CHAPTER THREE
The Inn of the Dancing Bear occupied an enviable location, right along the market square off the Street of Scribes. It was a sprawling collection of wood and stone buildings, most of them several stories. It was capable of housing as many as a hundred guests at any time, and the place did a brisk business year round. The Bear boasted two taprooms- one off the entryway that served as a tavern to the many local patrons who dropped by, those with an interest in foreign, outlandish folk, and a second, smaller one converted over from a root cellar that was open only to guests of the proprietor.
"We'd best approach carefully," Brandt said, gripping his staff in one bearlike hand. He towered over Poiniard, and the thief tried to stay out of his way. Brandt pulled back the hood of his forest green cloak, revealing an unkempt mane of thick, black hair streaked with grey. His features were strong, like the man had been chiseled from rock. Poiniard thought he had the look of a warlord more than a wizard, but even without armor Brandt was an intimidating sight.
Poiniard looked over at Mheren and wondered at her relationship with Brandt. In some respects, they seemed to act as equals, but there was little affection to it. They acted rather as companions. He had seen enough mercenaries in his life to know what true comradeship looked like- swordbrother's who'd faced grim death together, who trusted one another with their lives. Brandt and Mheren were like that. He could not figure out whether it was Mheren and her sword who protected Brandt, or the wizard and his magic who guarded the woman. Perhaps it was both. Poiniard envied them for that. He had never known such friendship. Certainly, there was no one like that in the Guild. Furtim and Grimsley were his friends. They might watch him in a fight, but only for their own good. He didn't think he'd trust them to watch over him while he slept. Yet that was the impression he got from watching Brandt and Mheren.
He noticed other things, too. Small details about their gear which suggested they were longtime companions, or members of the same company. They wore no tabards or livery, but several of the items each wore seemed similar, like their boots and cloaks, as if they'd been made or bought at the same time, and had been worn through the same adventures.
As they approached the entrance to the Bear, Mheren suddenly whispered "Get back!" Her voice was urgent but low, so that only he and Brandt could hear her. Mheren planted a gloved hand squarely in Poiniard's chest and pushed him back against the wall of the inn, surprising him with her strength. Brandt glided silently into the shadows as well, drawing up his hood. Poiniard could see the wizard's dark eyes peering curiously at the swordswoman. "Look," she explained, pointing.
Four knights reigned in at the entrance to the Bear. All were clad in chain mail, with flowing cloaks of black trimmed in silver. They wore high black riding boots and helms which covered their faces. From the saddlebags on their warhorses, Poiniard guessed they had just arrived in Culhaven from a long journey overland. They must have ridden hard to arrive so late in the city. It was well past dark. He wondered at that, for the landward gates were usually kept locked and guarded after sunset. These four must be nobles, or some other important figures to have gained access to Culhaven at night. He noticed that each of the riders wore a black tunic, and across the breast was a silver ship. Two of them wore broadswords at their belt, while the others carried maces.
Brandt sniffed the air, and Poiniard could swear the man's lips were curled in a snarl. "Coth-curai," Brandt muttered. The Knights of the Sea. Mheren nodded.
Poiniard had heard of that Order, once or twice in his life. Everyone in the Middle Kingdoms probably had. The Knights of Coth-curai were said to be the strongest and wealthiest order of knighthood, with advisors in the courts of every great city. They were said to be heavily involved in trade, and their far-flung caravanseries were said to house great store of wealth, the envy of kings and princes. They were said to dwarf even the wealth of the Scribes. But no one had ever seen one of these hoards.
The Order had no chapterhouse in Culhaven. The city was on the northern coasts, and its trade came and went by ship. The cities of the Northern Sea were small and poor by southern standards, so the Knights had never come there. Poiniard knew that the Guilds who ran Culhaven were no friends of the coth-curai, and he'd heard rumors that the free towns of the Culian League opposed the Knights on some important trade-related matter. So he thought it strange to see a group of them coming to the Dancing Bear after dark, and wondered if perhaps they'd finally come to establish one of their famed countinghouses. That would be valuable news to his Guild, if it were true.
The foremost of the Knights dismounted and, removing her helmet, shook out her long, golden hair. Poiniard was surprised to see they were led by a woman. She handed the reigns of her horse to one of her companions and strode proudly into the Dancing Bear, heedless of the emerging throng of gawking visitors and townsfolk.
