Nancy Berberick - Stormblade

Finn’s men prowled the eastern borderlands between Qualinesti and the Kharolis Mountains for the pleasure of wreaking that vengeance on isolated draconian patrols. Finn saw no reason not to take advantage of Tenny’s status and had sent Hauk and Tyorl to find out what they could about Carvath’s plans for patrol movements in the area.

Tonight, Tyorl had heard something to confirm the rumor of a troop movement into the foothills of the Kharolis Mountains. The Highlord would be moving not only troops, but a supply base as well. Verminaard, still furious over the loss of his eight hundred slaves and looking for a way to salve his wounded pride, wanted to take his war south and east. He wanted Thorbardin, and he wanted to take the dwarven kingdoms before winter.

The rangerlord would snarl when he learned of Verminaard’s plans and most of the snarling would be in the direction of Thorbardin. Finn railed constantly against the dwarves who would happily let ranger companies scour the borders of Thorbardin but still held back from entering the war. Still, it would not stop him from doing his best to torment the Highlord’s warriors.

But first things first. Hauk laid his sword on the table beside his horn-handled dagger. Firelight from the deep, broad hearth slid along the sword’s golden hilt, with its silver chasing and five sapphires. The light warmed the coldly perfect facets of the jewels and illuminated the thin crimson streak which seemed to live in the heart of the steel blade. The four men drinking and playing at daggers at the next table had fallen silent.

Aye, the elf thought, trouble. He hoped he could get the both of them back to Finn in one piece. Tyorl crooked what he hoped was a diverting smile.

“That’s a fine sword,” the largest of the men drawled. He rubbed his fist along his jaw, scrubby with a week’s growth of beard, and lifted his tankard in salute to the blade. Ale slopped over the tankard’s rim, running down his fist and arm.

Recognizing the local, Hauk eyed the sword, his head cocked as though it had only now occurred to him that the blade was, indeed, a fine one. He nodded, his smile easy and open. “Aye. Fine enough to stand at wager, Kiv?”

Kiv glanced around the table. His three companions nodded, noses deep in their tankards, eyes tight with the look of men who wished to betray no interest in a matter for which they had, in fact, a great deal of interest. Those sapphires were worth a fortune! Kiv looked last at the elf, Tyorl.

The elf only shrugged. “It’s his sword. I suppose that means he can wager it where he will.”

Kiv grinned and wiped his hand, wet with ale, along the leg of leather breeches stiff with old grease. “So it is.” He turned to Hauk. “Well then, pup, the target will be of my choosing. Miss or refuse it, and the sword is mine.”

Hauk rested his hands lightly on the wide-planked table, still smiling with disarming innocence. None but the elf saw the chill in Hauk’s eyes. With a sigh, Tyorl lifted his tankard and settled against the wall. He’d known Hauk for three years. Those three years had taught him that he could depend on Hauk to watch his back in battle, to put himself between Tyorl and a sword blade if he had to; they’d also taught him not to interfere in any matter when Hauk’s eyes looked like ice. He and Hauk had been playing at daggers the whole night for dinner and ale, and as yet they had not had to pay for a crumb or a round. It was a good thing, too. The last of their money had gone for lodging, and neither had so much as a bent steel coin. Hauk liked to boast that he could feed them by wit and dagger alone. He usually made good his boast, but Tyorl sensed they were playing another game now.

No one was offering food or drink as a wager. Kiv’s belt pouch had jingled with steel coins at the night’s start. Though considerably more drunk than he had been an hour ago, the big man still had enough sense to know that it was time to start recouping the night’s losses if he wanted to eat tomorrow.

“The sword,” Kiv rumbled, “against what?”

“You tell me.”

Kiv leaned back in his chair. The wood creaked softly. He folded his hands comfortably over his belly and stared at the tavern’s low, black-beamed ceiling. “Everything in my friends’ pouches.”

The three shifted uncomfortably. One made as though to protest. Kiv, his eyes still on the smoky beams, only gestured absently at the sword as though to call the man’s attention to the gold and silver, the gems. The man subsided, a greedy light in his small dark eyes.

Hauk snorted. “How do I know there’s anything left in those pouches?”

Kiv snapped his fingers, and the three dropped their pouches on the table. Neither Hauk nor Tyorl missed the full, heavy sound of coin ringing against coin.

The elf, his eyes sleepy and hooded, smiled again. The coins weren’t worth a hundredth of the sword, but Hauk would not miss the target. On the far wall someone had painted a gray, vaguely man-like shape. A wine stain was its heart. All but five of the two dozen strikes at the target’s heart were Hauk’s.

Around them the rise and fall of a dozen conversations seemed to find a level and settle. At another table, four townsmen collected fresh tankards from the barmaid and hitched their chairs around for a better view. Other men shifted in their seats, picking up the scent of a grand wager. Across the long common room, two dark-clothed dwarves leaned a little forward. Not enough to seem very interested, Tyorl noted. That in itself was interesting when he considered that the two had no attention to spare for anything but their own conversation until now.

The barmaid, her wooden tray now empty, left the table beside Tyorl. Weaving through the tables with a sure grace, straight-backed and slim, she deftly avoided the laughing snatches of the tavern’s patrons. Her hair, the color of a sunset and catching the firelight like polished copper, hung in two thick braids over her shoulders. Pretty creature, Tyorl thought absently.

Kiv, glancing over his shoulder, settled deeper into his chair, made it groan, and closed his eyes. “The target’s the girl,” he said softly. Hauk feigned a look of bemusement and scratched his beard. “He means her tray, doesn’t he, Tyorl?”

For a moment, Tyorl did not think Kiv meant the tray at all. He took a long, slow drink, and set the tankard down on the table. As though considering Hauk’s question, he looked from the girl, halfway to the bar now, and back to Hauk’s dagger on the table. Spilled ale gleamed on the blade.

“Of course he means the tray,” Tyorl slipped his own dagger from its sheath. “Don’t you, Kiv?”

Kiv never opened his eyes. He grinned, a cat’s lazy, dangerous grin.

“Of course. Her tray. Dead center or it’s no hit.”

The man who had objected to the wagering of his purse laughed nervously. “No points for hitting the wench?”

Firelight danced down the edge of Tyorl’s dagger. Kiv opened his eyes, saw the blade, and shrugged. “None at all,” he said pointedly. The room was silent now but for the light sound of the girl’s footfalls as she returned to the bar. None stirred or seemed to breathe, and she, knowing suddenly that she was the focus of attention, turned slowly, the wooden tray in her hand.

Hauk, his eyes hard as his sword’s blue sapphires, closed his fingers over his dagger’s grip. Tyorl almost heard him thinking: bad wager! But he wasn’t going to back out of it.

Tyorl cursed silently. His own dagger still in his right hand, he snatched up a tankard with his left and flung it hard.

“Girl! Duck!”

Green eyes wide, the barmaid dropped and, as she did, she raised the tray over her head to deflect the tankard. Hauk’s dagger cut the smoke-thick air, a flash of silver too swift for the eye to follow.