Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [11]
The firesoul snarled, “A pretty twinkle ain’t going to save your pale hide.” He charged.
When Garth entered the lingering sword wake, a flash of lightning-bright energy stabbed him multiple times. Garth made an odd sort of “Unk!” noise, then fell to the ground. The light sparked and skittered across the firesoul’s body for several heartbeats. Smoke curled up from fresh burns in his clothing.
Garth groaned again, but stayed down. The glow in the air faded and the runes on his blade dissipated.
Demascus raised his eyes to the others. He felt as surprised as they looked.
No one moved. Demascus took advantage of the pause to move to Chant and help the man to his feet.
The shop owner touched his cheek where Garth had hit him, wincing.
Then Chant yelled, “All right, fun’s over. Leave, or maybe all you will find out what that’s like.” He pointed at the recumbent Garth.
The throng grumbled and and glared, but they dispersed. Demascus was partly relieved and partly … disappointed. Something in him silently urged the Lantern patrons to make the wrong choice and fight! Except that was crazy, he thought. He wasn’t entirely clear on the effect he’d called up, or if he could do it again. He took a deep breath and sheathed his sword.
“Thanks,” he said to the human.
“You’re welcome. I thought some of Raneger’s goons were out here stirring things up. Raneger didn’t send you, did he?”
“Uh. No, I don’t who that is. I was just wandering through …”
The man started to say something else, then his eyes widened. He said, “Hold on, I remember you!”
Sudden hope made Demascus’s heart beat faster. “You do?”
“Of course! You’re Denarus, right? No, that’s not it … You’re … Demascus! That’s it, isn’t it? Of course it is!”
“I think … yes, I’m Demascus. And you’re Chant? You know me?” His veil of anxiety parted. Finally, he would get some answers.
The man laughed. He said, “No need to be coy. When I give my word, I follow through. Usually.”
Demascus studied the human. But no—even with a name, the large frame didn’t seem the least familiar.
“Now that you’re here, even as amazingly late as you are, I can only assume it’s to take care of business. This way.” Chant motioned for Demascus to follow him into his shop.
The sign over the door read “Pawn & Curio.”
The shop’s display window revealed a gold-plated hunting horn, playing cards depicting dragons, several daggers and swords, a spyglass, and more oddments, all beneath a layer of dust years thick.
He followed Chant inside.
The smell of books and metal polish assaulted his nose. Shelves stuffed with musical instruments, weapons, cookware, and a hundred other things made the small space even closer. A single counter hugged the back wall, and stairs so steep they nearly constituted a ladder led up into a loft.
I’ve been here before …
A large cat popped up from behind the counter. Its fur was a ragged mix of white, orange, and gray. It glanced at Demascus disinterestedly, then meowed at the shop owner. The sound was loud and strident. Chant petted the cat’s head.
The animal leaned into the hand and loosed a rumbling purr.
The pawnbroker said, “I still have what you gave me. I kept it safe all this time, like we agreed.”
“Oh, that’s good. Good news …” Demascus was at a loss. He didn’t want to reveal the gaping hole in his memory, either purposefully or accidentally, at least not until he knew a little more about his situation, and about the pawnbroker. Though the way Chant had tried to break up the fight outside suggested he was a stand-up sort of fellow.
“You’re here to retrieve it?” asked Chant. “Waukeen’s empty purse, stupid even to ask, of course you are.” Then, “Get down, Fable; we have a guest!”
The man shooed the cat, but the feline sitting on the display case stubbornly refused to budge. His cheek twitched in a half smile, then he squatted down to