A Fistful of Elven Gold

by Alex Stewart

  Oaktwig caught his eye. “Protect the queen! Get her to safety!” he called.

  Drago nodded, and turned to leave.

  “I can look after myself,” Ariella snapped.

  “Then prove it. Follow me,” Drago riposted, and led the way down the corridor at a run. Behind him an ominous silence held for a second or two.

  Then Meadowsweet’s voice drifted after them. “Rinora. Bad timing I know, but might never get another chance to say this. I’ve loved you from the moment we met.”

  “Really?” Moonshade’s voice sounded surprised, and not in a good way. “I’ve always thought you were a bit of a dick.” Then the clash of steel against steel drowned out everything else.

  “Where are we going?” Drago asked, as Ariella drew ahead of him, and the sounds of combat began to fade behind them.

  “To get help,” she snapped, as though that were obvious. “We can get to the guardroom through the kitchens, down the servant’s stairs. There’s a door through here.” She stopped, next to a panel between two tapestries, and knocked on the wood; sure enough it echoed hollowly. “The knob’s behind here . . .” she twisted and tugged at it. “Bugger.”

  “Locked,” Drago said. The minister leading the coup had said the wing was sealed off, and it looked as though he hadn’t been exaggerating. “Can you break it down?”

  “Do I look like a troll to you?” Ariella snarled. “This is a royal palace, remember? Everything’s built to last.” She thumped the wood angrily with the hilt of her sword; the polished surface of the hidden door didn’t even scratch. “And there’s an enchantment on it. We’re not getting out that way.”

  “You’re not getting out at all,” a new voice interjected. Drago turned. Graymane was charging up the corridor toward them, his sword still stained with Stargleam’s blood; and possibly someone else’s, Drago thought. The elf’s clothing was ripped and bloodstained—getting out of the room to pursue them clearly hadn’t been without cost.

  “Neither are you,” Drago assured him. “I’m pretty sure regicide is frowned on around here. Will you hang him?”

  “Eventually,” Ariella said, taking up a guard position.

  Drago sighed. “You run, I fight, all right? That’s what I get paid for.”

  Ariella scowled and took a step toward Graymane, raising her blade to parry a downward stroke, before pivoting and aiming a stroke at his kidneys as his forward momentum took him past her. “Don’t remember hiring you for that.”

  “I’ll bill you later.” Drago stepped in as Graymane turned, blocking Ariella’s stroke, and kicking out at her knee. While the elf was off balance Drago slashed at his leg, aiming for the femoral artery; he missed, but the blade cut deep into the muscle, and Graymane’s leg folded. He crashed down onto one knee, and aimed a vicious swipe which would have decapitated the gnome if he hadn’t leaped back at the last possible second.

  “This piece of carrion killed my brother!”

  “Then don’t let him kill you too!” Drago jumped between them as Graymane rose to his feet, limping badly, but still determined to strike Ariella down. “You’ve a throne to protect!” That wasn’t working, the lust for vengeance still written clearly on her face. Her skill with a sword had surprised him, but it was still straight out of a fencing master’s manual; Graymane would know all the nasty little gutter tricks Drago did, which an honorable duelist would simply never think of. If he hadn’t been wounded already, and facing two opponents instead of one, he might well have finished the woman by now. Evading another downward stroke, which gouged a nasty looking rip in the rug beneath his feet, Drago straightened up suddenly, headbutting Graymane in the groin. This time the impact jarred his entire body, and his head rang; the elf was wearing an armored codpiece. Always a wise precaution when brawling with a gnome. Drago tried a different tack to get Ariella to disengage. “And a husband who loves you! Don’t make me have to tell him how you died!”

  That did the trick. Ariella turned, and bolted for a nearby salon.

  “I’ll settle you later!” Graymane snarled, turning to pursue her.

  “I’ll settle you now,” Drago said, stooping, and grabbing the rug he’d noticed a moment before. He yanked it hard, out from under the elf’s feet. Graymane howled, and toppled like a felled tree, crashing into an occasional table laden with porcelain fruit. Drago darted in, and kicked him in the temple as he started to rise from the wreckage; with a groan, the elf lapsed into unconsciousness.