Poiniard wondered why Mheren had them hiding in the shadows. Surely, three folk who minded their own business had nothing to fear from these southerners. He looked at Mheren. There was no fear in her eyes, but her mouth was drawn tight. She was as tense as a bowstring. The other three knights still sat atop their warhorses, surveying the inn and the street in the torchlight. One of them carried a lantern, but Poiniard could not make out their faces, because of the helms that each wore. Each had a small iron circle on the crown, a symbol of the Church of the Four Gods.
He'd always heard that the Coth-curai were a pious, ecclesiastic order, faithful to the Circle, monks as well as moneylenders. There had always been whispered rumors about the Knights of the Sea, whose great monasteries were mostly in the ancient, glittering cities of the southern deserts, built to guard the ancient holy sites that were there. Still, rumors persisted that the Knights got their power and wealth not from the Church they upheld, but rather from the ancient sites they built upon.
"First trolls, now this," Mheren hissed. Seeing Poiniard's confused look, she leaned close. "It would make all our lives easier if we could just avoid these Knights. Brandt and I know their leader."
"Fierce as a wolf, that one," Brandt said. "She's none too fond of spellcasters, especially those who aren't firmly under the control of the Knights."
Poiniard almost quailed. "Do you think she killed Bhenyamin?"
"Who?" Brandt asked.
"The hedge wizard who was found dead in the marketplace this morning," Mheren explained.
"Ah," the big man said. Then he nodded. "No, lad, that was not the Knights. The coth-curai are the sort to clap a wizard in irons and drag him off to one of their castles for interrogation. Though they have been known to break fingers and cut out tongues, the worst they usually do to the wizards they catch are bruises and a few years of rough treatment."
"It was trolls that got to Bhenyamin," Mheren added quietly.
That sent a chill up Poiniard's spine, and he found himself clutching Wyrding for reassurance. Though he'd not actually seen the old fortuneteller's corpse- or what was left of it- a vivid picture of the scene remained in his mind. Their own encounter with the trolls did little to comfort him. He wondered if maybe he should just toss Wyrding in the river and be done with it.
"Brandt, we ought to get out of the city as quickly as we can," Mheren said, "but I've got to get our gear and horses, first. You and Poiniard wait here, I'll go around the back and-"
The wizard made a bearlike growl and shook his head. "No, lass," he rumbled. "I am still tired from our battle with the trolls, but not so tired that I'll wait here like a nursemaid while you- "
"Well, where in the Nine Hells are the others, then?" Mheren asked. "They were supposed to meet us here. Curse that Gimbal, when I find him, I'll flay his lazy green hide."
"Mai gohven ani vanion."
Poiniard nearly jumped. The quiet voice came from right behind him. The three companions all turned to face the speaker, but Wyrding remained quietly in Poiniard's sheath. He found himself staring into the eyes of an elf. The eyes of a killer.
The elf was thin and pale, and his eyes gleamed in the dark. His silver- trimmed blue cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing a vest of mail, seemingly made of linked silver leaves. Jewels were at his belt and on the clasp of his cloak. His hood was down, revealing a head of silvery hair drawn back behind his pointed ears. The elf wore boots of supple leather, and a tooled baldric from which hung a slim longsword and a curved knife. He wore a quiver of arrows on his back, and carried a longbow of darkwood. He smiled at Poiniard. "Who is this?"
"Mai gohvenal," Brandt said quietly, the traditional response to the elven greeting. "Greetings, Harrow. This is Poiniard."
Harrow gave Poiniard a dubious look, then smiled at Mheren. "There is no need to flay our gnomish friend tonight, Mheren. He's inside, right where I told him to be. As soon as we saw the Coth-curai, I slipped out the back to keep an eye on things out here."
Mheren gestured towards the three knights waiting by the door. "What are they doing here?"
The elf shrugged. "Who can say? It's damned odd for them to be so far north, but who can say? I doubt they have anything to do with us." He gave Mheren a little smirk. "You recognize their trailcaptain?"
Mheren nodded. "Our old friend, Jenas." She glanced at the elf. "And there's no need to be snide about it."
Harrow grinned, and Poiniard decided he might grow to like this elf after all.
"Is there a wizard staying at the Bear tonight?" Brandt asked.
Harrow shrugged again. "Not that we've seen. If there is, he's very good, or very discreet." He looked over at the Knights. "I don't think they're here for an Inquisition. There hasn't been a wizard in Culhaven since the river caught fire. Isn't that right, Poiniard?"
