The dragonslayer regarded him with a venomous stare. He could see her temper flaring again.
"I hadn't forgotten," she said as she pulled the reins from his hand. "Don't make camp just yet. I'll be right back."
With that, she wheeled to the north and kicked Neb into a gallop. Fiery hair and black half-cape streaming behind her, she flew over the plains toward the ore camp.
"Morninglord's heel!" shouted Delkin.
The Moor Runners dropped their gear and scrambled to mount and follow. Deprived of his horse and pack, Alin began running after Ryla. Of course, the horse easily outdistanced him. As soon as he got to the top of the hill, he stopped and his jaw dropped in shock.
A hundred yards away, Ryla had just reached the ore encampment, where there were considerably more than a score of ores. There were perhaps three-dozen of the creatures, all with weapons close to hand. They leaped up with shouts of alarm but Ryla didn't even hesitate. The flame-haired woman pounced from the charging Neb, steel flashing in her hands, and slammed her feet into the first ore to rise. She rode him down and fell onto the others with blade and fist.
Logic told Alin that she was hopelessly overmatched, but Ryla didn't hesitate for a heartbeat. She laid into the ores with her blade, slashing left and right. Everywhere her blade fell, dead and dying ores tumbled down, and her fist slapped weapons aside and knocked more of the creatures from their feet. Blades struck her armor but she shrugged them off without pause.
Alin felt a song of battle coming to his lips, unbidden, and he sang as loud as he could, praying Ryla could hear him and take heart from his song.
In short order, though, he realized the ballad was not meant to encourage her. Rather, it merely praised her ferocity. There was no grace or finesse to her fighting, only sheer brutality and phenomenal strength.
After a single verse had been sung and a dozen ores felled, the other Moor Runners arrived and stared at the woman tearing through the ores like an incarnation of fury.
"By the dawn…" Delkin breathed.
Ryla slashed down, disemboweling a yelping ore on her right, and knocked a berserker down on her left with a punch. An ore stepped on her katana blade, held it pinned, and raised its greataxe over its head with a deep war cry. Ryla roared right back, jerked the blade up with a pulse of her mighty shoulders, throwing the ore off its feet into the air, and cut the hapless creature in two as it fell to the ground. Then she spun and caught a high slash from behind.
Neb, who had been left unmolested by the ores who were more intent on the wild woman attacking them, had circled around and soon trotted to a stop next to the loudly singing bard.
Alin's ballad cut off as he realized Inri was casting a spell. Tongues of flame curled and licked around her silvery bracers and condensed between her hands into a bead of crimson. Alin's eyes went wide-he had seen war wizards sling fire before-and moved to stop her, but Thard held him back. Alin realized he could not break Inri's concentration, or the spell might go awry and explode in the midst of the Moor Runners.
He watched, helpless, as the elf maid opened her eyes and threw toward the battle, where the last of the ores had surrounded Ryla. An inferno burst in the camp, and Alin averted his eyes. He could hardly hear the screams over the dull roar of the flames.
When he looked back, the camp was a smoldering ruin. His heart fell-he thought Ryla killed for sure-but then he saw movement.
Delkin motioned Alin to mount his waiting horse then he led the Moor Runners down the hill toward the blackened encampment.
Tapping her blade against her boot, Ryla was waiting for them. The fire had seared the blood from the katana blade and her skin, but had not blackened either. It seemed the flame had done nothing except purify her.
"You're alive!" the bard gasped in relief.
As Alin came closer, however, he saw that her legs were trembling. He leaped from his saddle and rushed to her. Weak, Ryla collapsed on his shoulder. She felt surprisingly light, almost frail in his arms.
"Didn't think… I could… handle it, eh?" Ryla asked, her breath short. She held up her right hand. The silver dragon ring glowed fiercely.
"Your ring blocks fire?" asked the bard.
Ryla gave a weak laugh. "Something… like that," she replied.
As Alin helped her mount Neb, Ryla flashed a look at Inri… a little smile that set the elf maid bristling as though at a thinly veiled threat.
