Stormblade

6

In an alley, behind what had once been the most prosperous street of shops in Long Ridge, an old kender squinted against the wet night wind and brought his face closer to a locked door. The stink of burned wood filled the alley, and the kender sneezed once, then again. This shop was among the very few on the street still undamaged. The dragon had missed it, intentionally or not, and even the looting soldiers had not damaged it too much. The kender was having a difficult time with the lock. Lavim Springtoe was absolutely not prepared to consider that he was getting too old to finesse even this simple lock. He was sixty, and that was not a great accumulation of years at all. Why, Lavim, like every kender, knew that Uncle Trapspringer had lived until well past seventy before he even admitted to feeling less than youthful.

Actually, Uncle Trapspringer had reputedly lived until the ripe old age of ninety-seven before the dire phantom of Rigar’s Swamp finally got him. For his part, Lavim was not certain that any dire phantom had actually ‘gotten’ Uncle Trapspringer. That doubtful piece of information came from his father’s cousin’s aunt, and it was well known in the family that Aunt Evalia could never get the facts straight. Lavim had always heard—from his mother’s sister’s nephew, a far more reliable source who was a connection of Uncle Trapspringer’s via a second cousin—that it was Uncle Trapspringer who got the dire phantom. Certainly it made for a better story.

The kender, a little stooped and very white-haired, surveyed the alley again, listened carefully for approaching footsteps, heard none, and returned his attention to the back door of the shop.

His eyes were not weak, his sight was simply impaired by the miserable pall of soot and smoke that had become what used to be air in Long Ridge. If his hands shook, Lavim was certain that they did not shake with age but with hunger. The place he sought entry to being a baker’s shop, Lavim thought it likely that there would be something to eat lying about that no one was interested in. Afterwards, he would fix the lock so it locked even better.

He tossed his head, flipping his long white braid over his shoulder, and set to work again. All the fine lines of his wrinkled brown face deepened with his concentration. He leaned a little against the door, not so that his long, canted ear might be closer to the lock to hear the tumblers fall, but so that he could brace his shoulder for perfect balance.

It is said that eye level for a kender is door-lock height for the same reason a chipmunk has extra cheek space. A twist of the lock’s horizontal bar brought the satisfying ‘snick!’ of a tumbler tumbling. A second twist, and then a third, and the lock was a lock no more. Obviously, Lavim thought as he stepped silently into the back of the baker shop, this lock was not meant to keep anyone out. In its own way it was an invitation. A small loaf of brown bread lay on a table. Lavim pocketed it and thought how pleased the baker would be to discover that someone had saved his shop from the depredations of the mice that would surely have trooped through the place once they discovered food lying about. By removing three small honey cakes from a nearby shelf, Lavim rescued the baker from rats. He defended the hapless shopkeeper from ants when he filled a small pouch with sweet rolls, and considered his night’s work done when he scooped four small muffins into his pocket, thereby saving the poor baker from an infestation of roaches.

Satisfied that the baker would return to his shop in the morning a happy man, Lavim Springtoe slipped back out the alley door, reset the improved lock, and headed for the tavern.

He wondered whether the tavern still stocked dwarf spirits. The current occupation—infestation, his father would have said—made the possibility highly unlikely. Few supplies were getting into Long Ridge these days, and those few were rapidly claimed and consumed by Verminaard’s army. However, Lavim was a forward looking fellow. His father, who had possessed an endless store of kender common knowledge and passed most of it on to his son, liked to say than an empty pouch will never be filled unless you open it.

Lavim set out for the tavern chewing a large bite of honey cake and fortified with his father’s optimism.

He was thirsty from all his work and good deeds, and a few hours still remained before the watch would cry curfew.

