Appetite ruined, Larson avoided Brendor's shamefully lowered face. He pushed his chair from the table and walked to the bar where a fat innkeeper flicked at the warped pine counter with a damp rag. Ura seemed to take no notice of the approaching elf, but the huge man at the bar squared his shoulders and edged closer. The movement put Larson on the defensive, but he forced aside discomfort as he prepared to bargain with the barkeep. "I'd like to rent a suite," he said in a businesslike voice which revealed none of his trepidations. Familiar with streetside markets, Larson prepared to snap back half the quoted price.
Ura raised his head. "Fourteen silver."
"S-what?" Composure lost, Larson stared. Ura's rate was too far beyond expectation to be other than a mistake.
"Fourteen silver," repeated Ura. He regarded Larson with scornful disinterest.
"That's outrageous!"
Ura shrugged. "Fourteen silver," he said with indisputable finality. "Take it or get out of my inn."
Larson opened his mouth to protest, but another man spoke from the tavern doorway. "You heard him. This place smells bad enough without your kind, elf!"
Larson caught at one pointed ear, suddenly feeling like an American in a North Vietnamese prison camp. He turned to his antagonist with feigned unconcern and adopted a false smile. The man at the door stood several inches taller than him, and Larson did not care to discover how much of the bulk beneath his chain shirt was padding. Likely the stranger was a member of Forste -Mar's guard force, summoned by the man who had left the bar earlier and now stood near the guardsman.
Brendor came to Larson's side. Afraid for the child's life, Larson stepped before him protectively. To his relief, a stranger at one of the tables came to their defense. "He's not going to hurt anyone, Anrad. He's a light elf."
Larson bit his lip with understanding. Again Gaelinar's description returned to him, and nervous energy revived the most distressing sentence of his explanation: At times, dark elves are welcomed because of the legends of light elves, and light elves are slain for the ancient crimes of their dark cousins. Bramin had turned the town of Forste -Mar against faery folk, but a Dragonrank mage was too powerful for peasants' vengeance. Over years, unvented hatred had intensified, seeking a victim. Unless Larson acted with heroic discretion, he might pay with his and Brendor's lives for Bramin's evil. He faced the barkeep again. "I just want:"
"Fourteen silver and not one copper less," said Ura with pointed hostility.
Goaded by Ura's patrons, Anrad stepped boldly into the barroom's center. "Let him sleep in the stables for two silver."
Steeling himself, Larson turned. His fingers plucked nervously at his tunic, but his words were carefully selected and innocuously spoken. "It only cost a copper for the horses."
Anrad folded his arms across his broad chest. "But you'll want to bed every beast in the stable." His gaze dropped to Brendor, and his lips twisted in a sneer. "Oh, but I see you've brought your own entertainment."
Brendor pushed in front of Larson. Red-faced with the perfect rage only a child can experience, he struggled to speak without screaming. "Your mother's safe, there are no asses in the stable!"
Anrad's face flushed. He raised a hand threateningly. "You little bastard."
Anger flared in Larson. Suddenly beyond thought of the consequences, he cocked his fist and leaped for the guardsman. A callused palm caught Larson's wrist. He was wrenched forcefully about to face the huge man at the bar whose bear-sized hand locked on his arm. "You two want to kill each other, do it outside!"
"Fine!" Anrad marched out the door, chuckling, and the crowd of patrons funneled into the street.
No stranger to bar fights, Larson tore free of the bouncer's grip and strode toward the door. Memory of his reflection in the pond bred doubts. This elf-form robbed him of the bulk won from years of wrestling and weight training. He could only hope he had retained some of his strength, and he would have to remember to throw full effort into every punch. Intent on strategy, Larson strode blindly from the inn and nearly impaled himself on Anrad's naked sword.
Larson recoiled with a yell. His fist closed on Valvitnir's hilt, and the blade sprang from its sheath so quickly he was unsure whether he or the sword initiated the movement. Anrad swept for Larson's chest. Larson ducked behind Valvitnir. Sword crashed against sword, and Anrad's blade shattered to faintly glowing shards.
