"A-Alin," the young bard managed through teeth clenched against the pain in his hand. Delkin's grasp was certainly a firm one. When the priest finally released his hand, Alin put it behind his back and rubbed it. "Alin Cateln, of Tilverton."
"Ah, a Cormyrean," Delkin said. "Good wine there-some o' the best."
Alin nodded dumbly. He was about to speak again when Delkin seized him about the waist and pulled him along.
"Ye've got to meet me friends, the other Moor Runners," he boomed. "And, seeing as how ye're awake, let me get ye a drink to put ye back to sleep."
Alin blinked, and the priest laughed and added, "Ah, I just be kiddin' with ye."
"Moor Runners?" Alin asked. That sounded familiar.
"Won quite a name for ourselves in the Evermoors, killing trolls," Delkin replied. "Though that be quite a while back, the name just stuck, ye know. Come o'er here."
Alin could not refuse as the priest half carried him over to the mismatched pair he had seen before.
"Thard and Inri," Delkin introduced, indicating the hulking man and the slight woman in turn.
"My lord, my lady," Alin said with a low bow.
The man was even bigger close up. The woman was a petite elf maid, with hair like gold and a complexion to match. The two completely ignored Alin.
He stood there a moment, uncertain, and looked at Delkin, but the priest was already gone. He turned back to the companions. His mind racing fast, Alin did the only thing he could do: he searched for clues as to what he should say. His eye caught on the design etched in the blade of the greataxe.
"The blades of Tempus, emblazoned upon a swift steed," he said. "That means you are a warrior of the Sky Ponies, correct? Such a heavy axe-you must be a strong warrior."
The hulking man looked at him curiously and asked, "Aye, what of it?" His voice was rough and deep.
The bard turned to the elf maid next. "And you, fair lady, by your garb I make you to be a sorceress-shifting veils that change colors in the light, to reflect the chaos that is your magic, am I right?" he asked.
She looked at him for the first time, and her eyes were startlingly pink and red in hue.
"And your gaze, like the sunrise…" Alin began. "It reminds me of a ballad. Ah, many a time I've spent, on soft-packed ground with my dear lassie, watching the golden jewel climb lazily, my arm around her, gazing more into her eyes than the rise…'"
By the time Delkin brought him the promised drink, Alin was sitting with the two, rattling on and on about his journeys, art, and life story. Thard wore a soft, proud smile, and even Inri's eyes were dancing.
"Ye make friends quick," Delkin praised him as he passed tankards of ale around the table. The barbarian took his tankard and drained it off in one gulp.
"Your companions are fine adventurers," Alin said. "I was merely listening to their stories-they are the ones worthy of praise, not I."
"Mayhap," Delkin said. He eyed Inri suspiciously, and the elf maid's eyes twitched toward him. "Though they be having ulterior motives…"
Alin's brow wrinkled and he asked, "What ulterior motives? "
The Moor Runners looked at one another.
"I had doubted it before," Inri said. If moonlight could dance, Alin thought, it might have been her voice. "But not now. We wish to have you join us."
"As our skald… er, bard," Thard rumbled.
Delkin nodded and smiled broadly.
Alin was stunned. "But, what, why?" he asked. "You… you just met me, and now you want me to be part of your band?"
Delkin wrapped his arm around Alin. "Ye see, Alven-" he began.
"Alin," the bard corrected him.
"Right. Our bard, Tannin… well, he… ah, departed at the caravan, and we're looking for a replacement."
Alin's suspicions were confirmed-the Moor Runners were the adventurers who had been with the caravan.
"A replacement?" asked Alin. "And you want me?"
"That be yer trade, aye?" replied the priest. "We heard ye sing along the road, and-"
"I'd love to come with you!" Alin shouted, startling the Moor Runners. None had expected such a reply, and so quickly, but none protested.
"Good," Thard rumbled. "Been needin' a good tune, e'er since Tannin was killed."
"Killed?" asked Alin.
An unhappy Delkin flinched and glowered at Thard.
"In the dragon attack," Inri explained.
"Aye, wretched beast took us by surprise," Delkin mused. "Poor Tannin… 'Tis a risky line of work, adventuring and all…" He looked at Alin. "Er, not that ye'll be in any danger."
