Dennis McKiernan: The Dragonstone

The strangers sat in the corner with their backs to the wall, silent, impassive, as if waiting. On the table before the yellow one lay two unsheathed swords, one long, one shorter, each slightly curved; the blades glinted wickedly as lightning flared.

Olar blenched and quickly faced forward once more. After a moment he said, "Then wha' think ye be th' reason brought them two t' Morkfjord, eh?"

Tryg shrugged his beefy shoulders as he tipped the pitcher to replenish the mug sitting before the gaunt fisherman. "Seekin' passage, I would think, now, aye?"

Olar cocked an eyebrow, but Yngli shook his head. "I think they ha'e come t' hire a Dragonship and crew-a raid on enemies, aye? They be waiting for the return o' one o' them anow-likely Orri's craft, since he fared out first and should come back soonest, I would say."

Rain hammered down as again Olar cast a quick sideways glance toward the enshadowed corner. Then he leaned forward and slurped at the foam in his mug. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, "Th' Elf," he hissed, "d'ye suppose she be one o' them Lian, one o' them Guardians?"

Tryg shook his head. "Too short. More like them what lives in th' deep woods-"

"Dylvana, ye mean?" interjected Yngli.

"Like as not."

Yngli smiled. "Then she be my size."

Tryg looked at the grin on Yngli's face. "P'rhaps y'r size, my smallish friend, but I wouldn't go about getting ideas, else ye, too, are like t' lose y'r hopes f'r future offspring, from what I hear about Dylvana females."

"Wha' about th' yellow one?" sissed Olar. "D'ye suppose she be an Elf, too?"

Tryg shrugged.

"She ha'e got slanty eyes," muttered Yngli.

"But her ears don't be pointy," responded Tryg.

Yngli eyed the swords. "D'ye think they be here t' stir up trouble? Mayhap t' kill some'n' who did 'em wrong?"

"Or t' cut off their balls?" groaned Olar, shivering.

Tryg opened his mouth to say something, but in that moment the rattling door flew open, admitting wind and rain and a scrawny old man who came lurching in, water runneling down through drenched strings of unkempt, long hair fringing 'round his glistering wet bald pate, his scraggly beard and his ragged cloak dripping.

"Get out, Alos!" shouted Tryg above the blow. " 'N' shut th' door behind as ye go!" The old man staggered a few more feet, a trail of wetness following. "I told ye before, I don't want ye in here, Alos!" The tavernkeep started around the end of the bar as the old man inarticulately whined something and turned his head aside and threw up a warding hand and fled stumbling among the few tables, seeking refuge. Behind him the door whipped to and fro, banging against the wall in counterpoint to the loose shutter, and rain gusted inward and the tavern lantern swung on its chain in the swirling blow to set the shadows swaying.

Muttering curses, Tryg started for the old man. "Get th' door for me, Yngli," called the beefy tavernkeep, "while I throw this good-for-nought out."

Yngli leapt to his feet and stepped to the banging door, pushing it to and standing ready at the latch while Tryg went after the whimpering old man.

Ineffectually, the oldster scrabbled among the tables, trying to evade Tryg, finally cowering under one to no effect, for the tavernkeep swiftly caught him by the cloak collar and jerked him up to his feet. "Alos, I told ye I don't want ye in here ever."

In the swaying lanternlight, the old man looked up at Tryg, one eye watery brown, the other, the right one, blind, the entire cornea white. "Just one drink, Master Tryg"-his voice was a whine-"one is all I need."

Left hand on Alos's collar, the right gripping a fistful of breeks through the sodden cloak, Tryg yanked the old man up on tiptoes and propelled him mewling toward the door, where Yngli stood waiting. But Yngli's eyes widened and he gasped hoarsely and scuttled backwards, away, his gaze beyond Alos, beyond Tryg.

" 'Ware, Tryg," sounded Olar's call, more of a squawk than a shout.

At the same time-"Hold!" came a command from the shadows.

Tryg jerked his head 'round and he sucked in air between clenched teeth, his grip on Alos all but forgotten, for there just behind stood the yellow lady, her swords in hand, the blades viciously gleaming in the shifting light. She had left her cloak behind, and for the first time Tryg could see that she was not wearing a proper dress like a proper lady should, but instead was garbed in brown leather-vest and breeks and boots. Hammered bronze plates like scales were sewn on the vest; underneath she wore a silk jerkin the color of cream. A brown leather headband incised with red glyphs held her raven-black hair back and away from her high-cheekboned face. She stood in a warrior's stance: balanced, ready. Like one o' them Jordian warrior maids… 'cept she ain't no Jordian, being slanty-eyed and yellow and all.

Arined and armored and standing perhaps but five feet two, she looked at Tryg, her tilted eyes black and impassive. "Kanshu, my mistress would speak with this one," she said quietly in a strangely accented voice as she canted her head toward Alos. The old man smiled a snag-toothed grin at her, his few remaining teeth yellow-brown.

Tryg glanced at the Dylvana in the corner then back at the yellow woman. "Lady, he be nought but a derelict, a beggarly drunk, and no good'll come o' this."

The swords shifted slightly, glimmering.

Tryg released Alos. " 'Tis all on y'r heads," he muttered under his breath, backing away from this female. "Don't say I didn't warn ye."

With a great show of dignity, Alos stood erect and gripped the lapels of his sodden cloak and straightened the garment, stretching his dirt-encrusted wet scrawny neck as he did so; then he turned his white eye toward his rescuer and bobbed his head and grinned a mindless, gap-toothed, ocherous smile. "First we'll have us a drink, aye?"

For a moment the yellow lady eyed him impassively… then with a quick turn of her hands she reverse-gripped her swords and fluidly sheathed them. Then she spun on her heel and stepped toward the shadows where the Dylvana waited, the old man trailing water and licking his lips in anticipation as he lurched after.

Even before Tryg could leave the table the sodden old man slurped down his ale, running his grimy finger about the rim of the mug to pick up the remaining light froth of foam then licking the finger clean, dirt and all. He looked up at Tryg expectantly and then over at the two ladies and smiled his brown-stained gap-toothed grin at them and bobbed his head eagerly.

The saffron-skinned, black-haired female warrior merely stared back at him impassively. The Dylvana sighed and looked into the blind white eye of the oldster as if considering her options.

Tryg cocked an eyebrow at the Dylvana. She, too, was dressed somewhat like a man: a long-sleeved pale green silk jerkin and tan breeks and brown boots. Her chestnut hair was held in place by a green silk ribbon bound 'round her head. He guessed she was shorter than the yellow woman by as much as seven or eight inches-perhaps no taller than four feet six or seven-though it was difficult to judge with her sitting down. As far as he could tell, unlike her companion she was unarmed. He cleared his throat. "Lady?"

She turned her tilted hazel eyes his way and nodded, and Tryg took up the empty mug and headed for the bar, the old man's full attention now locked upon his retreating back.

"The taverner seems a decent sort, Aiko," said the Dylvana. "I do not think thou didst need show him thy swords to have him release our guest."

Aiko's almond-eyed gaze followed Tryg as well. "Even at rest a sword in the hand speaks with a loud voice, Dara."

The Dylvana smiled, then turned to Alos, but the oldster was totally absorbed in watching Tryg refill the mug. The Dylvana sighed but said nothing, instead studying the old man's face, her gaze returning ever again to his white eye.