Anrad retreated, eyes wild. More familiar with fist fighting, Larson handed his sword to Brendor. "I can take him without a weapon." Hands for-ward, he closed, prepared to pummel the guardsman before he could recover from surprise. Anrad dropped his useless hilt and dodged under Larson's swing. His return punch crashed against the elf's jaw, hurling him backward. Larson tried to block, but the guard's other fist thudded into his gut, stealing breath.
Larson staggered. The cries of the crowd blended to undecipherable noise. Anrad's pale fist rushed toward his face. Larson blocked with his left arm, then cut downward and caught the guardsman's wrist. He seized Anrad's elbow in his right hand and whipped his opponent around in a wrestling drag. Larson's arm closed about Anrad's neck. The guard struggled momentarily then dropped to the ground, breathless.
Pain-maddened, Larson kicked Anrad's mailed side. Impact with the heavy chain links shot agony along Larson's foot. Anrad winced with a gasp. Larson smashed his heel into Anrad's face. Bones cracked, and blood poured from the guardsman's nose. Anrad lay with closed eyes, emitting small panting sobs.
Only then did Larson consider the battle won. In the same situation, James Bond or Errol Flynn would have delivered some witty line and strode off into the sunset. But Larson felt too disgusted for endearing dramatization. His jaw ached with every heartbeat, and he could taste blood. Without a word, he wheeled away.
Dust billowed around the scene of the fight. Larson waited until it settled and searched for Brendor. The boy was gone. Larson's wits scattered as panic replaced ire. He cast about frantically. " Brendor . Where's my sword? Brendor?"
Larson received no reply from anywhere in the crowd. He spun awkwardly, like a drunken dancer, without sighting the boy. Brendor and Valvitnir had disappeared completely. Larson seized an old man by the collar and jacked him against the tavern wall. "Which way did he go?"
The man pointed a shaking finger toward a narrow throughway between buildings. Dropping his informant, Larson charged through the gaping onlookers. He hurtled down the alleyway, well aware there could be only one enemy. Bramin's use of a child seemed a ruse so obvious he wondered how he had come to overlook it. Booby-trapping children was a favorite trick of the Viet Cong; he should have expected no less from Bramin. Brendor was certainly Bramin's accomplice, placed in a piteous position where Larson and his companions would happen upon him. Once Brendor gained Larson's trust, he waited for an opening to steal the sword. And Larson had fallen for the plan like an idiot, his only comfort the fact that Silme and Gaelinar had been duped as easily as himself.
The roadway forked suddenly. Larson chose his direction at random. Wind blew a discarded rag under his feet, and Larson skirted it instinctively. The pathway narrowed between cottages and ended at a staunch wooden gate. Beyond lay a plowed field. Across acres of sprouting grain stood a cottage. As Larson watched, a small figure darted toward it.
Larson sprang for the gate. A poorly-timed memory slammed his consciousness with a force akin to Anrad's blows. He flinched back as the scene in his head exploded in red light. "They've wired the gate!" screamed Gavin. Even as Larson surrend-ered to flashback, he pitched himself over the barrier.
The illusion mushroomed to a cloud of fire, and impact with the ground jarred Larson back to the wheat field. Sweat stung his eyes. Field dirt clung to his limbs. He ripped his tunic as he struggled to his feet and sprinted toward the cottage. The child grew more visible as he approached, dark-haired, dressed in tan and blue, and pressed to the mud-chinked stone wall. It was unmistakably Brendor. The boy turned as Larson closed, and his face went pale.
"You conniving l
ittle bastard," Larson panted as he seized Brendor's forearm. "I ought to break your goddamned neck."
Brendor's face screwed into a harried mass of wrinkles. "Stop, shhh:" He pulled against Larson's grip.
Larson tightened his fist as Brendor fought against him. "Don't ' shhh ' me, you little brat. I'll:"
Brendor took a sharp intake of breath. His gaze suddenly focused beyond Larson. Menaced from behind, the elf loosed the child. Brendor fell against the wall with a pained whimper. Larson whirled to face two men with drawn swords. A third stood between them, unarmed but no less formidable. A heavy cloth bandage enclosed his right hand. "If you were trying to be subtle," said one, "you failed miserably."
The second man stepped forward. "If you've come for your sword, I may decide to give it to you." Spit sprayed from his mouth as he pronounced each word with gloating force. "Jammed through your ugly, elven heart."
