The Dragonstone

CHAPTER 1

Lightning stroked the night, the glare flaring through the narrow windows, thunder rolling after. As if summoned by the flash, a blast of rain hammered down on the small, ramshackle, dockside tavern, while the wind rattled door and sideboards and slammed a loose shutter to and fro, and waves roared against the pilings 'neath.

Inside the weatherworn building the sound of the storm was muted somewhat, and Olar, his sharp elbows on the rough broad plank which served as a bar, leaned forward and hissed to Tryg, "Wha' be them two women doin' here, eh?" He thrust his narrow chin sideways toward the shadow-wrapped corner where the two strangers sat just beyond the yellow light of the single tavern lantern hanging above the bar. "Mayhap a couple o' doxies come t' ply their trade when th' raiders return, aye?"

Tryg, proprietor of the Cove, snorted at Olar's remark, then leaned forward and said in a voice just loud enough to be heard above the moan of the wind and drum of the rain and the rattle and bang and swash, "Ye'd better not let them hear ye call 'em doxies, laddie, else ye're like to come up missing y'r balls."

Yngli, the only other person in the tavern, slapped the plank and laughed at this remark, but Olar looked at Tryg in surprise. " 'N' j'st why d'ye say that?"

" 'Cause one o' them be an Elf, 'n' t'other's a, a, well I don't rightly know her kind, yet she be th' one wi' th' gleamin' swords."

Olar drew his breath in through clenched teeth and glanced toward the shadows of the darkened corner as lightning again stroked nearby, thunder slapping after.

The flare briefly illuminated the outsiders' faces: delicate, strange, exotic. The one on the left was fair skinned- ivory and alabaster-and she had hazel eyes aslant and chestnut locks falling to her shoulders, with pointed-tipped ears showing through. The one on the right was saffron skinned-tawny, ivory yellow-her tilted eyes glittered onyx, her short-cropped raven-black hair shone glossy… but this one's ears were not tipped.

The strangers sat in the corner with their backs to the wall, silent, impassive, as if waiting. On the table before the yellow one lay two unsheathed swords, one long, one shorter, each slightly curved; the blades glinted wickedly as lightning flared.

Olar blenched and quickly faced forward once more. After a moment he said, "Then wha' think ye be th' reason brought them two t' Morkfjord, eh?"

Tryg shrugged his beefy shoulders as he tipped the pitcher to replenish the mug sitting before the gaunt fisherman. "Seekin' passage, I would think, now, aye?"

Olar cocked an eyebrow, but Yngli shook his head. "I think they ha'e come t' hire a Dragonship and crew-a raid on enemies, aye? They be waiting for the return o' one o' them anow-likely Orri's craft, since he fared out first and should come back soonest, I would say."

Rain hammered down as again Olar cast a quick sideways glance toward the enshadowed corner. Then he leaned forward and slurped at the foam in his mug. Wiping the back of his hand across his lips, "Th' Elf," he hissed, "d'ye suppose she be one o' them Lian, one o' them Guardians?"

Tryg shook his head. "Too short. More like them what lives in th' deep woods-"

"Dylvana, ye mean?" interjected Yngli.

"Like as not."

Yngli smiled. "Then she be my size."

Tryg looked at the grin on Yngli's face. "P'rhaps y'r size, my smallish friend, but I wouldn't go about getting ideas, else ye, too, are like t' lose y'r hopes f'r future offspring, from what I hear about Dylvana females."

"Wha' about th' yellow one?" sissed Olar. "D'ye suppose she be an Elf, too?"

Tryg shrugged.

"She ha'e got slanty eyes," muttered Yngli.

"But her ears don't be pointy," responded Tryg.

Yngli eyed the swords. "D'ye think they be here t' stir up trouble? Mayhap t' kill some'n' who did 'em wrong?"

"Or t' cut off their balls?" groaned Olar, shivering.