"I don't honestly know." Poiniard sensed something in the elf's question. He was being tested. "I've not lived here that long," he said. He thought it best not to mention Bhenyamin. Still, most folk knew the story. Ten winters ago, a cabal of firemagi had come to Culhaven and tried to take control of the guilds. The town would have no part of it, though, and the guards and the militia took up arms against them. Many men died in the fighting, it was said, but it was no force of arms which brought down the cabal. The wizards turned on each other when it became apparent that Culhaven would not submit to their rule without a fight. During the battle, a good part of the city burned, and the River Cule itself caught fire. The town suffered through a dark week of chaos and fire before a battalion of coth-curai arrived, and put an end to the firemagi. The townsfolk were grateful, but the guildmasters wanted the Knights of the Sea about as much as they wanted the wizards. The coth-curai left completely soon after. Poiniard always wondered how the knights had arrived so quickly. Their nearest monestary was at Wintra, a good ten days ride to the south, and he never wholly believed the tale.
Harrow sniffed, and Poiniard suddenly felt again like the turnip farmer he was. He tightened his grip on Wyrding.
"Well," Brandt asked, "if they're not here on the trail of some untrained wizardling, and it's not us they're after, then what brings them here?"
"And of all the Knights, why does it have to be HER?" Mheren grumbled. "Well, there's no need to tangle with them tonight. You three stay here and keep a watch. I'll go in through the back. We can still be well away from here by dawn."
"Hold," said the elf. "You can't go in that way, either."
"What do you mean?"
"That's where I left Gimbal, in the back room." The elf smiled briefly, evidently enjoying the consternation and confusion on their faces. "There's other guests at the inn tonight as well. They arrived at the Bear this afternoon, while you and Brandt and our new friend here were out doing whatever-it-was. Pomainians they are, and rough to look at. They said they were looking for a certain member of the royal house-"
"Curse my luck," Mheren said, shrugging off Brandt's comforting hand from her shoulder. "Has everyone from my past come here to haunt me tonight? Is the Darkblade inside, too, come to ask me to come back and fight for him in another war?"
Harrow chuckled. "Or perhaps Lord Megedaine?"
Brandt growled. "Shut your mouth, Harrow."
The elf scowled. "Well, this IS the best inn in Culhaven. But you can't go in through the back, Mheren, or your father's hirelings will spot you."
"You said Gimbal's in there with them?"
Harrow chuckled. "Buying them drinks, no doubt. I told you he was looking out for you, Mheren, whatever you think. You can wring his neck later. For now, why don't you wait in the stables. Get your horses ready to ride. I'll get Gault and Hafgrim and bring your gear out. Don't worry about these folk here- we'll distract them for you. You ride for Pelham, and we'll catch up to you later."
"Thank you, Harrow," Brandt said.
"First trolls, now this," Mheren said again.
"Trolls?" Harrow asked. "What are you talking about?" His eyes narrowed.
Brandt nodded. "Three of them attacked us in an alleyway earlier."
"By the Great Hunter," the elf snapped, appearing truly angry for the first time. "This is more deadly than I feared. I told you we should not have gotten mixed up in all this. We've stuck our heads in a nest of hornets. I only hope we can get out."
Feeling as if he was to blame for their most serious peril, Poiniard unobtrusively drew his cloak around himself, hiding Wyrding from sight.
"Well," Brandt said, "maybe Gault will get to try out that new axe of his after all."
***
Mheren immediately went over to their two horses and began to saddle them, in preparation for their flight from the city. "We've only the two horses between us, Poiniard, so you'll have to ride behind me."
Poiniard nodded. He had been around horses before- the sort used to pull plows and wagons. He had no experience in riding them. But he looked over at the beautiful swordswoman, and the thought of sharing a saddle with her didn't sound so bad. She had hung her cloak over a peg, and he saw that she was clad from head to toe in well-worn, tight-fitting leathers, the kind worn for both fighting and riding. Without a cloak, Mheren's armor did little to conceal her athletic form.
Brandt chuckled, and Poiniard blushed. He'd been caught staring. Mheren didn't seem to have noticed, so he sat down in the hay a respectful distance from the wizard. Brandt was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rummaging through his travel-stained pack. The dim lighting gave Brandt an ominous look. Poiniard half expected him to produce a skull or claw or some other instrument of sorcery. Brandt pulled two apples from his pack and tossed one to Poiniard.