  Drago hesitated for a moment, resting his sword against Graymane’s carotid artery; one quick stroke and it would all be over. But he just couldn’t do it; not in cold blood. The renegade was no threat to anyone now, at least for the moment. He turned away, and hurried after the queen.

  “They didn’t seal the window,” Ariella said, as he entered the salon. She’d already yanked it open, admitting a blast of chill dawn air. Over the treetops below, the rising sun was beginning to tint the leaves the color of bronze.

  “They didn’t have to,” Drago said, glancing down, and fighting a sudden surge of vertigo. “Not unless you can sprout wings.” This part of the palace seemed to have been built along a side branch, with nothing beneath it except the forest floor, hundreds of feet below.

  “I don’t have to.” Ariella already had one leg over the window sill. “There’s a twig out here, leading to the courtyard on the south side.” She swung the other leg over, and hesitated for a moment. “Not very wide, though.” Then she took a deep breath, and jumped.

  For a moment, Drago thought his heart had stopped. He leaned out, cautiously, and found Ariella about six feet below him, perfectly balanced on a side growth about eight inches wide. It seemed to be flexing in the wind, and his stomach lurched anew at the sight of it. Ariella seemed perfectly unconcerned, though, either about the shifting balance point, or the lethal drop beneath her.

  “Come on,” she said, in what she probably thought was an encouraging tone. “Almost there.”

  “You are, I’m not,” Drago said. “I’m a gnome. I don’t do heights.” He hesitated. “Maybe I’d better go back and see how Oaktwig and the others are doing.”

  “Or maybe you’d just better die,” Graymane said, staggering across the room with murder in his eye. He might have come round faster than Drago had expected, but he was still suffering from concussion judging by his uncoordinated gait. Before Drago could turn fully back into the room, the furious elf had grabbed him under the arms, shoving him upward and outward.

  Drago felt an extraordinary sense of clarity as he spun out into thin air, time stretching around him, allowing every detail to imprint itself on his senses. The dappling of shadows from leaves higher up, the first golden rays of the rising sun piercing through them, the shimmering silver surface of the river bending lazily far below. His sword, glinting as it turned, catching the light as it tumbled toward the ground. The twig Ariella was standing on, drifting slowly past his face. He reached out toward it, already certain it was too far away, feeling the bark brush against the tips of his fingers . . .

  “Gotcha,” Ariella said, snagging his wrist, and yanking him back upward. He tumbled across the thin span of wood, clinging to it for dear life, arms and legs wrapped around it as though they’d never let go. After a moment he caught his breath, and opened his eyes, loosening his grip enough to sit cautiously upright. “Are you all right?”

  “Not dead. That’ll do,” Drago said, his head still spinning. Graymane was glaring down at them, his face a mask of hatred. “Get moving. I’ll hold him off.”

  “How, exactly? You’re the one who doesn’t do heights, remember?”

  “I don’t know! Maybe he’ll trip over me.” He tried getting to his knees, felt the twig sway under him, and gave it up, grabbing the narrow piece of wood with both hands again. This time it was easier. Gripping as tightly as he could without completely immobilizing himself, and trying very hard not to look down, he shuffled along on his hands and knees. The courtyard Ariella had spoken of seemed a lon
g way away.

  “We’re going together,” Ariella said, slowing her pace to match his, although she seemed perfectly capable of running along the twig as easily as if it were solid ground. “My kingdom, my rules. If you don’t like it, piss off back to Fairhaven.”

  “As soon as I can, believe me,” Drago said, not quite managing to suppress an unexpected urge to laugh. He glanced back. Graymane was scrambling through the window after them, though a good deal less elegantly than Ariella had. “Doesn’t he ever give up?”

  “Not that anyone can remember,” Ariella said. “That’s why his services are in such demand around here.”

