Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [116]
The two stared at her, stricken. "We should leave"
Shandril whispered. Jhessail caught at her sleeve and smiled.
"No! Stay here. The folk of the dale accept you, and will fight for you as for any guest before their hearth, kin or stranger.
"Who can follow adventure, or even stand up strong in these Realms, without finding foes on all sides, often more than it seems one can handle? You are welcome, truly. Besides, you will upset Elminster terribly if you run off now. He's not finished with you. But I flap my tongue and jaws worse than the old mage himself! Come, let us dance, you two and Merith and E"
"But-I-"
"We've never learned-"
"No matter-Merith shall teach us all a dance of the Elven Court. We shall all be new to it. Try it and you can do courtesy to any elf you meet! Come!" And the long-haired magic-user pulled them out into an open space and let out a birdlike trilling call. At once Merith looked up, smilingly excused himself from two fat farmwives, and joined them.
"Storm!" he called out. "Will you harp for us?"
The bard nodded and smiled, and took up the harp of the hall. It was made of blackwood inlaid with silver, and hung on the wall among the shattered and rusting shields of past, long-dead lords of Shadowdale.
As Jhessail told the couple that the harp had been a gift from the elves of Myth Drannor, Merith reached them.
"You will be wanting to dance, my love?" he asked fondly.
"Of course… one of the gentler tunes, my lord, one that human feet can follow. Narm and Shandril, and you and I… may we?"
Merith bowed. "Of course," he said, as Storm joined them. "What say you to the frolic that of old we danced on the banks of the Ashaba? Storm, you know the tune…"
It was late, or rather very early. Revelers saw stars glittering coldly in the clear dark sky from each window as they went up the stairs together, footsore and happily sleepy. "Elves must be stronger than I'd thought," Narm grunted as they mounted the last flight to the level where their bedchamber was. The Twisted Tower was quiet around them. Far below, the revelry continued unabated, but no sound carried this far. The guards stood silent at their posts.
At the head of the stairs, Shandril stripped off her shoes and set her aching feet upon the cold stone.
The chill on her bare flesh roused her somewhat from drowsiness. She slipped out of Narm's grasp and, laughing, ran lightly ahead. Wearily, he grinned, shook his head, and made haste to follow. They were both running when the blow fell.
Shandril heard a dull thud behind her, as if something heavy and made of leather had been dropped. It was followed by a thumping and scrabbling sound, as if someone had fallen. "Narm?" she called, turning as she reached their door. "Narm?
Did-"
She saw a grim-faced guard almost upon her and running hard, the mace that had felled Narm raised before him in one mailed fist. Shandril saw the blood upon it and realized she had no time to dodge or fight.
She let go the ring of the door and ran.
She fled on bare feet down the long, dimly lit hall, and saw the guard Rold, stationed far ahead under a flickering torch, turn and look at her. A wild rage grew in Shandril out of the shrieking fear for Narm's life. She looked back through her streaming hair and saw a mailed hand only inches away, reaching.
Without thought, she dove sharply to the rugs of the hall and rolled.
There were sharp, numbing blows on her back and flank as armored boots struck her. A startled curse rang out above her as her assailant tripped, landing in a crash of metal as he fell heavily upon his arms.
Shandril rolled free and up to her knees even as the guard, who was fast and well-trained, spun about with his legs kicking in the air and drew back his mace to hurl at her.
Their eyes met across too little space, and fire exploded from Shandril's raging glare. The guard yelled in fear and drove his large and dark mace at her. It smashed aside her hastily raised fingers and struck