"Have a few bites, lad," he said between mouthfuls. "On a night like this, you never know when you might get a chance to eat." They sat in silence for a while, Brandt eyeing Poiniard thoughtfully. "I find it strange," he said suddenly, "that two magical swords would remain in such close proximity. They rarely choose to work together."
"Choose?" Poiniard asked. Two swords? Did he mean Mheren?
"Magical swords often have personalities of their own."
Poiniard felt Wyrding hanging heavy from his belt. He had no inkling swords could even have personalities. "What do you mean?"
Brandt's answer was cut off by a crash from outside. It came from the direction of the inn, the sound of breaking crockery. Brandt sighed. "Whenever Gimbal's around, there's bound to be drinking," he said. "Hopefully you'll get a chance to meet him before this is all over. For a gnome, he's really not all that- " There was another crash, a heavy thud and the sound of splintering wood. "And when there's drinking, Gault and Hafgrim are bound to be fighting," he said, tossing away his apple core and getting to his feet.
Mheren had not yet finished saddling their horses, but she came over and handed Brandt his staff. She had heard the sounds as well, and looked concerned. "I just hope that's my father's spies and not the Knights they're brawling with."
Poiniard finally worked up the courage to ask Mheren something he'd been wondering- who was her father? Some wealthy merchant, perhaps? And why was he sending men after her? He wished he had a drink of something. Then he'd ask. But then, he heard a voice.
"To arms," it said. "Sorcery!" Another loud crash came from across the courtyard outside.
Mheren and Brandt looked up with a start. A chill ran down Poiniard's spine as he realized both he and Mheren were standing there with swords drawn. He couldn't remember doing that.
"This is no mere brawl," Brandt said. They could quite plainly hear the sounds of combat- the clashing of swords, the cries of wounded men. They rushed to the stable doorways and saw that the far side of the courtyard was filled with people, and that the inn was afire. But Poiniard's eyes were drawn away from the commotion. In the shadows beneath the wall, a sinister hulking figure was creeping towards them. The shadows were moving. Wyrding throbbed in his hand. A chill fell over them.
"Mheren, take Poiniard and get out of here," Brandt ordered. No one moved. Brandt's expression darkened, and he seemed to grow taller. Evidently, he was not accustomed to having his orders questioned. "Forget the horses. I'll hold them off. Go- NOW!" This time, there was no hesitation. Mheren dashed out into the night.
Poiniard felt a strong hand grip his shoulder as he went to follow her. It was Brandt. He released his hold and drew an amulet from beneath his tunic. He pressed it into Poiniard's hand. "She would never let me give this to her," he said, "but it will be more useful to her than to me. Soon, she will have need of it. You must keep it for her and give it to her once you are safe outside the city."
"What is it?" Poiniard asked, though he already knew the answer. A magic sword had already taken over his life. The last thing he needed was a magic charm.
Brandt gave him a comforting smile. "Nothing so ancient or powerful as Wyrding, I assure you. But a potent little bit of magic in its own fashion. Call it an heirloom, a reminder for Mheren of better days, of a time she will one day recall with fondness. She will regret it if it is lost, though now she would as soon throw it in a fire. Keep it for her, for a while."
Poiniard slipped the amulet around his neck.
"Mheren may act as if she is sure about everything," Brandt continued, "but this I must tell you. She is not at home on the streets of a city after dark. You are, I judge, or at least moreso than she. YOU will have to guide HER out of Culhaven. If you don't know the way, then you will have to trust to your instincts." His eyes twinkled, reflecting the light of the burning inn. "I think you will find them surprisingly reliable."
"I hope so," Poiniard said. If nothing else, he was due for some good luck for a change.
"Cheer up," Brandt said. "After all, you've still got three bags of gold."
That did little to brighten his spirits. Poiniard stepped outside. Mheren stood atop the wall, sword drawn, waiting for him. Poiniard glanced down at the sword in his hand, and thought of the trolls he knew were in the courtyard. That was why Wyrding was forged, to slay the evil spawn of sorcerers, to hew their twisted limbs and spill the burning blood of trolls and orcs and skraelings. To flee would be cowardice. Was he to be a warrior? But then he remembered Brandt, with his stern eyes and command in his voice. And he imagined Mheren swarmed by clutching monstrous trolls, her face determined, her lithe, deadly swordstrokes keeping them at bay. He remembered her eyes, full of defiance and courage, and wondered what really lay behind them. He wasn't sure why, but he ran to join Mheren. Wyrding felt like a cold, silent hunk of metal in his hand.
