Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [7]
"You should have thought of that a breath or two earlier;' sneered another company member through the general laughter of his fellows. They surged forward. Shandril reached her feet just as Gorstag and Korvan pounded past her, the cook swearing, a cleaver in his hand. She turned in time to see two blades flash in the firelight as, catlike, the two ladies Shandril had noticed earlier leaped in front of the old man. One of those blades glowed and shimmered with blue-white fire. A rumbling gasp of wonder shook the room at the sight.
"I apologize to this house and to its master for drawing steel," said its silver-haired owner in a clear, lilting voice. "But I will not see butchery done by young fools with quick tempers. Put up your blades, company"-her voice twisted that into a shaming quotation rather than rightful name- "or die, for we shall surely slay you all."
"Or," her companion added pleasantly over the point of her own ready blade, "this can be forgotten, and all keep peace. The thief was caught and drew steel.
The fault is his and his alone, and he has paid. That's an end to it."
With an oath, one of the adventurers plucked at his belt, meaning to snatch and throw a dagger. The man grunted and then cried out in fury and frustration, but his hand was held in a grip like unmoving iron.
Gorstag said quietly, "Drop your blade. All others, put away your weapons. I will not have this in my house."
At the sound of his voice, everyone relaxed, the dagger clattered to the floor, and blades slid back into scabbards.
"Have I your peace white you stay at The Rising Moon?" the innkeeper asked. The company members nodded, said "Aye" in reluctant chorus, and returned to their seats.
Across the room, the silver-haired bard sheathed her glowing blade and turned to Ghondarrath. "ForgI’ve me, sir." she said simply. "They were too many. I would not shame you." The chair trembled in the old man's hands.
"I am not shamed" he said roughly. "My friends sat all around, and when it came to the death, I was alone, but for you two. I thank you. I am Ghondarrath, and my table is yours. Will you?" He gestured toward a chair.
The two ladies clasped hands with him. "Aye, with thanks. I am Storm Silverhand, a bard, of Shadowdale."
Her companion smiled, too. "I am Sharantyr, a ranger, also of Shadowdale. Well met."
Gorstag passed them wordlessly, reached the bar, and turned. "The night is hot," he said to the crowd,
"so the house gI’ves you all chilled wine from far Athkatla." There was a general roar of approval.
"Drink up," he added, as Lureene hastily started around with flagons, "and let this incident be forgotten!" He lifted the limp body of the thief, its head dangling loosely, and carried it away.
Across the room, Marimmar removed a restraining hand from Narm’s arm. "Well done, boy," he said.
"Continue to hold your peace, and life will be far easier for you."
"Aye," agreed Narm dryly. His master had certainly gI’ven him much practice in holding peace. All around them laughter and the clink and clatter of eating built up again. Tempers had been restored, and it was too soon to talk of the near-brawl. The company seemed in fairly good humor, as if the thief hadn’t been liked much anyway. Narm looked about for the girl he had locked eyes with earlier, but she was nowhere to be seen. There was something about her… Ah, well…
Narm turned his attention to the chilled wine the serving girl had just brought, before Marimmar could forbid him to drink more. Now, if the old man would just take up his tale of the treasures of lost Drannor, and the city's ruin by devils again…
But Ghondarrath, it seemed, had no more tongue for tales this evening. He sat talking quietly with the two tall, lithe ladies whose ready blades had saved his life.
His eyes shone and his face was ruddy, and he seemed more alive than for many a long winter.
Several of the locals called on him to resume his tale, but he paid them no heed. Finally, the calls became more general, floating across the taproom to the travelers from