The Moor Runners set up camp a mile outside the Forest of Wyrms. At a distance, the forest looked peaceful, almost inviting. The towering redwoods were spread out enough to accommodate several men walking abreast, and rose majestically into the sky. Alin could not help singing a soft ballad about the place that he'd learned in Cormyr. The Moor Runners seemed comforted by his voice-except for Ryla, whose expression was unreadable.
"A bold and epic tale will be our deeds, or a dark and tragic one will be our deaths," Alin sang. He felt a little thrill run through him, and he hesitated to begin another verse.
"Restrain yer enthusiasm," Delkin said with a clap on the shoulder that startled Alin out of his tune. The bard looked at the priest in shock, but Delkin smiled. "And getyeself some rest. We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow." He gestured at Alin's rapier. "I haven't even asked. Ye know how to use that thing?"
"Ah… of course!" Alin said. "I've taken lessons since I could walk, and-"
"Good," the cleric rumbled. "Ye might need it tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?"
"There be dragons 'ere, boy," Delkin said. "Hope ye paid attention at those lessons, though them beasts don't take to fencing much."
The priest rumbled with laughter and walked back to where Thard was cooking, a dozen paces away.
Alin smiled. He pulled his harp out of his saddlebags and unwrapped it carefully. Easing it into its accustomed position against the calluses inside his arm, he strummed a few notes on the strings. He wondered if he might spend a few hours that evening working on the new lay he was composing: The Ballad of Dragonclaw.
"Eyes like fire, atop a golden spire…" he sang. "Surveying the land, queen of the hunting game…"
He stopped himself. He had not meant to sing those words. It was just something Ryla had said, words that were running through his mind. The hunting game…
"A dangerous game," he breathed.
"I can't eat this!" Ryla's angry voice came. "It's practically raw."
Alin turned his head just in time to see Ryla hurl a haunch of venison in Thard's face. The barbarian barely caught the seared meat before it smacked into his nose. Sizzling juices still came off the meat, however, spattering his skin, beard, and fur coat.
" 'Ware, ye wench!" he roared, as though castigating an impulsive child who was throwing a tantrum. He slapped the meat aside and into the dust.
Delkin tried to save the venison but his fingers were too clumsy and he dropped it.
"Justiciar's hand!" the priest cursed. "It's ruined!"
Delkin rounded on Ryla and the Moor Runners fell silent. From the looks on their faces, Alin guessed that he had just discovered how one went about making the normally ebullient cleric furious: wasted food. Putting his hands on his hips, he gazed death at the dragonslayer.
Ryla was not about to back down. She drew herself up even taller than her intimidating frame should have allowed and faced the broad-shouldered priest. Her pursed lips said nothing but Alin could see them trembling a tiny bit. He got the distinct sense, however, that it was not from fear.
Delkin seemed to have composed himself, though Alin could see his hands trembling." 'Twas cooked in the Uthgardt style," he rumbled. "Perfectly seasoned, lovingly handled. Thard is a master cook, and ye have insulted him. Apologize." It was not a request.
"It wasn't cooked enough," Ryla retorted with a dismissive wave. "Your master cook is a master fool."
" 'Twas well done-half burned, even, just as ye asked!" Delkin roared. "Apologize!"
"I refuse," responded Ryla.
"Ye insult all o' us!" Delk
in shouted. "Apologize!"
"No."
There was silence. The four adventurers stared at the dragonslayer in varying degress of shock. Thard's gaze was stony, Inri's suspicious, and Delkin's outright furious. Alin looked at Ryla with sympathy, and he could not keep the longing out of his gaze.
The dragonslayer looked around at the four faces and found nothing that pleased her in any of the gazes. Her lip curled up in a self-righteous sneer.
"Is this what passes for heroism these days?" she asked. "Rudeness? Discourtesy? Suspicion?" She looked at Delkin,
Thard, and Inri respectively as she spat those three words. "Are all of you adventurers this unwelcoming to those who would call you friend?"
There was no response. The Moor Runners looked at her with wide eyes, but no one spoke. Alin gaped. Thard brooded. Delkin flushed. Inri just looked at Ryla with a baleful glare.
Ryla made a dismissive sound in her throat then said, "Pathetic-"
With that, she turned on her heel and stormed out of the campsite toward the trees.
The three Moor Runners looked at Alin, dumbfounded.