Stanach felt oppressed by the noise and heat of the tavern. The place smelled of wet wool and leather, sour wine and flat ale spilled long ago. But these were no worse than the odors in some of the taverns he and Kyan had frequented in Thorbardin. His sense of oppression was rooted in the overwhelming feeling that he was a stranger among strangers. Tenny’s held more humans than Stanach had ever seen. Only a few of them, small groups here and there, seemed to know each other. Others stood shoulder by shoulder with fellow drinkers, yet seemed to stand alone. The sound of their talking, the closeness of them, made Stanach wonder if there were enough air in the place for all to breathe. We need more air in our lungs than you do, Piper would have said. The mage would have made the remark, Stanach thought, with a wry smile and a cocked head, if he were here to make it. Stanach didn’t know where Piper was and he didn’t even know whether the mage was still alive. He smeared a ring of ale on the scarred table and scowled. Piper had survived. He was, after all, a mage. And a clever one, at that. He was also, Stanach realized, a stag surrounded by a pack of wolves. But a stag can break free and do serious harm to the pack. He held onto that thought and prayed that Piper had been able to lose Realgar’s guards in the woods, as he had.

Stanach had come into Long Ridge at sunset last night, a cold wind at his back. He’d looked first for a place to lodge and then for a place to eat. He’d found both in Tenny’s.

Food and a room were not all he’d found. Stormblade was, indeed, in Long Ridge. At least it had been last night.

Stanach tangled his fingers in his glossy black beard, tugging a little. When he’d come into the tavern last night, the place buzzed with the story of a ranger’s grand wager: his sword against the money pouches of three companions.

A magnificent sword! Gold hilted and silver chased … five wonderful sapphires on the hilt …

A grand wager, Stanach thought. Aye, a grand wager. Though he’d looked for the ranger and the sword, even made discreet inquiries, he saw no sign of them last night. He had found no trace of Stormblade today either. The sword, and the ranger who had wagered it at a game of daggers, seemed to have vanished.

He was with an elf, one man had said last night. Stanach took a long pull on his tankard of ale and looked to the bar. The only elf he’d seen in the place, last night and tonight, was the tall, slim fellow talking now to the red-haired barmaid.

Stanach looked closely at him. He wore hunting leathers and high boots. A dagger was sheathed at his hip, a longbow and full quiver strapped across his back. He bore his weapons with casual ease. Stanach thought he had a look about him of one who had spent more time in the woods than in taverns. A hunter’s look. Or a ranger’s.

The barman called for the serving girl. His bellowing rose over the sound of men talking, the scrape of chairs, and the hiss and snap of the fire in the hearth. The call died in the man’s throat. As though by command, the tavern fell silent. The door had opened and the dry, musty odor of reptile filled the room.

“Givrak,” someone whispered, nearly choking on the name.

Stanach’s first impulse was to close his eyes, to shut out the sight of what shoved through the silent crowd. When he was a child, Stanach had nightmares about things that looked like Givrak. He did not close his eyes, though, but looked. Every instinct warned him that this Givrak bore close and careful watching, if only so that one knew where to run when running became necessary.

Like the creatures of Stanach’s evil dreams, Givrak was as big as a tall man, broad in the chest and shoulders, and had a reptile’s head, flat and spine-crested. Wide, claw-tipped leathery wings were folded over his back. Though the things in his nightmares did not wear chain mail, Givrak did. Stanach, from where he sat at a corner table near the door, could not tell where the mail left off and the draconian’s scaly hide began. His thickly muscled legs did not seem to be meant for walking, though Givrak, stalking the space before the bar, walked well enough on them. Worse, though, were his flat, black eyes.

Nothing like pity or mercy had ever moved in those eyes.

The draconian lifted his head. The light of the hearth fire and small lanterns glittered and danced along mail and skin.

The draconian moved slowly, like a snake rising from its coil. Stanach had not been in the town long, but two nights and a day were enough to know that in Long Ridge a draconian in foul temper did not often go victimless.

Everyone in the place held perfectly still. The barman’s rag hung in his hand like a limp and dirty flag of surrender. Around the common room, men sat or stood in perfect silence. The place stank of fear. Stanach’s sword lay across the table. He slid his hand closer to the hilt. The barmaid, her face the color of whey, the freckles on her cheeks standing out like fever blotches, drew a small, tight breath, Givrak turned at the sound.