  “That’s comforting,” Drago said. Graymane was hanging by his hands now; as the gnome watched, he let go, landing on the twig as neatly as a falling cat. Then he swayed as he attempted to take his weight on his wounded leg, trying to regain his balance. Drago held his breath, willing the elf to fall; but Graymane recovered, and began to limp along the twig toward them, his breath rattling hoarsely in his chest.

  “Out of the way, shortarse.” Graymane made a cut with his sword at Ariella’s head, overreaching to get past Drago, which she parried in the nick of time. He kicked out at the gnome, trying to knock him off the narrow perch; fortunately he needed to keep his good leg planted on the wood, and the wounded one lacked the strength to succeed.

  “I’m getting really tired of people round here calling me that,” Drago snarled, kicking out as hard as he could in response.

  To his faint surprise, that was enough. Slightly off balance forward, in the attempt to reach Ariella, and with his weight on only one foot, Graymane wasn’t stable enough to stay upright as the gnome’s boot heel smashed into his kneecap. For a moment he swayed wildly, dropping his sword, arms flailing for equilibrium; then he vanished, dropping out of sight as his center of gravity shifted too far from the narrow strip of wood.

  Despite himself Drago glanced down, his eye drawn to the rapidly shrinking figure plummeting into the depths, its face a death mask of anger and surprise, then closed his eyes reflexively as his head began to swim.

  “Come on,” Ariella said, reaching down a hand to squeeze his shoulder encouragingly. “We’re almost there.”

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Drago said. Attracted by the commotion, faces were beginning to appear in the courtyard ahead of them. “I think you’ve got some guards to round up and some traitors to arrest.”

  Faint voices drifted toward them on the wind. “No, it can’t be . . . Looks like her . . . Who’s the shortarse? . . .”

  “I think you’re right.” Ariella turned, and sprinted easily along the swaying twig, while Drago clung even more tightly to it, and was most ungnomishly grateful for the relative lack of food in his stomach. By the time he gained the welcome relief of solid woodwork underfoot, a few minutes later, the air was echoing to enthusiastic cries of “The Queen! The Queen! Long live the Queen!”

  “I’ll do my best to,” she confided, as Drago joined her. “I owe Lamiel that much, at least.”

  “Maybe not,” Drago said, as a small group of chastened and richly dressed elves appeared, surrounded by a much larger one of armed and surly looking soldiers. Two of the guards were carrying Stargleam on a stretcher, Rowanberry hovering anxiously at his side. After a moment Oaktwig detached himself from the group and came over. His clothes were disheveled, and he sported a few cuts and bruises, but looked remarkably healthy under the circumstances.

  “Your brother still lives, ma’am. Rowanberry performed a healing ritual in the nick of time.”

  “Excellent news,” Ariella said, in the tone of someone suddenly presented with an unexpected complication. “Then I suppose I’d better not have him executed like the others. I’m sure there’s some useful missionary work he could be doing among the trolls.” She caught sight of Moonshade and Meadowsweet, equally disheveled, and awkwardly not talking to one another. “I see your officers survived as well.”

  “The fight went out of most of the traitors as soon as Graymane left, and the first few felt the touch of our blades.” Oaktwig glanced round the courtyard. “I can assure you, he won’t get far.”

  “No, he won’t. Drago killed him.” Oaktwig’s eyebrow rose in an expression of surprise, but he didn’t interrupt. “He’s somewhere down by the roots. If you send out a search party, they’ll need a pail.”

  Oaktwig turned to Drago, proffering a hand, which, after a moment of surprise, Drago took. “You’ve done the Sylvan Marches a great service, Master Appleroot. If there’s anything we can do for you in return, you have only to name it.”

  Drago nodded slowly, considering the offer. “As a matter of fact there is,” he said. “You can find me a boat back to Fairhaven. The sooner the better.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Thanks for the drink.”

  Of course it took a little longer than that to get home, almost another month having passed by the time Drago’s boots hit the planks of a Fairhaven wharf once again. He hefted his rucksack, which, like most of the items in it, was of a far higher quality than the kit he’d set out with, and turned, savoring the familiar smells and noises of his hometown. For some reason everything seemed smaller and louder than he remembered.