"She'll get over it," the bard assured them. "She's not really angry."
"I hope a dragon eats every one of you!" the dragonslayer shouted back, rage hot in her voice.
The Moor Runners, all but Inri suitably chagrined, sent helpless looks the bard's way.
"Ye go and talk to the lass," suggested Delkin with downcast eyes. "She be in no mood for any o' us."
Before the suggestion even passed the cleric's lips, Alin was already following the dragonslayer.
She walked only a short way before picking up the pace, and even began running. The bard followed without hesitation, clutching his deep indigo cloak against the night's chill. She was making excellent time, and his talents had never exactly run to running.
Alin decided to file that joke away for future use.
In a few minutes, Ryla passed between the tall redwoods at the edge of the Forest of Wyrms and Alin pulled up short, perhaps a hundred yards behind her.
He reached into his tunic and drew out a silver coin on a leather thong. Then he gave a short prayer. "Lady Luck, for the love I bear thee, don't let a dragon pounce on me!"
He kissed the symbol and jogged toward the wood. Clouds came over the moon, so he pulled out a sphere of glass and strummed a high note on his harp. With the touch of his bardic magic-little more than a cantrip of power-the large marble began to glow with a soft, red-white radiance akin to a torch.
He came upon Ryla in a small grove near the edge of the forest. Her katana discarded, she was punching one of the trees with her spiked gauntlet, taking off chunks of reddish wood with each left-handed strike. The bard watched for a moment, awed at her strength, and cleared his throat.
Ryla stopped punching the tree and leaned against it, her back to him, as though the strength had gone out of her.
He took a step forward and said, "Ryla…"
She turned, her eyes burning. Her features were luminous and almost feral under Sehine's glow. Water had stained her cheeks and seemed to gleam crimson in his magelight.
"What do you know?" she demanded. "What gives you the right to judge me?"
"I'm not judging you," Alin said.
"Then why are you here?" pressed Ryla.
"I…" The bard trailed off. How could he speak, when she was so beautiful in the moonlight? Somehow, he managed, "I only thought I'd ask you… about my ballad."
"A ballad?" Ryla looked intrigued. "What ballad?"
She took a step toward him.
"Ah! A-about you," he stammered. "The ballad of-of Dragonclaw."
"A song about me?" Ryla said, one scarlet eyebrow rising.
As she walked toward him, her hands deftly unbuckled the black breastplate she wore and slid it over her head. It fell to the ground, revealing her gray undershirt-an undershirt soaked with sweat and clinging tightly to her skin.
Alin swallowed. It had grown even harder to think coherently.
"Ah, yes… a ballad."
She stepped within reach, unbuckled her black leather skirt, and stepped out of it.
"Wri-written b-by me." Alin stuttered. He felt warm all over.
"Tell me, good sir bard," Ryla purred. He had had no idea she could sound like that. She raised her right hand and ran the back of her fingers down his cheek. Her touch sent tremors through his body. "Is there anyone… special, back home, waiting for her dark-haired, blue-eyed hero to come home a dragonslayer?"
She stepped closer and stared into his eyes.
"N-no," Alin said.
Ryla pressed her body against his, and chills shot through him. He could see tiny flecks of what he thought was crimson in her eyes. She was so beautiful…
"Though I… I've always loved… the lady Alusair… from afar."
"A princess, eh?" Ryla murmured. She pressed her lips against his cheek and her breasts against his chest. "I can hardly compete."
"Oh, it's just-" she kissed his neck and ear-"a boy's fantasy."
"A fantasy…" she whispered.
She pushed him down, and Alin fell on his rump. One foot on either side of him, Ryla towered over him. She pulled the tunic over her head and stood in the moonlight in only her boots and ring. Her hair was a fiery cascade and her flawless skin sparkled. She put her hands on her hips. The movement only emphasized her curves.
"Who is your princess now?" she asked with a lusty smile.
"Y-you are," the bard stammered.
"Perfect answer."
Then Ryla slid down onto him, and Alin lost all ability to think. He didn't need to.
"What's new with ye, boy?" Delkin asked Alin, clapping him hard on the shoulder.
