Nancy Berberick - Stormblade

What mattered to Tyorl. however, was something else. He had an interest in the girl. Aye, that elf’s eyes could be hard as Stormblade’s jewels, but never when he looked at Kelida, never when he spoke of her. This would be something to consider.

“Kelida,” he said, “won’t your family be wondering where you are?”

“My father, my mother, and Mival, my little brother—” Kelida drew a steadying breath. “They’re dead. We had a farm in the valley. It—the dragon came and—”

Stanach looked away, out beyond the fire and into the still and silent forest. The wind sounded like the echoes of looters’ howls. Suddenly, he felt like one who, from idle curiosity, stares at a stranger’s raw, open wound. “Hush, Kelida,” he said gently, “hush. I’ve seen the valley.”

Her sigh was ragged. “I have no one to miss me.”

She was a pretty creature by human standards. Stanach looked at her out of the corner of his eyes. How old was she? Maybe twenty. It was hard to tell. Tall and russet haired, the farmers’ sons in Long Ridge had likely been drawn to her green eyes like moths to a candle. Here in the dark forest, however, hers were not the eyes of a woman, they were the eyes of a lost child, large and frightened and staring at a world gone suddenly mad.

Twenty years! Stanach, who at twenty had been but a child, and who had never been able to understand how someone who had lived so short a span of years could be considered an adult, saw only a child in Kelida. A child who had no one. For humans there is the family and all others outside the family were often only strangers. There is no clan, no large and deep well of strength and understanding to draw upon when a parent, a brother, a child dies. Stanach tried to imagine what that emptiness must be like, but could not. Once in a great while, for great crimes or sins against the clan, a dwarf would be declared outlaw, clan-reft. Such unfortunates were shunned by all and pitied by some. Kelida’s condition was not the same. For her it was as though her whole clan, parents, brothers, children, cousins, aunts, uncles, all who shared her name, were dead. Stanach shuddered. It was not to be imagined. He poked at the fire again and watched the small eruption of sparks dance into the night. The fire’s light slid over Stormblade’s gold hilt, colored the silver chasing to orange, and danced down the blue path of sapphires.

Stanach tugged at his beard. Aye, the ranger meant something to her.

“This fellow Hauk, have you known him long?”

“No. Only long enough for him to give me the sword.” Kelida smiled shyly. “It’s a foolish story.” The smile died at once. Her green eyes grew dark and sad. “He’s dead, isn’t he? I heard what you said to Tyorl.”

Stanach almost told her that Hauk was, indeed, dead. How could he still be alive? Then the dwarf realized, if she thought Hauk were alive and still Realgar’s prisoner, a prisoner gallantly refusing to tell Realgar where the sword is in order to protect the girl he gave it to, she’d give him the sword. But only if he could convince her that by doing so, she’d have a chance to prevent Hauk’s death. It shouldn’t be hard to make her believe that if Realgar got the sword, Hauk would certainly die. The Theiwar couldn’t leave him alive to give warning to anyone who might prevent his takeover of Thorbardin.

Oh, yes, she’d give him the sword. The chances were slim that she could save Hauk’s life, but Stanach knew she would take those chances. She’d carried Stormblade into the forest, slept with it under her hand. It was Hauk’s sword and she wouldn’t let anyone else so much as hold it … unless she thought it would save Hauk’s life.

He glanced at Kelida. Her arms clasping her drawn up legs, head pillowed on her knees, she was asleep where she sat. Just a ragged human girl, he thought, fallen in love with a ranger—though likely she doesn’t know it yet.

Stanach touched her shoulder lightly to wake her. He returned her questioning smile with a nod. “Go sleep more comfortably, Kelida. The morning comes soon enough.”

She returned to her cold bed and the sword. Stanach spent the rest of the watch carefully working out the details of his plan and ignoring the gnawing of his restless conscience.

“Do what you have to do,” Piper had said.

He wondered where Piper was now, if he was safe, if he was waiting by the tumble of rocks that looked so much like a cairn. Four against one. Aye, but four against one mage. It would make a difference. Do what you have to do.

Well, Piper, he thought, I am.

Lavim returned to his companions as the wet gray dawn lighted the sky. Cold and shivering, the kender sighed and wished that he’d found some dwarf spirits in Long Ridge. His flask knocked hollowly against his hip.

“White Disaster,” some called the potent dwarven drink. Lavim had always considered the stuff the next best thing to a warm hearth. Sometimes better, he thought, shoving his hands into the deep pockets of his shapeless, old coat and hunching against the icy drizzle. He’d found no ghosts, no specters, and no phantoms—with or without heads. For a forest hedged about with rumor and fear, Qualinesti was a singularly dull place. The campsite, however, promised to be more interesting. Tyorl glowered at Stanach across the fire. Kelida, her green eyes sharp, her jaw stubbornly set, looked at no one.

Something’s roused her, Lavim thought. The kender, careful of his cold-stiffened knees, dropped down before the fire. He held his hands as close to the flames as he dared and cocked an eye at Stanach. “What’s going on?”

“Stubbornness,” Stanach growled. “Simple-minded, damned, elven stubbornness.” He tossed a bark chip into the fire and looked up at Tyorl, his black eyes hard and mocking. “Tell me, then, elf, are you going to take the chance that your friend Hauk is not Realgar’s captive? Are you going to abandon him for his sword? Aye, well, I suppose you’d live well on what you could sell it for.”

Tyorl leveled his icy stare at the dwarf. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do: I’m not going to hand Hauk’s sword over to you on the strength of a pretty tale. Where the sword goes, I go.”

Lavim pricked up his ears. “Where are we going?”

No one answered.

“Fine then,” Stanach said to Tyorl. “Come along. I think you believe me, elf. If you don’t, there will be Piper to confirm my tale.” Stanach laughed bitterly. “I suppose you’ll grant that, if I’m lying, he could not have made up the same lies without my prompting, eh? Aye, come along. Ask him before I ever say a word. But, if you’re coming, you’d best make up your mind soon. Piper won’t stay around much longer before he decides I’m dead. Then, I’ll be walking to Thorbardin,” Stanach smiled grimly. “I suppose you will be, too.”

“Who’s Piper?” Lavim’s face was a mass of wrinkles and a puzzled frown. “Why would he decide you’re dead? We’re going to Thorbardin? I’ve never been there, Stanach. I can’t think of a better place to find some really good dwarf spirits, either.” He glanced at the elf. “Is Kelida going, too?”

“No,” Tyorl said.

Kelida, silent till then, looked up and spoke quietly. “Yes, I am.”

Tyorl moved to protest. Kelida overrode him.

“I’m going with the sword. I can’t go back to Long Ridge now. I would never find my way and—” She stopped, her eyes bright and almost fierce.

“And—and the sword is mine. You’ve said it yourself. If Hauk is still alive, he’s—what he’s going through is to protect me. It was convenient for you to say the sword was mine when you thought he might be coming back for it, when you thought I could tell him where you’d gone. Then, the sword was mine. Well, it still is, and it seems that I’m the only one with any right to say where the sword goes.”