Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [64]
The door splintered then and flew inward, hurling the thief a good distance away across the furs. He rolled to his feet, and two daggers gleamed as he drew them. The Moonclaws thief saluted the nude woman with them, and advanced menacingly. Nanue screamed again.
Darrigo Trumpettower looked around the ruined bedchamber in bewilderment. At his feet lay his nephew and right beside him, his terrified bride on her knees, shrieking as she crawled toward Darrigo.
Darrigo looked up again, mustache bristling. An intruder in black leathers was coming at him in a run, daggers gleaming in both hands. There wasn't even time to leer down at Nanue- who, he couldn't help noticing, looked like a fine wife indeed. He looked up at the onrushing thief again and drew a deep breath. 'Twas time to uphold the honor of the Trumpettowers!
With a roar, Darrigo Trumpettower charged across the room. The thief swept his daggers up to stab-but the old man took one in the arm without flinching, and smashed home a bone-shattering blow to the thief's jaw. Still roaring, he snatched at the reeling man's throat before he could fall, picked the thief up by the neck the same way he carried turkeys in to be cooked at home, and strode across the room, streaming blood.
Straight to the shattered windows he went, lifted the thief, and hurled him out into the empty darkness. He listened for the thud from the cobbles far below, nodded in satisfaction when it came, and went back for another thief.
Nanue decided it was safe to faint now. As the second thief sailed out into the night, the blushing bride sank gracefully down on Peeryst's chest, and knew no more…
*****
Word was all over the city by midmorn how the old, blustering warrior Darrigo Trumpettower had fought a dozen thieves in the bridal bedchamber of his nephew while the unhearing lovers had calmly consummated their match, and how he (Darrigo) hurled every one of the Moonclaws in uniform out the high windows, to their deaths in the courtyard of Trumpettower House.
Farl and El raised eyebrows and tankards of strong ale to the news. "It sounds as though one of them rescued Isparla and got out again," Farl said, sipping.
"How many does that leave?" Elminster asked quietly.
Farl shrugged. "Who knows? The gods and the Moonclaws, alone. But they lost Waera, Minter, Annathe, Obaerig, for certain, and probably Irtil, too. Let's say we're a lot more even after last night-though they did blunder in on a perfectly good grab job and lose us all but the little stuff."
"One of the hairpins broke, too," Elminster reminded him.
"Aye, but we have both pieces; little loss there," Farl said. "Now, if we-"
He broke off, frowned, and bent his head to listen to an excited whisper at a table nearby, laying a hand on El's arm to bid for silence. Elminster, who'd been holding his peace, continued to do so.
"Aye, magic! Doubtless hidden away by King Uthgrael, years agone!" One man was saying, leaning forward almost into his friend's face to avoid being overheard. "In a secret chamber somewheres in the castle, they say!"
Farl and Elminster leaned forward to listen carefully. A moment later, the need to do so passed: a minstrel came in, bounded up onto the nearest table, and cried the tale at the top of his young, excited voice.
In truth, it was a tale straight out of the legends minstrels kept shining: a chest of magical ioun stones had been found in the castle-hidden away years before, probably by (or on the orders of) King Uthgrael. The magelords are, and remain, in heated disagreement about who shall have them, and how they'll be used. By decree of King Belaur himself, the stones-glowing and floating about by themselves, giving off faint chimings and musical sounds like harp-chords from time to time-are on display, guarded by the officers and senior armsmen