"What do we do with them?" asked the unarmed man.
"Take them inside," replied the first. "I think Bramin would be grateful if we accidentally killed them." He gestured. " Gilbyr, you lead. Then the boy, followed by the elf." His eyes met Larson's. "Do anything we don't like and you earn two swords between your ribs. "
The name Gilbyr blazed in Larson's awareness from the previous night when Bramin's bandits tried to break through Silme's wards. He stared at Gilbyr's bandaged hand, recalling the power of the sorceress' white-hot magics. / can't face Bramin without Silme. Rising fear blurred memory into purpose. Still uncertain of Brendor's role in the swordnapping, Larson glanced at the boy.
The fear and betrayal stamped across Brendor's features hurt Larson worse than the bandits' gibes and death threats. "They grabbed the sword from me and ran. I tried:"
"Silence!" Gilbyr raised his injured hand to strike Brendor and immediately realized his mistake. The thief bit back a scream. Fresh blood colored his bandage. "Another thing you'll pay for. Come along."
Hesitantly, Brendor went to Gilbyr, rubbing elbows skinned from Larson's unceremonious push against the cottage. Bereft of alternatives, Larson followed. He wished he had a means to judge the sword skill of the man behind him.
In a line, captors and victims passed around the cottage. Gilbyr paused before the front door and tripped the latch. Larson fretted, the thought of dying indoors no more palatable than that of dying outside. Now or never. The oaken door swung open. As Gilbyr started through the portal, Larson pretended to stumble. The swordsmen lurched with him. Larson shoved Brendor into Gilbyr with all the strength he could muster. Man and boy tumbled into the cottage, a twisting wheel of arms and legs. A blade licked Larson's back as he sprang through the opening and pulled the door shut behind him.
Swords thumped against the wood, mingled with muffled curses. While Gilbyr and Brendor untangled themselves, Larson shot the bolt home, aware the swordsmen could not quickly break through solid oak. Fists clenched, Larson turned to engage Gilbyr. As Brendor freed himself, he stomped on Gilbyr's wounded hand. Howling curses, Gilbyr backed toward an open doorway several feet away. Brendor ran to Larson's side.
Larson advanced. Behind him, the door rattled beneath the swordsmen's blows. A plan took form, and he repressed an amused smile which might ruin its effect. He let his fists go lax and trained his eyes on Gilbyr. "Stop, fool!" Larson borrowed the voice of a summoned god from a cheap horror flick.
Gilbyr hesitated.
Larson loosed a rumbling laugh and wished he sounded less nervous and more evil. "You chose the wrong victims for your childish prank." He snapped a hand in Brendor's direction. "This is no boy, but a master Dragonrank in child form."
Brendor looked as startled as the thief. The door shuddered and groaned warningly.
Larson sacrificed a dramatic pause for brevity. "You've already sampled his power. Look at your hand. He could slay you with a single word, but your transgressions have gone beyond merciful death. Now he shall twist your very soul." He raised his arms for effect and took a threatening forward step. "Your person will transform to a wolf-being which feasts upon blood and howls at the full moon. Men will hunt you downV
Wood splintered as a sword tip cracked the door and retreated. Larson kicked Brendor's shin. "Shave, kid," he whispered.
"Shave!" hollered Brendor.
Hair sprang from Gilbyr's face. The thief loosed a blood-curdling shriek and bolted through the crumbling door. The oak panel broke open. Gilbyr spitted himself on his companions' swords, and his screams transformed from panicked to agonized.
Brendor grabbed Larson's arm. "Come on!"
Larson needed no urging. Elf and boy sprang through the rearward portal and found themselves in a small storage room. Behind, Gilbyr's sharp screams rose over the exchanges of the thieves. Brendor clawed at a square of fur which covered the window, but a faintly-glowing sack in the storeroom corner arrested Larson's escape. "The sword!" He crossed the room in two leaping strides and ripped the cloth bag, spilling woolen garments to the bare stone floor.
Dropping to a crouch, Larson buried his hands in the cloth and was rewarded by a touch of metal. His wild gesture flung tunics through the storeroom and uncovered Valvitnir's jeweled hilt. With a relieved sigh, Larson caught the grip as Gilbyr's shrieks subsided to anguished moans in the other room.