  “Drago! What a pleasant surprise!” He turned in response to the unexpected voice, finding himself face-to-face with Lady Selina, who looked no more surprised than he felt at the apparently fortuitous meeting. This time she was dressed as a well-to-do merchant, still prosperous, but not quite as much as she’d like to appear judging by the careful mending of her bodice. “I do hope you’ve a few minutes to catch up. It’s been ages.”

  “It certainly feels like it,” Drago agreed, allowing himself to be led to a nearby tavern—not one he was familiar with, but one which was familiar with Selina, judging by the way they were immediately ushered into a back room and left to their own devices. He sat, nursing the ale which had been left there for him, while Selina toyed with a glass of wine.

  “And how are things in the Sylvan Marches?” Selina asked, after long enough had elapsed to make it clear he wasn’t going to talk unprompted.

  Drago shrugged. “Quiet, on the surface,” he said. “But it’s a tinderbox underneath. There are plenty of elves who feel the same way about Ariella and Gorash’s marriage as the old Council of Ministers did. But at least the compromise has taken some of the heat out of it.”

  Selina nodded. “Oh yes, her abdication.” She took a thoughtful sip of her wine. “Quite lucky her idiot brother didn’t die after all when his own assassin ran him through.”

  Drago shook his head. “Graymane was never Stargleam’s agent; he was acting entirely for the council. Stargleam was only ever a useful figurehead for them to rule through.”

  “And now he’s performing the same service for his sister and her husband.” Selina permitted herself a brief smile. “At least I suppose he’s used to it.”

  “I suppose so,” Drago agreed. “Anyway, with him back on the throne, the traditionalist Marchers won’t have to worry about Ariella’s half-goblin children inheriting the kingdom.” He paused. “At least until it dawns on them that Lamiel’s not going to be having any heirs of his own, so they’ll be next in line anyway.”

  “Not our problem. And at least there won’t be any civil wars disrupting trade along the Geltwash any time soon,” Selina said. “Which from where I’m sitting is a definite result.” She paused. “And the city council aren’t exactly unappreciative of your contribution to that.” A purse appeared on the table between them, which Drago reached out and hefted. It was as satisfyingly heavy as he’d expected. “I’ve no doubt the ex-queen expressed her appreciation as well.”

  “You’d have to ask her that,” Drago said. “Client confidentiality.”

  “Of course. But confidentially, I’ve a pretty good idea of how much those clothes you’re wearing would have cost. Not to mention that nice new sword of yours. And I’m presuming there was a cash bonus as well.”

 
“You may well presume,” Drago said, a little nettled at the reminder of his lost weapon. The new one was of exceptional quality, forged by a master craftsman, but he’d had the other one for years, and could wield it without conscious thought. The balance and heft of this one were subtly different, and however much he drilled with it, it didn’t feel like an extension of his own body the way the old one had. No doubt he’d get the hang of it in the end, though, or die trying. “Did your spy hunt end well?”

  Selina nodded. “Well for us, anyway. We’ve identified pretty much every Marcher asset in the city. Which includes Gorash’s mob now, of course, which simplifies things. They won’t be trying to kill one another on our turf anymore.” She glanced at Drago with a hint of mischief. “Or any more of our bounty hunters either, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

  “Good.” Drago nodded. “You know the ministers were hiring assassins from here because they didn’t want anyone from the Marches asking awkward questions about why it was suddenly so important to kill Gorash?” He’d worked that out for himself, but had still felt inordinately pleased when the convalescing Stargleam had confirmed it.

  “That’s what we’d thought,” Selina said, “but it’s good to have it corroborated. Any more news we should know about?”

  “I don’t think so,” Drago said, after pretending to ponder for a moment. He’d stopped at the mine on his way back downriver, as he’d promised, but things had been awkward with Della and Clovis, particularly as they seemed to have formed an attachment in his absence, and he’d been glad to move on as soon as he decently could. He stood. “Thanks for the drink.”

  Selina smiled. “You’re welcome. All in all, I think you’ve earned it.”

  X END X