The brutish draconian scented the girl’s fear. His narrow, forked tongue flickered around lipless jaws. Stanach’s fingers closed around his sword’s grip.

His movements slow and easy, the elf stood away from the bar. His unstrung bow would be useless to him, but his right hand hovered near his dagger. Briefly, Stanach was aware of the elf’s cool blue gaze as it judged him, quickly satisfied. The dwarf glanced at the girl. Her eyes were the color of emeralds and huge with fear.

It was then that the kender Lavim Springtoe sauntered into the tavern. Dressed in bright yellow leggings, soft brown boots, and a black, shapeless coat that fell nearly to his knees, he was old and wore his long white hair in a thick braid. A fine netting of wrinkles made his face look like that of an ancient pug-nosed child. He saw the draconian right away, but did not reach for the hoopak staff strapped across his back. Instead, he strode purposefully toward him, dusted his hands on his yellow leggings, and peered up at Givrak.

“There,” he sighed. “Do you know I’ve been looking all over the town for you?’

Fearless as kender are, Stanach thought he saw the old one’s breathing hitch just a little when Givrak turned toward him. But then, maybe not. The draconian scowled, an expression as twisted and fearsome as any Stanach had ever seen. “For me, little thief?”

The kender did not flicker an eye at this gross insult, but grinned instead. His voice was smooth and surprisingly deep for one so small.

“Yes, for you. There’s someone looking for you, and he sent me to find you.”

“Who?”

The kender shrugged. “I don’t know who he is. He was wearing red armor and carrying a big helmet. You know, that helmet looked just like a dragon’s head. It had horns and a mouthpiece that looked like fangs. Well, at least, I think it looked like a dragon—the helmet—I mean. I’ve never really seen a dragon except for that red one that flies over every day. But then, it flies so high I can’t really see its face and—”

Givrak snarled. The kender sighed as though over the impatience and ill manners of the draconian.

“Anyway, he said something about troop deployments, or the Highlord, or something like that.”

Givrak hissed. He, as well as anyone in the room, recognized the description of Carvath, the captain who commanded the occupation of Long Ridge. And if Carvath were an invocation he could ignore, the mention of the Highlord was not. None knew these days where Verminaard, still smarting from the loss of eight hundred captive slaves, would unleash his temper next. The draconian snarled again, and turned, kicking a table on his way out, sending tankards and goblets spinning to the floor. The door was slammed with enough force to rattle the walls.

The tavern was silent for a moment longer. Then, a groundswell of murmuring began which turned quickly into a wave of voices, some frightened whispers, others angered.

The serving girl scurried around the bar to clean the mess. Stanach scooped up a goblet and two tankards and handed them to her. “Close, lass.”

“Oh, aye,” the girl said, her face still white. “I’m thinking I’ve just spent all my luck for the year.”

“You’ve made a good purchase with it, if you did.”

The girl’s smile of agreement was wobbly.

Stanach turned back to his table. The kender had claimed a seat there. A runner for a dragonarmy captain, Stanach thought, is not one I’d like to share a table with. He moved to find another place when the kender waved him over. The old one’s eyes, green as spring’s leaves, were bright with suppressed amusement.

“Come on, join me. You’re just the person I’ve been looking for.”

Stanach eyed the kender carefully, checked the placement of anything that was valuable to him, and resumed his seat. He was curious.

“Me, kender? I thought it was Givrak you were looking for.”

The kender shrugged. “No, not really. Givrak, you say? Is that his name? When I walked in and saw him, I figured it would be better for everyone if he had an appointment somewhere.” He grinned. “They tell me I’m getting old, but I can still think young.”

Stanach laughed. “You certainly can. Can you think far?”

The kender cocked his head. “What do you mean?”

“What happens when Givrak gets to that captain and finds out that it hasn’t been sent for at all?”

“Oh.” The wrinkles around the kender’s long green eyes momentarily knit into a frown. But the smile was resilent. “I was hoping it would take Givrak at least a few hours to track him down and find that out.”

“Aye, you hope. Perhaps you’d better talk fast, just in case. Why are you looking for me?”