The bard didn't even notice. They were deep in the Forest of Wyrms, one of the most dangerous places in Faerun, with certain death all around, but he hardly thought about it. His star-struck eyes were fixed on Ryla's smooth shoulders as she strode ahead of them, her black half-cape shifting in the light breeze, and her hair a scarlet cascade.
"Oh, nothing," the bard replied. "Just musing over a dream I had last night."
The dragonslayer's face, by chance, half turned to him. An errant strand of hair fell across her face. Alin felt warm all over.
"Several times, last night," he added.
"By the looks of yer musing, it must've been a good 'un," the priest said with a snicker. Then Delkin's expression turned serious. "Don't let it distract ye. There be dragons 'ere, and ye needs be on yer guard. What can ye tell us o' this place?"
Shaking his head to clear it of his daydreams, Alin pursed his lips. He recalled all the stories he had ever heard of the Western Heartlands and the Forest of Wyrms.
"It's said green dragons have claimed this place," explained Alin. "And for good reason. The beasts infest the forest as thickly as jackrabbits."
"Keep yer eyes open," said Delkin with a nod.
Alin nodded. He looked at the other Moor Runners as they picked through the dense helmthorn brush, trying not to be stabbed by needles that were as long as a man's hand. Scanning the ground in front of them, Thard was impassive as always, but his hand was on the axe at his belt. Ryla followed close behind him, ready to draw her blade at a moment's notice. Only Inri's attention seemed not focused on the task at hand. Instead, she watched Ryla's every move with suspicion, and more than once Alin caught her hand moving through the gestures of a spell.
"What's with Inri?" the bard asked Delkin.
Delkin wore a bemused smile when he turned to Alin and said, "Oh, Madam Sorceress isn't too happy she's no longer the on'y lass around us Moor Runners anymore. Women kin be competitive, if'n ye know what I mean. At least she 'as Thard."
Alin's mind filled in the details. "Is that all?" pressed Alin.
"An' she be suspicious," the priest admitted. "Lady Dragon-claw's magic be concealed."
Alin raised a finger to his lips in thought.
"Aye, a mystery," agreed Delkin. He looked up at the front of
the group. "Lady Dragonclaw, ye're sure our dragon's here? I haven't seen or heard anything."
"My apologies, but you're a priest, not a scout," Ryla said, not bothering to correct him regarding her name. "And yes. I saw him land here, and he hasn't left since the attack on the caravan."
Reassured, the Moor Runners continued on, looking all around, all the time. Alin pressed all his senses into service, using the techniques he had learned from his master to extend his hearing into the surrounding trees.
Thus, he was startled when Inri appeared at his side, seemingly from nowhere.
"Is she not suspicious?" the elf asked. "How could she have seen thisTharas'kalagram land here, when she was near Triel with the rest of us?"
Alin turned a scowl to her. "Find someone else to listen to your suspicions," he said. "Focus on the task ahead."
"Quiet you two," Ryla said. "I hear something."
"What is it?" Delkin asked.
Ryla turned to him and said, "A dragon."
At that moment, a huge green wyrm burst from the trees with a roar, not ten paces from the dragonslayer. The beast was at least forty feet long and muscles pulsed along its entire serpentine body. Fiery eyes glared death down upon the five adventurers, and putrid green spittle dripped from its daggerlike fangs. Delkin shouted, raising his symbol of Lathander high, even as Thard drew his axe and Inri prepared a spell.
The creature rose up above them, its jaws opening wide. Alin would not have been surprised to see two cows from back home fit between those jaws.
Tempus!" Thard shouted, swinging his greataxe with shattering force against its foreleg.
The dragon screeched as several of its scales caved in and green blood sprayed the barbarian.
It lashed out at him with its other claw, an attack he barely ducked. The sword-length talons slashed a nearby tree in two. Thard kept rolling, for the fangs were not far behind.
Standing behind Delkin, Inri finished her chant and pointed over his shoulder, sending a bolt of lightning at the beast. It slammed into the dragon's chest, causing the huge body to spasm with electricity. Enraged, the beast breathed in and its chest bulged.
"Dragonbreath!" Delkin shouted, then immediately fell into a chant to Lathander.
The Realms of the Dragons 2 a-10 Page 6