Their last glimpse of Brandt as they scaled the wall of the courtyard was the wizard standing in a circle of flames, surrounded by beastlike shadows, with the Inn of the Dancing Bear aflame behind him.
The Inn of the Dancing Bear occupied an enviable location, right along the market square off the Street of Scribes. It was a sprawling collection of wood and stone buildings, most of them several stories. It was capable of housing as many as a hundred guests at any time, and the place did a brisk business year round. The Bear boasted two taprooms- one off the entryway that served as a tavern to the many local patrons who dropped by, those with an interest in foreign, outlandish folk, and a second, smaller one converted over from a root cellar that was open only to guests of the proprietor.
"We'd best approach carefully," Brandt said, gripping his staff in one bearlike hand. He towered over Poiniard, and the thief tried to stay out of his way. Brandt pulled back the hood of his forest green cloak, revealing an unkempt mane of thick, black hair streaked with grey. His features were strong, like the man had been chiseled from rock. Poiniard thought he had the look of a warlord more than a wizard, but even without armor Brandt was an intimidating sight.
Poiniard looked over at Mheren and wondered at her relationship with Brandt. In some respects, they seemed to act as equals, but there was little affection to it. They acted rather as companions. He had seen enough mercenaries in his life to know what true comradeship looked like- swordbrother's who'd faced grim death together, who trusted one another with their lives. Brandt and Mheren were like that. He could not figure out whether it was Mheren and her sword who protected Brandt, or the wizard and his magic who guarded the woman. Perhaps it was both. Poiniard envied them for that. He had never known such friendship. Certainly, there was no one like that in the Guild. Furtim and Grimsley were his friends. They might watch him in a fight, but only for their own good. He didn't think he'd trust them to watch over him while he slept. Yet that was the impression he got from watching Brandt and Mheren.
He noticed other things, too. Small details about their gear which suggested they were longtime companions, or members of the same company. They wore no tabards or livery, but several of the items each wore seemed similar, like their boots and cloaks, as if they'd been made or bought at the same time, and had been worn through the same adventures.
As they approached the entrance to the Bear, Mheren suddenly whispered "Get back!" Her voice was urgent but low, so that only he and Brandt could hear her. Mheren planted a gloved hand squarely in Poiniard's chest and pushed him back against the wall of the inn, surprising him with her strength. Brandt glided silently into the shadows as well, drawing up his hood. Poiniard could see the wizard's dark eyes peering curiously at the swordswoman. "Look," she explained, pointing.
Four knights reigned in at the entrance to the Bear. All were clad in chain mail, with flowing cloaks of black trimmed in silver. They wore high black riding boots and helms which covered their faces. From the saddlebags on their warhorses, Poiniard guessed they had just arrived in Culhaven from a long journey overland. They must have ridden hard to arrive so late in the city. It was well past dark. He wondered at that, for the landward gates were usually kept locked and guarded after sunset. These four must be nobles, or some other important figures to have gained access to Culhaven at night. He noticed that each of the riders wore a black tunic, and across the breast was a silver ship. Two of them wore broadswords at their belt, while the others carried maces.
Brandt sniffed the air, and Poiniard could swear the man's lips were curled in a snarl. "Coth-curai," Brandt muttered. The Knights of the Sea. Mheren nodded.
Poiniard had heard of that Order, once or twice in his life. Everyone in the Middle Kingdoms probably had. The Knights of Coth-curai were said to be the strongest and wealthiest order of knighthood, with advisors in the courts of every great city. They were said to be heavily involved in trade, and their far-flung caravanseries were said to house great store of wealth, the envy of kings and princes. They were said to dwarf even the wealth of the Scribes. But no one had ever seen one of these hoards.
The Order had no chapterhouse in Culhaven. The city was on the northern coasts, and its trade came and went by ship. The cities of the Northern Sea were small and poor by southern standards, so the Knights had never come there. Poiniard knew that the Guilds who ran Culhaven were no friends of the coth-curai, and he'd heard rumors that the free towns of the Culian League opposed the Knights on some important trade-related matter. So he thought it strange to see a group of them coming to the Dancing Bear after dark, and wondered if perhaps they'd finally come to establish one of their famed countinghouses. That would be valuable news to his Guild, if it were true.