“Well not you especially. Just a dwarf. My father used to say that if you’re going to order dwarf spirits, check with a dwarf first. He’ll tell you if it’s worth drinking. Is there any spirits here, and is it worth drinking?”

Stanach eyed the little kender doubtfully. A good mug of dwarf spirits had been known to send brawny humans sliding for the floor. This kender, sapling thin and seemingly frail, did not look as though he could stand up to even one sip of the clear, potent drink.

Stanach shrugged. The question was moot. This tavern stocked nothing more than ale and pale elven wine. “Not a drop,” he said. “You’ll have to make do with wine or ale. What’s your name, kender?”

“Lavim Springtoe.” The kender extended his hand. Stanach, thinking of his father’s ring on his finger, not to mention the copper rivets on the sleeve of his leather jerkin, did not accept Lavim’s hand, but smiled instead.

“Stanach Hammerfell of Thorbardin. I’ll stand you a drink of whatever you want, Lavim Springtoe, and we’ll wish for dwarf spirits instead.”

It had to be good enough. Lavim offered to go for the drinks, but Stanach shook his head. By the look of him, this Lavim Springtoe had been around long enough to have acquired the skill to filch the teeth out of a dragon’s head. Let him pass once through the common room and the owners of missing money pouches, daggers, pocket knives, wrist braces, and Reorx only knew what else, would shortly be eager to hang him by his long white braid from the nearest roof beam.

Stanach went himself for the drinks. When he stepped up to the bar, the elf nodded to him, an acknowledgement of what had briefly passed between them when Givrak had turned on the serving girl. Stanach returned the nod. Now was not the time, here was not the place, but he knew that when he could approach the elf on the subject of Stormblade, he would stand a good chance of having his questions heard, if not answered. Stanach was grateful for the chance that had brought the draconian Givrak into the tavern.

Lavim Springtoe peered into the quickly approaching bottom of his fourth mug of ale and deftly but absently relieved a passing townsman of his belt pouch. He was thinking hard, barely knew that he’d captured the purse, and was rather surprised when Stanach stuck his large, scarred hand almost under his nose.

“Give it over,” the dwarf said firmly.

Lavim raised an eyebrow. “Give what over? Oh, this?”

“Aye, that.”

Lavim held up the soft leather pouch and looked at it as though he did not quite understand how he came to be holding it. “Careless of the fellow to have lost it.” Lavim hefted the pouch. It was heavy with coins. They clinked comfortably when he tossed the purse from one hand to another. Stanach caught the pouch in midair. He turned, tapped the townsman on the shoulder and offered the purse.

The man grabbed the pouch swiftly from Stanach’s hand. He would have raised a protest but saw something forbidding in the dwarf’s expression and only offered a grudging thanks. Stanach nodded curtly and returned his attention to his mug of ale.

He’s not thinking about the ale, Lavim decided, he’s watching that elf at the bar for some reason.

The least perceptive kender can smell a secret when he is within a mile of its holder. Lavim Springtoe watched Stanach as carefully as the dwarf listened to the bits and pieces of conversation drifting around him. Though Stanach had willingly stood for all the kender wanted to drink, sometimes signaling the barmaid, sometimes going himself for the refills, he listened to Lavim’s chatter only absently, and only absently answered. Lavim fell silent watching the firelight smoldering in the smoky amethyst ring on Stanach’s finger and flashing from the small silver hoop he wore in his left ear.

Nothing about Stanach seemed to settle into a firm impression. The ring made Lavim think of someone who wore wealth casually; the silver hoop conjured images of highwaymen and bandits. The dwarf’s bearded face seemed at first to be settled into a fierce and forbidding expression. There were moments, however, when he wasn’t remembering to look fierce, when the vulnerability of youth softened eyes black as coal and strangely flecked with blue.

This Stanach, Lavim thought, is quieter now than he’d been at first, like a tightly shuttered house. Closed things, locked things, were Lavim’s favorite challenge.