Alin realized he should have been terrified, but instead he felt excitement rushing through him.
"A dragon?" Alin asked. "You can kill such a creature, right?"
The Moor Runners looked at one another, dubious.
Finally Delkin shrugged and said, "Aye, definitely. Ah, well… mayhap. Well, ah, not actually, no. Well, what we really need…"
Just then, the doors of the Wind swung open and crashed loudly against the interior walls. The heads of the inn's patrons, as though pulled by invisible reins, jerked toward the disturbance, and more than a few breaths caught.
The fiery-haired woman who entered the common room was tall, slim, and stunning. Black leather and plate in the Thayan style, complete with spikes like talons, wrapped her muscular frame. A black half-cape fell from one shoulder and a sheathed, curved sword was thrust through her belt of dark reptile skin. A silver ring in the shape of a winged dragon swallowing its own tail gleamed from her right hand. A spiked gauntlet covered her left. Her pale face was lean and sharp, and her eyes-gleaming dark orbs-had a hungry look to them.
"Who be the beauty, I wonder?" Delkin said.
Inri looked sharply at him, then turned wary eyes back on the stranger. Alin said nothing. He just sat there, stunned.
The silence lasted only a moment before the woman spoke. Her voice was powerful, almost husky, and easily caught the attention of all who heard.
"I understand you've a dragon about," she said.
"Aye? What of it?" a one-eyed patron scoffed.
"I'm looking for a few brave souls who'll help me dispose of the beast," the woman replied. "I need a tracker and a mage, if possible."
"Help ye?" another man asked. Alin recognized him as a snide caravanner. "Some lass in ridiculous…"
He trailed off when a sliver of metal appeared at his throat. A gasp ran through the common room. No one had seen the woman so much as move, much less draw her blade. The man trembled, his mouth hanging open.
"Ryla Dragonclaw," she said from between clenched teeth. "Remember it."
The man quivered in fear under the intensity of her gaze.
"The Dragonslayer!" Alin blurted. His voice sounded blasphemously loud in the awed stillness.
Ryla's eyes flicked to him and she sheathed her sword with a flourish. Leaving a relieved caravanner behind her, Ryla walked toward the Moor Runners, her step smooth and confident.
"You know me," she said to Alin, her words meant only for him.
He tried to stammer out a response, but no words would come. Her direct speech and her burning gaze thrilled and stunned him. Struck dumb, the bard could only look at that vision of loveliness, her hair painting a crimson corona around her sensuous face.
"Well met, Lady Dragonclaw," Delkin started.
"Just Ryla," the dragonslayer said. "I am no lady, nor a knight."
The priest shrugged and went on, "Ryla, then. I be Delkin Snowdawn, captain o' the Moor Runners. This is Alin Catalan-"
"Cateln," Alin breathed.
"Right," Delkin said. "Alin Catalan of Tilverton-" he gestured to Inri and Thard-"and these be-"
"Ah, adventurers," she interrupted the priest, continuing to speak to the bard.
The two other Moor Runners narrowed their eyes. Ryla looked directly at Alin and mouthed his name, as though turning it over on her tongue. A shiver of thrill passed down his spine.
"Just what I need," the s
trange woman added.
Inri looked at Ryla, then at Delkin, but it was Alin who spoke. "To slay your dragon?" he asked with unmasked excitement.
"Tharas'kalagram," Ryla replied. "Yes. A red wyrm I've followed this far. I know where he's headed, and I need some brave and…" She looked Alin up and down. Her eyes were burning. "Hearty adventurers to help me kill him."
As she stared at Alin, she licked her lips ever so slightly, so only he could notice.
"My apologies, dragonslayer," Delkin said, taking the prompt from Inri. "We're a bit occupied at the moment replacing our bard, and we can't be bothered to-"
"We'll do it!" Alin said.
The other Moor Runners looked at him with expressions ranging from the shock on Delkin's face, to the surprise registering through Thard's features, and the horrified disdain in Inri's eyes.
Ryla's ruby lips curled up in the vestiges of a smile.
"Rest well, then, brave sir bard," she said. "We leave at dawn, for the Forest of Wyrms."
"Who gave you the right to speak for us?" Inri asked as soon as Alin came out of the inn, rubbing his eyes in the bright sunlight.
