Nancy Berberick - Stormblade

Lavim set out for the tavern chewing a large bite of honey cake and fortified with his father’s optimism.

He was thirsty from all his work and good deeds, and a few hours still remained before the watch would cry curfew.

Stanach felt oppressed by the noise and heat of the tavern. The place smelled of wet wool and leather, sour wine and flat ale spilled long ago. But these were no worse than the odors in some of the taverns he and Kyan had frequented in Thorbardin. His sense of oppression was rooted in the overwhelming feeling that he was a stranger among strangers. Tenny’s held more humans than Stanach had ever seen. Only a few of them, small groups here and there, seemed to know each other. Others stood shoulder by shoulder with fellow drinkers, yet seemed to stand alone. The sound of their talking, the closeness of them, made Stanach wonder if there were enough air in the place for all to breathe. We need more air in our lungs than you do, Piper would have said. The mage would have made the remark, Stanach thought, with a wry smile and a cocked head, if he were here to make it. Stanach didn’t know where Piper was and he didn’t even know whether the mage was still alive. He smeared a ring of ale on the scarred table and scowled. Piper had survived. He was, after all, a mage. And a clever one, at that. He was also, Stanach realized, a stag surrounded by a pack of wolves. But a stag can break free and do serious harm to the pack. He held onto that thought and prayed that Piper had been able to lose Realgar’s guards in the woods, as he had.

Stanach had come into Long Ridge at sunset last night, a cold wind at his back. He’d looked first for a place to lodge and then for a place to eat. He’d found both in Tenny’s.

Food and a room were not all he’d found. Stormblade was, indeed, in Long Ridge. At least it had been last night.

Stanach tangled his fingers in his glossy black beard, tugging a little. When he’d come into the tavern last night, the place buzzed with the story of a ranger’s grand wager: his sword against the money pouches of three companions.

A magnificent sword! Gold hilted and silver chased … five wonderful sapphires on the hilt …

A grand wager, Stanach thought. Aye, a grand wager. Though he’d looked for the ranger and the sword, even made discreet inquiries, he saw no sign of them last night. He had found no trace of Stormblade today either. The sword, and the ranger who had wagered it at a game of daggers, seemed to have vanished.

He was with an elf, one man had said last night. Stanach took a long pull on his tankard of ale and looked to the bar. The only elf he’d seen in the place, last night and tonight, was the tall, slim fellow talking now to the red-haired barmaid.

Stanach looked closely at him. He wore hunting leathers and high boots. A dagger was sheathed at his hip, a longbow and full quiver strapped across his back. He bore his weapons with casual ease. Stanach thought he had a look about him of one who had spent more time in the woods than in taverns. A hunter’s look. Or a ranger’s.

The barman called for the serving girl. His bellowing rose over the sound of men talking, the scrape of chairs, and the hiss and snap of the fire in the hearth. The call died in the man’s throat. As though by command, the tavern fell silent. The door had opened and the dry, musty odor of reptile filled the room.

“Givrak,” someone whispered, nearly choking on the name.

Stanach’s first impulse was to close his eyes, to shut out the sight of what shoved through the silent crowd. When he was a child, Stanach had nightmares about things that looked like Givrak. He did not close his eyes, though, but looked. Every instinct warned him that this Givrak bore close and careful watching, if only so that one knew where to run when running became necessary.

Like the creatures of Stanach’s evil dreams, Givrak was as big as a tall man, broad in the chest and shoulders, and had a reptile’s head, flat and spine-crested. Wide, claw-tipped leathery wings were folded over his back. Though the things in his nightmares did not wear chain mail, Givrak did. Stanach, from where he sat at a corner table near the door, could not tell where the mail left off and the draconian’s scaly hide began. His thickly muscled legs did not seem to be meant for walking, though Givrak, stalking the space before the bar, walked well enough on them. Worse, though, were his flat, black eyes.

Nothing like pity or mercy had ever moved in those eyes.

The draconian lifted his head. The light of the hearth fire and small lanterns glittered and danced along mail and skin.

The draconian moved slowly, like a snake rising from its coil. Stanach had not been in the town long, but two nights and a day were enough to know that in Long Ridge a draconian in foul temper did not often go victimless.

Everyone in the place held perfectly still. The barman’s rag hung in his hand like a limp and dirty flag of surrender. Around the common room, men sat or stood in perfect silence. The place stank of fear. Stanach’s sword lay across the table. He slid his hand closer to the hilt. The barmaid, her face the color of whey, the freckles on her cheeks standing out like fever blotches, drew a small, tight breath, Givrak turned at the sound.

The brutish draconian scented the girl’s fear. His narrow, forked tongue flickered around lipless jaws. Stanach’s fingers closed around his sword’s grip.

His movements slow and easy, the elf stood away from the bar. His unstrung bow would be useless to him, but his right hand hovered near his dagger. Briefly, Stanach was aware of the elf’s cool blue gaze as it judged him, quickly satisfied. The dwarf glanced at the girl. Her eyes were the color of emeralds and huge with fear.

It was then that the kender Lavim Springtoe sauntered into the tavern. Dressed in bright yellow leggings, soft brown boots, and a black, shapeless coat that fell nearly to his knees, he was old and wore his long white hair in a thick braid. A fine netting of wrinkles made his face look like that of an ancient pug-nosed child. He saw the draconian right away, but did not reach for the hoopak staff strapped across his back. Instead, he strode purposefully toward him, dusted his hands on his yellow leggings, and peered up at Givrak.

“There,” he sighed. “Do you know I’ve been looking all over the town for you?’

Fearless as kender are, Stanach thought he saw the old one’s breathing hitch just a little when Givrak turned toward him. But then, maybe not. The draconian scowled, an expression as twisted and fearsome as any Stanach had ever seen. “For me, little thief?”

The kender did not flicker an eye at this gross insult, but grinned instead. His voice was smooth and surprisingly deep for one so small.

“Yes, for you. There’s someone looking for you, and he sent me to find you.”

“Who?”

The kender shrugged. “I don’t know who he is. He was wearing red armor and carrying a big helmet. You know, that helmet looked just like a dragon’s head. It had horns and a mouthpiece that looked like fangs. Well, at least, I think it looked like a dragon—the helmet—I mean. I’ve never really seen a dragon except for that red one that flies over every day. But then, it flies so high I can’t really see its face and—”

Givrak snarled. The kender sighed as though over the impatience and ill manners of the draconian.

“Anyway, he said something about troop deployments, or the Highlord, or something like that.”

Givrak hissed. He, as well as anyone in the room, recognized the description of Carvath, the captain who commanded the occupation of Long Ridge. And if Carvath were an invocation he could ignore, the mention of the Highlord was not. None knew these days where Verminaard, still smarting from the loss of eight hundred captive slaves, would unleash his temper next. The draconian snarled again, and turned, kicking a table on his way out, sending tankards and goblets spinning to the floor. The door was slammed with enough force to rattle the walls.