Lavim leaned forward, elbows on the table, and began, by what he considered subtle means, to delve for the secret. He started with Stanach’s sword. Scabbarded in old, well-oiled leather, the sword’s hilt was simple, undecorated. The place where the guard met the hilt was not smoothly joined, though Lavim could see that this was the weapon’s only fault.

“I see,” Lavim said as though he’d just noticed, “that you don’t carry an axe for a weapon.”

Stanach nodded.

“I only mention it because I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a dwarf without his axe.”

“Most of us prefer axes.”

“But you carry a sword. It’s a kind of a beat-up old thing, isn’t it? Not, of course, that it isn’t a good blade. I’m sure it is, but I just wondered.”

“It’s old.”

“Was it your father’s, maybe?”

Stanach looked up then, his eyes sharp and cautious. “It’s mine.” Then, as though aware of the abruptness of the answer, he smiled a little. “I made it.”

“You’re a swordsmith! Of course, I should have known by your hands. The skin’s all scarred and pitted. From the forge, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you made a lot? Does it take long to make a sword? You’ve made daggers, too, I’ll bet, and lots of other things. Did you ever make an axe’s blade? They say that a dwarven blade is the best you can find and—”

Stanach laughed aloud, genuinely amused. Let a kender get in one question and you cannot possibly live long enough to answer the thousands of others that follow! “Whoa, now easy, Lavim Springtoe. Yes, I’ve made a lot of swords. This one I made first. The blade is good, the balance maybe not so good, but I’m used to it. And yes, daggers, too, and axe heads.”

Lavim glanced again at the dwarf’s hands, folded now around his empty mug. Though some of the scars were silvered with age, others were more recent. One, a long burn along his right thumb, still looked raw. No camping fire’s burn, that.

It is as if he left his forge only yesterday, Lavim thought. But Thorbardin was hundreds of miles away. Still, here he is. By the look of him, he is one of the Hylar, one of the ruling clan at Thorbardin. Those, Lavim knew, left the mountains about as happily as a fish leaves water. Long Ridge lay squarely under Verminaard’s heel. Ember, the Highlord’s red dragon, made daily passes over the town. Those people who had not been killed in the battle for the town were only barely surviving here. Why would anyone, except himself, of course, come to Long Ridge? Lavim’s curiosity was like a spark in tinder. What would bring a dwarf out from the safety of Thorbardin to this forsaken place?

There was no time to ask. From outside, the sound of a commotion, and finally a roar of fury silenced the tavern.

“Givrak!” Stanach snatched the kender’s arm and jerked him to his feet. “Go to ground, Lavim. He’s back, and I’ve no doubt it’s you he’s looking for.”

Lavim only shrugged. “Maybe.” His green eyes danced with mischief as he sat down. “I knew a draconian once who could never remember what it was he was looking for. It irritated him to no end, as you can imagine. He would turn purple after a while, so strictly speaking perhaps he wasn’t a draconian—”

“If you don’t go, you won’t be drinking your ale, but leaking it like a sieve, kender. There must be a back way out, behind the bar. Go, now, go.”

“But—”

“Go!” Stanach shoved the kender halfway across the room toward the bar.

Lavim stumbled, righted himself, and looked back over his shoulder. Who can understand a dwarf? Moody one minute, companionable in the next, then, all of a sudden and for no reason at all, like thunder and lightning! He made for the door behind the bar. Not because he was afraid of Givrak—the capacity for fear was not in him—but because the matter seemed so important to Stanach.

Dwarves, he thought, always tend to be a little touchy. Its all those hundreds of years in the mountains by themselves.

He flashed a grin at the serving girl. A tall elf, his blue eyes alight with amusement, grabbed Lavim’s arm and hustled him through the doorway and into a storeroom.

“Go, kender,” he whispered, “and don’t stop running till you’re out of town!”

Lavim wasn’t going to run anywhere. He’d slip out the back, since it seemed to matter to everyone that he did, but he wasn’t going to forget about Stanach. The kender pocketed a bung-starter, a small flask of wine, and several other interesting objects and slipped out the back door into the alley just as Givrak entered through the front and roared something about a “god-cursed, lying kender” who’d lived too long for his own, or anyone else’s, good.