Troy Denning - The Amber Enchantress

As Rhayn stepped from behind the curtain, the templars shoved Huyar with the shafts of their partizans and sent him reeling toward the storeroom.

“Is there a problem?” Rhayn asked, catching her long-brother. As she steadied him, she saw that a small crowd had gathered in the street outside. The men and women were watching the confrontation with amusement, occasionally voicing encouragement to the wine merchant and his escorts.

The fat man glared at Rhayn. “I want my dagger back!”

“It’s my dagger now,” Rhyan said. Her voice was even, but she was furious inside. Her father had, no doubt, heard the merchant’s demand. Now she would have to defy the chief in order to keep the weapon.

Rhayn turned toward the templars and slowly lifted her tunic, revealing the steel blade and, not by accident, a long expanse of tightly muscled stomach. Giving the king’s officers an inviting smile, she pulled the dagger from its hiding place and held it aloft. Whatever happened next, she wanted to make sure the half-elf and his partner had no excuse to search the rest of the shop.

The wine merchant snatched at the weapon. Huyar grabbed his wrist in mid-flight and whipped the arm back against the elbow, at the same time kicking the man’s feet out from beneath him. The fat vendor landed flat on his back, wheezing for breath and holding his sore arm.

The templars leveled their partizans at Huyar. When the elven warrior made no further move to injure the vendor, they did not strike.

“Rhayn said it’s her dagger,” said Huyar, his eyes fixed on the fat vendor’s face.

“Stealing don’t make it so,” gasped the merchant.

“I didn’t steal it. You promised it to me,” said Rhayn, finally letting her tunic fall back over her stomach. Her voice grew suggestive. “Or have you forgotten?”

The crowd outside chuckled and the merchant’s face reddened, but he would not be embarrassed out of the weapon. “She didn’t deliver!” he complained, looking at the two templars.

“Deliver what?” demanded Rhayn’s father, slipping from the back room. He kept one hand hidden on the other side of the curtain. “Are you calling my daughter a harlot?”

The half-elf templar shifted his partizan toward the chief. Rhyan and Huyar glanced at each other with exaggerated agitation, supporting their father’s bluff.

The merchant’s eyes darted to the hidden hand, but his double chin remained set in determination. “We had an arrangement,” he said, glancing at the templars for support.

“Our arrangement was that you’d give me your dagger, and now I have it,” said Rhayn.

“I doubt the wound on his head was part of your arrangement,” said the half-elf. “You robbed him.”

The crowd outside murmured approval of the templar’s determination, but Rhayn did not attribute any such nobility to him. To her, the man’s actions suggested that he wanted a bribe, and she had no doubt that her father would gladly pay it-then steal it back later.

“The fat oaf deserves his bandage,” Rhayn said. “I had to smash a flask over his head to keep his grubby hands off me.” She gave the vendor a spiteful glare, then smiled at the half-elven templar. “Still, I can see why you are suspicious. What will it take to convince you of my innocence?”

“All the purses of your tribe don’t have enough gold to bribe one of King Tithian’s templar’s-if that’s what you’re asking,” said the red-haired man.

Rhayn and Huyar glanced at each other with furrowed brows, unsure of how to proceed. In their experience, templars could always be bribed-usually for a modest price.

It was Faenaeyon who came up with their next ploy. “Did I mention that I have another daughter?” the big elf asked. “You may have heard of her-Sadira of Tyr?”

“If you say so,” the half-elf answered, rolling his eyes. “And you might be my father as well. It still wouldn’t matter.”

The templar shifted his partisan to Rhayn’s chest, the motioned at the dagger in her hand. “Give that back to the wine vendor,” he said. “You won’t be needing it where you’re going.”

A woman in the crowd yelled. “That’s right! Let these elves know what happens when they rob the free citizens of Tyr!”

“To the iron mines with her!” cried another.

Rhayn looked to her father. “Maybe we could buy the dagger?” she suggested. If the templars couldn’t be bribed, perhaps the wine vendor could.

Faenaeyon only scowled at her in return. “What else have you been holding back?” he demanded, gesturing at the dagger. He glared at the templars for a moment, then looked back to Rhayn with a silvery light gleaming in his eyes. “You’re trying to dupe me!” he yelled. “You’re in this with them!”

Rhayn scowled. She had heard her father make such accusations before, when he was well into his cups, but never at such a critical moment.

“Think of what you’re saying!” Huyar exclaimed. “No Sun Runner would side with an outsider!”

“If she keeps the dagger from me, what else has she hidden?” hissed Faenaeyon. He raised his arm as though he were lifting something on the other side of the curtain.

“Stop!” ordered the red-haired templar.

“This is between me and my daughter,” the chief growled, pulling his sword from behind the curtain.

“Your daughter is Tithian’s prisoner now,” the templar said, pushing his partizan toward Faenaeyon. “If you try to harm her, I’ll kill-”

In a blinding fast kick, Huyar planted the sole of his foot square in the fellow’s chest. As the templar stumbled back, Faenaeyon’s bone sword flashed past his son’s ear, striking the Tyrian’s neck with a sharp crack.

Huyar wasted no time pondering how close the chief had come to killing him instead of the templar. He dived at the half-elf guarding Rhayn. The Tyrian started to bring his weapon around to defend himself, then saw Rhayn still clutching the disputed dagger and hesitated. In that moment, he was lost. Huyar struck simultaneously with three fingers to the larynx and a kick to the knees. The half-elf dropped his partizan and fell to the floor, grasping at his throat.

As the second templar fell, the wine vendor turned to flee. Rhayn leaped after him, burying the dagger’s blade deep into his back. The fat man dropped, his death scream upon his lips.

Shrieks of terror and shock rose from the crowd outside. Men and women began to run, fearing the mad elves would come after them next. Cries of “Murder!” and “Call the King’s Guard!” rang down the street.

Rhayn slammed the door to the shop, and Huyar used a stolen partizan to knock out the poles supporting the counter awning. The wooden shutters slammed into place with a loud bang, closing out the confusion in the streets.

Rhayn looked to her father and found him standing in the center of the room, clenching his sword and staring at her with narrowed eyes.

“Tada, were you really going to kill me?” she asked.

Faenaeyon scowled and held out his free hand. “Give me that dagger.”

Over the melody of the ryl pipes came a strange trill, a feral call almost indistinguishable from the song. The sound was hauntingly familiar, enough so that it weakened the music’s spell and released the sorceress from the ecstasy that had seized her. As Sadira’s pivoting hips slowed and her rocking shoulders wavered to a stop, she focused her drink-blurred eyes on the face of a nearby musician.

“D’you hear that?” she asked, her slurred words barely audible over the bracing cadence of his finger drums.

“Dance,” he said.

“No,” Sadira replied, struggling to fight back the compelling waves of music that filled her head. “Something’s out there. We could be in danger.”