Nancy Berberick - Stormblade

The girl screamed, someone raised a staggering, drunken cheer, and then the only sounds heard were the low thud of steel in wood and the barmaid’s sobbing gasp. That gasp hung for a long moment in the air, then vanished under a rising wave of voices and the clatter of a chair falling to the floor as one of the townsmen at the next table ran to the girl. She had fainted.

The serving tray also lay on the floor, Hauk’s dagger quivering in its exact center.

One of the dwarves at the far end of the tavern, one-eyed and narrow-faced, rose and left the common room. Cool, fresh air swept into the tavern; the blue haze of hearth smoke danced, then fell still as the door closed behind him.

Tyorl noticed the movement. His friend, face white above his short black beard, pushed himself to his feet and sheathed his sword. “Dead center, Kiv.”

Kiv closed his eyes again, not turning to see. A slow flush mottled his face.

Tyorl swept the three money pouches from the table. “Go apologize to the girl, Hauk. Our friends will be leaving now.”

Kiv shook his head. “I’ve got no place to go just yet.”

“Find someplace.” Tyorl ran his thumb along the hilt of his dagger.

“You’re done drinking and wagering for tonight, your pouches are empty.”

Kiv looked from Tyorl’s dagger to Hauk’s hand where it lay on the hilt of his scabbarded sword. The decision was taken from him as his companions rose.

“Come on,” one said sourly. “You’ve lost us our coin, Kiv. Leave us our heads in one piece, eh?”

Kiv licked his lips and drew a careful breath. “I think we’ve been cheated. You interfered, elf.”

“No,” Tyorl said simply.

Sapphires gleamed between Hauk’s fingers like cold blue eyes. Kiv moved forward but his companion’s hand dropped hard on his shoulder and held him.

“Come on, Kiv. Give it up.”

Tyorl smiled.

The big man shoved himself hard to his feet, kicked his chair out from behind him and left. Hauk loosened his grip on his sword and went across the room to retrieve his dagger.

The talking in the common room wavered and then rose. Tyorl settled back again against the wall. He couldn’t wait to get out of Long Ridge. The flat odor of spilled ale mingled with the sour reek of unwashed bar rags. Slumped behind the bar, Kelida clamped her back teeth hard and swallowed tightly. She closed her eyes and again saw the firelight streaming on the dagger’s blade.

She heard a moan and knew the voice for hers. He’d nearly killed her!

Outside in the common room, the hum of conversation had returned to normal. Tenny, the barman, snapped an order to the scrub boy. Ale splashed into a tankard from the keg by the door.

She’d worked at the tavern for only two weeks, but the first thing she’d learned was to keep out of a dagger’s path. Tenny admired the sport and did not mind that his wall served as a target. Nor did he seem to mind that, a moment ago, his barmaid had been the target.

Consciousness was returning. Someone had sat her up, splashed her face with water. Now, footsteps sounded behind her. She turned. It was the dagger-throwing young man.

The blade was sheathed again. His hand was nowhere near it. His face gray beneath its weathered tan, he dropped to a crouch beside her, and Kelida saw that he was perspiring heavily.

“I’m sorry,” he said. His voice was deep, and when he tried to pitch it softly it broke a little.

“You gambled with my life,” she accused.

He nodded, “I know.”

When he held out his hand, big and rough with callouses, Kelida shrank back. He was like a bear, stocky, broad-chested, and black-bearded. Unlike a bear’s, his eyes were blue. She kept her eyes on his, aware suddenly that he was between her and the door to the common room. He read anger in her face and sprang to his feet. When he stepped to one side, the path to the door was clear.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Kelida stood, edging toward the door. “Just leave me alone!”

“It’s over,” he said. He smiled then, a self-deprecating twitch of his lips. “I was sorry the moment the dagger flew.”

Before she thought, Kelida turned on him sharply, her hands fisted.

“Would you be sorrier if I was dead?”

He didn’t move. “But I did not intend to miss—”

“You gambled with my life!” Suddenly she blazed with outrage and fury. She flew at him, scratching and kicking. She raked his face with her nails. Before he captured both her wrists in one of his big hands, she saw blood spring from the scratches above his beard. He held her hands high and away from his face. She spat in his eye.

He wiped his face with the back of his free hand and drew his sword. In that moment, Kelida saw his blue eyes very clearly. He stopped and freed her hands at once.

“I’m sorry. I did gamble with your life.” He balanced the sword across his two open hands and held it out as though making an offering. The sapphires on its grip captured what light there was in the dim storeroom and made the jewels look like twilight. As though it were the soul of the blade, or a blood stain, a slim crimson streak marked the blue-edged steel. Kelida backed away, not understanding the gesture.

“Take it.”

“I—no. No. I don’t want it.”

“It’s mine to give.” He smiled encouragingly. “It’s what I wagered tonight. It’s yours; rightly won when your life was gambled.”

“You’re drunk.”

He cocked his head. “Drunk? Aye, a little, probably. But, drunk or sober, I’m giving you the sword.”

When she made no move to accept the weapon he laid it on the floor at her feet. He unbuckled the plain leather scabbard at his hip and laid that beside the sword. Saying nothing more, he turned and left. For a long time Kelida stared at the wealth of jewels, gold, and steel. Then, very carefully and as though it were a snake and not cold steel, she stepped around the sword and into the ale and smoke reek of the common room.

The young man was just walking out the door. The elf, his companion, leaned comfortably against the wall. He looked up from his tankard, gave her a long and considering look, and raised his drink in salute. Kelida avoided his eyes.

The townsmen at a table next to the elf rose to leave. Fresh air gusted into the tavern again as they left. The table did not remain empty long. A black-bearded dwarf claimed it. He tossed his pack down on the floor, unslung an old leather scabbard from his back and laid it near to hand. He signaled for a drink, and Kelida went back to work.

The one-eyed dwarf lurking outside the tavern had no rank and, worse, had no clan. The Theiwar were, above all, dwarves of Thorbardin, and so viewed a clan-reft dwarf as nothing less than a living ghost. He was a creature to be ignored, to be looked past as though he did not exist. No unnecessary word was ever spoken to him by Realgar’s guards. In the normal course of social interaction, such a one did not exist. None knew what the clanless guard had done to deserve his fate, though many speculated.

Some said his mortal offense had been committed at the thane’s behest. Some said he had acted on his own for the sake of the thane. Whatever the reason for his crime, Realgar kept him close.

The blood of mages ran in his veins and, though he was not a fully trained mage himself, he was competent enough in the minor workings of magic to cast small spells and to act as Realgar’s eyes and voice. Through his eye the thane saw; with his voice the thane spoke.

His name was Agus. Among the Theiwar he was known as the Gray Herald. It had been whispered that the Gray Herald could slit a man’s throat and smile into his eyes while doing it.

In the dark shadows of the alley between the tavern and the stable, Agus now waited for Hauk. The opposite end of the garbage-strewn alley opened on the stable’s paddocks and smithy. The Gray Herald’s companion, Rhuel, waited there.