Tryg opened his mouth to say something, but in that moment the rattling door flew open, admitting wind and rain and a scrawny old man who came lurching in, water runneling down through drenched strings of unkempt, long hair fringing 'round his glistering wet bald pate, his scraggly beard and his ragged cloak dripping.

"Get out, Alos!" shouted Tryg above the blow. " 'N' shut th' door behind as ye go!" The old man staggered a few more feet, a trail of wetness following. "I told ye before, I don't want ye in here, Alos!" The tavernkeep started around the end of the bar as the old man inarticulately whined something and turned his head aside and threw up a warding hand and fled stumbling among the few tables, seeking refuge. Behind him the door whipped to and fro, banging against the wall in counterpoint to the loose shutter, and rain gusted inward and the tavern lantern swung on its chain in the swirling blow to set the shadows swaying.

Muttering curses, Tryg started for the old man. "Get th' door for me, Yngli," called the beefy tavernkeep, "while I throw this good-for-nought out."

Yngli leapt to his feet and stepped to the banging door, pushing it to and standing ready at the latch while Tryg went after the whimpering old man.

Ineffectually, the oldster scrabbled among the tables, trying to evade Tryg, finally cowering under one to no effect, for the tavernkeep swiftly caught him by the cloak collar and jerked him up to his feet. "Alos, I told ye I don't want ye in here ever."

In the swaying lanternlight, the old man looked up at Tryg, one eye watery brown, the other, the right one, blind, the entire cornea white. "Just one drink, Master Tryg"-his voice was a whine-"one is all I need."

Left hand on Alos's collar, the right gripping a fistful of breeks through the sodden cloak, Tryg yanked the old man up on tiptoes and propelled him mewling toward the door, where Yngli stood waiting. But Yngli's eyes widened and he gasped hoarsely and scuttled backwards, away, his gaze beyond Alos, beyond Tryg.

" 'Ware, Tryg," sounded Olar's call, more of a squawk than a shout.

At the same time-"Hold!" came a command from the shadows.

Tryg jerked his head 'round and he sucked in air between clenched teeth, his grip on Alos all but forgotten, for there just behind stood the yellow lady, her swords in hand, the blades viciously gleaming in the shifting light. She had left her cloak behind, and for the first time Tryg could see that she was not wearing a proper dress like a proper lady should, but instead was garbed in brown leather-vest and breeks and boots. Hammered bronze plates like scales were sewn on the vest; underneath she wore a silk jerkin the color of cream. A brown leather headband incised with red glyphs held her raven-black hair back and away from her high-cheekboned face. She stood in a warrior's stance: balanced, ready. Like one o' them Jordian warrior maids… 'cept she ain't no Jordian, being slanty-eyed and yellow and all.

Arined and armored and standing perhaps but five feet two, she looked at Tryg, her tilted eyes black and impassive. "Kanshu, my mistress would speak with this one," she said quietly in a strangely accented voice as she canted her head toward Alos. The old man smiled a snag-toothed grin at her, his few remaining teeth yellow-brown.

Tryg glanced at the Dylvana in the corner then back at the yellow woman. "Lady, he be nought but a derelict, a beggarly drunk, and no good'll come o' this."

The swords shifted slightly, glimmering.

Tryg released Alos. " 'Tis all on y'r heads," he muttered under his breath, backing away from this female. "Don't say I didn't warn ye."

With a great show of dignity, Alos stood erect and gripped the lapels of his sodden cloak and straightened the garment, stretching his dirt-encrusted wet scrawny neck as he did so; then he turned his white eye toward his rescuer and bobbed his head and grinned a mindless, gap-toothed, ocherous smile. "First we'll have us a drink, aye?"

For a moment the yellow lady eyed him impassively… then with a quick turn of her hands she reverse-gripped her swords and fluidly sheathed them. Then she spun on her heel and stepped toward the shadows where the Dylvana waited, the old man trailing water and licking his lips in anticipation as he lurched after.