until he found something of worth to slip into his backpack. The leather sack quickly grew heavy with valuables.
Daryth and Robyn walked slowly around inside the room, awestruck, touching nothing. Finally, Tristan could contain himself no longer, and he followed the others into the treasure room.
Daryth knelt down and pulled a curved scabbard from the shadows. Its plain leather surface belied the worth of its contents, as he whisked forth a gleaming scimitar. Seeing that Robyn still carried only her oaken cudgel, he bowed with a flourish and offered the weapon to her. She looked down, considering the offer, but then she smiled shyly and shook her head. The Calishite, instead, buckled the weapon to his own waist. It was clear from the way he easily demonstrated the skill of pulling the blade from the scabbard that he was no neophyte with the weapon. He held the scimitar at the ready, moving silently to the door to watch the Firbolg.
Robyn suddenly knelt and picked up a large silver ring. Tristan recognized it as a torque, a druidic ornament to be worn around the neck. The maiden shook back her hair, separated the band at its clasp, and then placed it around her smooth throat. The silver shone coolly against her tanned skin.
Tristan, disturbed at the sight of Robyn, looked through the treasure at his feet. Suddenly his eye was caught by something. “Look!” he whispered harshly, almost crying out. “Here’s Keren’s bow!”
Indeed, the bard’s longbow was unmistakable. The polished black wood, stretching through an arc as tall as a man, looked like no other weapon. The prince remembered the bard’s description of the weapon, which had been carved from a hefty bough of the Callidyrr yew. It was one of a dozen or so such weapons, crafted by the High King’s own bowyer.
He carefully picked the weapon up, noticing that the bard’s quiver, containing some dozen arrows, still hung from the stout shaft. As he lifted the bow, he caught a glimpse of something brown and dull, lying in stark contrast among the glimmering metal.
Kneeling, the prince saw that it was a leather pommel, almost buried under a mountain of coins. He brushed the gold and silver coins aside as if they had no more importance than dirt. And, although he couldn’t have said why, that was so, because everything in him was drawn to another piece of dull unadorned leather. He lifted a plain, dirty, worn scabbard from among the jewels. From it projected an ancient, battered sword hilt.
In a swift gesture, the prince seized the hilt and pulled, drawing forth a silver longsword. He whispered a gasp of awe as it saw that it glowed with a light all its own, a light that had a purity that outshone all the other treasure in the chamber.
Slowly he lifted the sword, feeling the contours of the hilt fit naturally into his palm. The blade was emblazoned in a crest and motto, written in the Old Script. Squinting, he could make nothing of the words. Their very presence, however, told him that indeed the weapon was ancient. Suddenly, the sleeping Firbolg snorted outside the door of the room.
*****
Kamerynn paced restlessly around the dirty pen, snorting and pawing