"What?" asked Alin as he finished securing the cuffs of his tunic. "I thought…"
The Moor Runners were all saddled and ready before Alin, who was unused to rising at first light. Atop a giant black stallion, Thard was a giant in furs and boiled leather. On a white mare next to him, Inri rode sidesaddle, clad in green and silver silks. In scale mail and a white tabard with the sunrise of Lathander, the priest Delkin looked nervous on his dun. With a whistle from her rider, Delkin's steed stepped in front of Inri's mare and the priest spoke to calm the sorceress.
"Alkin, I'm all for dragon slaying, but can we really trust this heroine o' yers?"
Alin didn't get a chance to correct him as Inri spoke up. "She wears a magical ring-and that is all. Would a dragonslayer really be so naked of magic?'
Thard nodded. Even though the Uthgardt people didn't make extensive use of magic, he had to agree. "Something seems wrong."
"Maybe she's just… amazing," the bard argued. He patted Neb, his strong Cormyrean steed. He was pleased the horse had survived the dragon's attack. "Thayan armor is renowned, and a katana-a Kara-Turan blade-is the finest sword ever made. Mayhap she doesn't need magic."
The Moor Runners were all about to protest, but something silenced them. Alin felt a presence behind him.
"Mayhap I don't," offered Ryla's sultry voice.
Striding up to them, the dragonslayer was radiant. The dark armor made a striking contrast with her milky skin and her hair seemed afire in the sunrise. Her eyes were fixed on Alin. He lost himself again in those smoldering eyes.
After a moment, Delkin cleared his throat. "You have no horse, Lady?" he asked.
"I've always preferred to carry myself," Ryla said without breaking the gaze she shared with the bard. She paused, but only for a breath before adding, "On my own two feet."
Delkin grinned, but saw-from a look at his companions- that lightening the mood was a lost cause.
"We shall outpace you for certain," Inri said. "Unless you run as fast as you draw steel."
Ryla looked away and fixed her deadly gaze on the elf maid, who met it, but soon shrank back, seeming to grow smaller on her steed. Thard fingered his axe, and a slight smile crossed Ryla's face.
"You can ride with me," Alin offered, startling all. They all looked at him-Inri in disbelief, Ryla with a slightly bemused smile. "As you wish," Inri said.
She turned to the north, muttering something under her breath in Elvish, and urged her steed into a trot. The mount gave a snort but started walking, and Thard's steed followed. Delkin shrugged and turned as well.
Ryla looked up at Alin with thanks written on her pale features and offered a playfully dainty hand. He pulled her up, and was startled at her grip-it was more powerful than that of Captain Agatan, the strongest soldier he had ever known. She mounted behind him and wrapped her arms gently around his waist. His face flushed, but he would not turn and let her see.
"Hold tight," he murmured.
"Always," replied Ryla. Her whisper, so close in his ear, startled and excited him.
The journey to the Forest of Wyrms took most of the day, with short breaks for meals and walking the horses. During the entire ride, Ryla had pressed her body close against Alin, and when they had walked the horses, she'd stayed close to him. It didn't seem she was doing it intentionally-indeed, Ryla hardly seemed aware of either her proximity or her effect on the bard-but Alin hardly cared. He could feel the soft swell of her slim stomach juxtaposed against the cool steel of her armor. The odd duality was thrilling.
"What is it you've got there?" the bard asked Delkin, trying to get his mind off the beautiful dragonslayer. He had wondered about Delkin's saddlebags all morning.
"Oh, ye mean these?" the cleric asked, unbuckling and lifting one of the flaps. Contained in the saddlebags were thick, heavy pots and pans, spoons, ladles, and other cooking utensils. "There ain't nothing beats a good meal on the road, I always say."
"You're a cook?" Alin asked, eyeing Delkin's ample belly.
The sturdy priest laughed. "No, no," said Delkin. "I'm more an eater than a cooker. But Thard's a cook to rival the finest in Waterdeep. He'll be cookin' dinner this e'en… ye'll see what I be meaning."
They broke for a highsun meal among a stand of boulders. Delkin broke out the trail rations and began dividing them, but Ryla declined the hardtack and dried fruit, saying she was not hungry. None of the Moor Runners protested. They fell to their meal while she went around one of the boulders.