Valvitnir quivered in greeting. Its presence inspired a strange joy, lulling Larson's mind to an inner peace instantly shattered by a string of curses from the adjoining room. No sign remained of Brendor but a rumpled pile of furs beneath the window. Larson flung the sword. It flew, straight as an archer's arrow, through the window into the gathering grayness of evening. He scuttled after it.
The rough-hewn stone of the window scraped Larson's skin despite his clothing. He caught the outer ledge, swung his legs between his hands, and hit the ground prepared to run. A short distance ahead, Brendor's slight form darted toward the town square. Closer, Valvitnir flared blue as a beacon.
Instinctively, Larson dropped to the ground, held himself flat and silent in the gloom. Then, remembering that the thieves in this world carried no guns or grenades, he caught the sword hilt and sprinted after the retreating child. Though encumbered by the weapon's weight, Larson overtook Brendor halfway across the plowed field, and matched the child's pace. Like hunted deer, elf and boy bounded across the tract. By the time they reached the gate, Larson's legs ached from the effort, and he had twisted his ankles countless times.
Only when they reached the alley did they dare to look behind. The cottage stood shrouded in haze, but it seemed no thieves dared pursue the elven swordsman and his "master Dragonrank." Larson tried not to imagine who would have suffered Gilbyr's wrath had the thief realized the magic-using adept could be better called inept.
As he regained his breath, Larson looked at Brendor, and the boy returned his stare. "You spoiled my ambush," Brendor accused.
"It's only fair," Larson snapped back. "You ruined my dinner."
Brendor smothered a giggle. "Ruined Gilbyr's face, too."
Struck by the absurdity of the comment after their harrowing series of experiences, Larson laughed so hard he needed to catch the gate to keep his balance. Brendor lapsed into convulsive titterings. Their chortles melded to a gleeful duet as tension broke in a rush of camaraderie. Elf and boy regained composure simultaneously. Then Brendor hiccuped, and they burst into wild laughter again.
Less than a yard deeper in the alley, someone spoke. "Where have you two been?"
Startled, Larson inhaled a mouthful of saliva. No longer laughing, he wheeled to face a thin man in black-trimmed gold robes. The adrenalin rush inspired by Gaelinar's swift, silent appearance strained Larson's cry of welcome.
Gaelinar took no notice. "I thought you'd meet us in the tavern."
"We went exploring." Larson lied, not wishing to explain to the swordmaster how he had disarmed himself in battle and was forced to retrieve his sword from bandits.
Gaelinar fondled the brocade at his sword hilt. "Looking for trouble would better describe it if I'm to bel
ieve Ura. He told me you challenged the guard captain."
"Well:" started Larson, with no idea how he would finish the sentence.
Gaelinar did not need explanations. He scrutinized Larson in the waning light. "Did you at least win?"
"Of course," Larson said with a false confidence. Impossible as it seemed, his reply was true.
"Good." The Kensei turned in a swirl of gold robes and started down the alley. "Then you should do well with your first sword lesson tonight."
Brendor and Larson trotted behind Gaelinar. "Tonight?" repeated Larson incredulously, feeling very tired.
"Tonight," Gaelinar confirmed with a toss of his gray locks. "But just until dark. I would have started sooner had I known you made a habit of antagonizing guards."
Larson wanted to protest but could think of nothing convincing to say. The alleyway broadened and met the road before Ura's Inn, conspicuously devoid of the afternoon crowd. Forste -Mar had literally closed for the evening.
Gaelinar continued. "Silme settled your tab at the tavern. I've never traveled on Alfheim, Allerum, but here we pay for our meals before we leave the table." He nodded toward the hulking shape of the inn. " Brendor, get some sleep. Silme rented a suite for an infinitely reasonable price, and Ura gave her the sack of rations you left in the barroom. She can get very convincing." The slight smile which played across Gaelinar's lips as he thumbed his sword guard caused Larson to wonder about the Kensei's role in Ura's persuasion.
Brendor headed for the inn, and Gaelinar called after him. "And don't bother Silme until morning!" Swiftly, the Kensei turned and strode along the hard-packed road. "How much do you know about swordplay?"
Godslayer bg-1 Page 8