Nancy Berberick - Stormblade

The tavern was silent for a moment longer. Then, a groundswell of murmuring began which turned quickly into a wave of voices, some frightened whispers, others angered.

The serving girl scurried around the bar to clean the mess. Stanach scooped up a goblet and two tankards and handed them to her. “Close, lass.”

“Oh, aye,” the girl said, her face still white. “I’m thinking I’ve just spent all my luck for the year.”

“You’ve made a good purchase with it, if you did.”

The girl’s smile of agreement was wobbly.

Stanach turned back to his table. The kender had claimed a seat there. A runner for a dragonarmy captain, Stanach thought, is not one I’d like to share a table with. He moved to find another place when the kender waved him over. The old one’s eyes, green as spring’s leaves, were bright with suppressed amusement.

“Come on, join me. You’re just the person I’ve been looking for.”

Stanach eyed the kender carefully, checked the placement of anything that was valuable to him, and resumed his seat. He was curious.

“Me, kender? I thought it was Givrak you were looking for.”

The kender shrugged. “No, not really. Givrak, you say? Is that his name? When I walked in and saw him, I figured it would be better for everyone if he had an appointment somewhere.” He grinned. “They tell me I’m getting old, but I can still think young.”

Stanach laughed. “You certainly can. Can you think far?”

The kender cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“What happens when Givrak gets to that captain and finds out that it hasn’t been sent for at all?”

“Oh.” The wrinkles around the kender’s long green eyes momentarily knit into a frown. But the smile was resilent. “I was hoping it would take Givrak at least a few hours to track him down and find that out.”

“Aye, you hope. Perhaps you’d better talk fast, just in case. Why are you looking for me?”

“Well not you especially. Just a dwarf. My father used to say that if you’re going to order dwarf spirits, check with a dwarf first. He’ll tell you if it’s worth drinking. Is there any spirits here, and is it worth drinking?”

Stanach eyed the little kender doubtfully. A good mug of dwarf spirits had been known to send brawny humans sliding for the floor. This kender, sapling thin and seemingly frail, did not look as though he could stand up to even one sip of the clear, potent drink.

Stanach shrugged. The question was moot. This tavern stocked nothing more than ale and pale elven wine. “Not a drop,” he said. “You’ll have to make do with wine or ale. What’s your name, kender?”

“Lavim Springtoe.” The kender extended his hand. Stanach, thinking of his father’s ring on his finger, not to mention the copper rivets on the sleeve of his leather jerkin, did not accept Lavim’s hand, but smiled instead.

“Stanach Hammerfell of Thorbardin. I’ll stand you a drink of whatever you want, Lavim Springtoe, and we’ll wish for dwarf spirits instead.”

It had to be good enough. Lavim offered to go for the drinks, but Stanach shook his head. By the look of him, this Lavim Springtoe had been around long enough to have acquired the skill to filch the teeth out of a dragon’s head. Let him pass once through the common room and the owners of missing money pouches, daggers, pocket knives, wrist braces, and Reorx only knew what else, would shortly be eager to hang him by his long white braid from the nearest roof beam.

Stanach went himself for the drinks. When he stepped up to the bar, the elf nodded to him, an acknowledgement of what had briefly passed between them when Givrak had turned on the serving girl. Stanach returned the nod. Now was not the time, here was not the place, but he knew that when he could approach the elf on the subject of Stormblade, he would stand a good chance of having his questions heard, if not answered. Stanach was grateful for the chance that had brought the draconian Givrak into the tavern.

Lavim Springtoe peered into the quickly approaching bottom of his fourth mug of ale and deftly but absently relieved a passing townsman of his belt pouch. He was thinking hard, barely knew that he’d captured the purse, and was rather surprised when Stanach stuck his large, scarred hand almost under his nose.

“Give it over,” the dwarf said firmly.

Lavim raised an eyebrow. “Give what over? Oh, this?”

“Aye, that.”

Lavim held up the soft leather pouch and looked at it as though he did not quite understand how he came to be holding it. “Careless of the fellow to have lost it.” Lavim hefted the pouch. It was heavy with coins. They clinked comfortably when he tossed the purse from one hand to another. Stanach caught the pouch in midair. He turned, tapped the townsman on the shoulder and offered the purse.

The man grabbed the pouch swiftly from Stanach’s hand. He would have raised a protest but saw something forbidding in the dwarf’s expression and only offered a grudging thanks. Stanach nodded curtly and returned his attention to his mug of ale.

He’s not thinking about the ale, Lavim decided, he’s watching that elf at the bar for some reason.

The least perceptive kender can smell a secret when he is within a mile of its holder. Lavim Springtoe watched Stanach as carefully as the dwarf listened to the bits and pieces of conversation drifting around him. Though Stanach had willingly stood for all the kender wanted to drink, sometimes signaling the barmaid, sometimes going himself for the refills, he listened to Lavim’s chatter only absently, and only absently answered. Lavim fell silent watching the firelight smoldering in the smoky amethyst ring on Stanach’s finger and flashing from the small silver hoop he wore in his left ear.

Nothing about Stanach seemed to settle into a firm impression. The ring made Lavim think of someone who wore wealth casually; the silver hoop conjured images of highwaymen and bandits. The dwarf’s bearded face seemed at first to be settled into a fierce and forbidding expression. There were moments, however, when he wasn’t remembering to look fierce, when the vulnerability of youth softened eyes black as coal and strangely flecked with blue.

This Stanach, Lavim thought, is quieter now than he’d been at first, like a tightly shuttered house. Closed things, locked things, were Lavim’s favorite challenge.

Lavim leaned forward, elbows on the table, and began, by what he considered subtle means, to delve for the secret. He started with Stanach’s sword. Scabbarded in old, well-oiled leather, the sword’s hilt was simple, undecorated. The place where the guard met the hilt was not smoothly joined, though Lavim could see that this was the weapon’s only fault.

“I see,” Lavim said as though he’d just noticed, “that you don’t carry an axe for a weapon.”

Stanach nodded.

“I only mention it because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a dwarf without his axe.”

“Most of us prefer axes.”

“But you carry a sword. It’s a kind of a beat-up old thing, isn’t it? Not, of course, that it isn’t a good blade. I’m sure it is, but I just wondered.”

“It’s old.”

“Was it your father’s, maybe?”

Stanach looked up then, his eyes sharp and cautious. “It’s mine.” Then, as though aware of the abruptness of the answer, he smiled a little. “I made it.”

“You’re a swordsmith! Of course, I should have known by your hands. The skin’s all scarred and pitted. From the forge, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you made a lot? Does it take long to make a sword? You’ve made daggers, too, I’ll bet, and lots of other things. Did you ever make an axe’s blade? They say that a dwarven blade is the best you can find and—”