After a few minutes of biting the hardened bread, Alin found he was not hungry either. Or, at least, not for trail rations. Rather, he hungered and thirsted for Ryla's presence. He excused himself and followed the dragonslayer. His exit drew glances ranging from the bemused, in Delkin's case, to the suspicious, in Inri's. Alin climbed the small mountain of giant rocks in search of a certain fiery-haired warrior.
It didn't take the bard long to find Ryla. The beautiful dragonslayer was perched on the highest boulder, gazing all around, like a queen surveying her lands. She was turned away from his approach, and her blade lay across her lap. As the sunlight played along the katana's length, it almost seemed that the crimson dragon etched on the steel was alive and dancing.
"Looking for our quarry?" Alin asked.
Ryla leaped to her feet and spun, blade up and ready. The bard, startled, stumbled back toward the edge of the boulder. He teetered on one foot and fought to keep his balance.
He realized Ryla was laughing. The woman had sheathed her katana and extended a hand to help him. He took it, and she pulled him up with seemingly little effort.
"You could say that," she replied. "Though, really, I'm just looking."
Almost the same instant Alin realized she was still holding his hand, Ryla let him go and moved away. She took up Her position on the rock again, one leg bent close to her chest. Her hair shimmered in the sunlight.
Breath was hard to come by for the bard, though he knew he would have to remember to breathe or he would pass out on his feet.
"Lady Dragonclaw?" Alin asked.
"Just Ryla," replied the dragonslayer. She glanced at him to accentuate her point. "I'm no lady."
"Oh, aye. I remember." Alin felt warmth rising in him at the familiarity. "Ryla… You must tell me about your travels-your exploits. I collect stories, and you're famous, after all."
"There's not much to tell." Ryla looked away and said, "I hunt dragons. 'Tis a game, nothing more." "A game?"
A smile played across Ryla's fine features. Alin felt self conscious and looked away.
She said, "To me, 'tis a game, as surely as you skip rocks over water or fought with wooden swords as a child. Some hunt foxes, some boars. I hunt dragons. A hunting game."
Alin drank in her words for a moment before he realized she had stopped.
"But…" he said, "but surely there is more!" He looked
back, and she was smiling mischievously. "Like, ah, how many have you slain? How do you seem so young when your legend was told in my father's day? You are no elf maid! Why do you vanish for years at a time and return in the tales? Whence your armor, or your sword? Are they of some great epic make-a master smith, or an archmage?"
"Nothing so fancy," replied Ryla. "As to how many, surely you can count." Alin had noticed the twelve spikes on her armor before, but he finally realized what they were: dragon claws. "And 'tis not polite to ask a lady her age."
"I thought you were no lady," returned Alin.
Ryla gave him a devious smile. "Some secrets I'll keep," she said. "Except to observe that those stories you mention were probably told in your grandfather's day, not your father's."
Alin's eyes opened wide in surprise, but the dragonslayer's lips moved no more. He left her to her surveying and climbed back down, his mind roiling.
The sun was dipping in the east. The Moor Runners had been traveling over flat plains for a long while, and they were about to ride over a rise when they heard a bird's cry from above. Inri waved them to stop. The sorceress put out her arm and gave a fey whistle. In a moment, a black raven swooped down and landed on her bracer. Then the bird began speaking to Inri in perfect Elvish.
"Her familiar," Delkin explained.
Ryla gave a snort.
The raven finished and Inri nodded. At her short command, the bird squawked and flew off.
Inri turned to the Moor Runners and said, "Anthas says there is a war party of ores encamped immediately to the north-a score or more of them."
Delkin nodded and said, "Aye, then, we'll break here and camp."
The Moor Runners swung down from their horses and began unstrapping their saddlebags. Alin dismounted and offered his hand up to Ryla. The dragonslayer, however, did not notice.
With a suspicious look on her fine features, she glared at Inri from atop Alin's steed, and asked, "Why are we stopping?"
"It wouldn't make sense to waste our energy on a score of ores," Delkin explained as he unrolled his travel tent. "They're not hurting anyone at the moment-let them be for now."
"They're vermin," argued Ryla with a hiss. "They should be destroyed."
"But we're hunting a dragon," reminded Alin. "Not ores."
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