The foremost of the Knights dismounted and, removing her helmet, shook out her long, golden hair. Poiniard was surprised to see they were led by a woman. She handed the reigns of her horse to one of her companions and strode proudly into the Dancing Bear, heedless of the emerging throng of gawking visitors and townsfolk.
Poiniard wondered why Mheren had them hiding in the shadows. Surely, three folk who minded their own business had nothing to fear from these southerners. He looked at Mheren. There was no fear in her eyes, but her mouth was drawn tight. She was as tense as a bowstring. The other three knights still sat atop their warhorses, surveying the inn and the street in the torchlight. One of them carried a lantern, but Poiniard could not make out their faces, because of the helms that each wore. Each had a small iron circle on the crown, a symbol of the Church of the Four Gods.
He'd always heard that the Coth-curai were a pious, ecclesiastic order, faithful to the Circle, monks as well as moneylenders. There had always been whispered rumors about the Knights of the Sea, whose great monasteries were mostly in the ancient, glittering cities of the southern deserts, built to guard the ancient holy sites that were there. Still, rumors persisted that the Knights got their power and wealth not from the Church they upheld, but rather from the ancient sites they built upon.
"First trolls, now this," Mheren hissed. Seeing Poiniard's confused look, she leaned close. "It would make all our lives easier if we could just avoid these Knights. Brandt and I know their leader."
"Fierce as a wolf, that one," Brandt said. "She's none too fond of spellcasters, especially those who aren't firmly under the control of the Knights."
Poiniard almost quailed. "Do you think she killed Bhenyamin?"
"Who?" Brandt asked.
"The hedge wizard who was found dead in the marketplace this morning," Mheren explained.
"Ah," the big man said. Then he nodded. "No, lad, that was not the Knights. The coth-curai are the sort to clap a wizard in irons and drag him off to one of their castles for interrogation. Though they have been known to break fingers and cut out tongues, the worst they usually do to the wizards they catch are bruises and a few years of rough treatment."
"It was trolls that got to Bhenyamin," Mheren added quietly.
That sent a chill up Poiniard's spine, and he found himself clutching Wyrding for reassurance. Though he'd not actually seen the old fortuneteller's corpse- or what was left of it- a vivid picture of the scene remained in his mind. Their own encounter with the trolls did little to comfort him. He wondered if maybe he should just toss Wyrding in the river and be done with it.
"Brandt, we ought to get out of the city as quickly as we can," Mheren said, "but I've got to get our gear and horses, first. You and Poiniard wait here, I'll go around the back and-"
The wizard made a bearlike growl and shook his head. "No, lass," he rumbled. "I am still tired from our battle with the trolls, but not so tired that I'll wait here like a nursemaid while you- "
"Well, where in the Nine Hells are the others, then?" Mheren asked. "They were supposed to meet us here. Curse that Gimbal, when I find him, I'll flay his lazy green hide."
"Mai gohven ani vanion."
Poiniard nearly jumped. The quiet voice came from right behind him. The three companions all turned to face the speaker, but Wyrding remained quietly in Poiniard's sheath. He found himself staring into the eyes of an elf. The eyes of a killer.
The elf was thin and pale, and his eyes gleamed in the dark. His silver- trimmed blue cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing a vest of mail, seemingly made of linked silver leaves. Jewels were at his belt and on the clasp of his cloak. His hood was down, revealing a head of silvery hair drawn back behind his pointed ears. The elf wore boots of supple leather, and a tooled baldric from which hung a slim longsword and a curved knife. He wore a quiver of arrows on his back, and carried a longbow of darkwood. He smiled at Poiniard. "Who is this?"
"Mai gohvenal," Brandt said quietly, the traditional response to the elven greeting. "Greetings, Harrow. This is Poiniard."
Harrow gave Poiniard a dubious look, then smiled at Mheren. "There is no need to flay our gnomish friend tonight, Mheren. He's inside, right where I told him to be. As soon as we saw the Coth-curai, I slipped out the back to keep an eye on things out here."
Mheren gestured towards the three knights waiting by the door. "What are they doing here?"
The elf shrugged. "Who can say? It's damned odd for them to be so far north, but who can say? I doubt they have anything to do with us." He gave Mheren a little smirk. "You recognize their trailcaptain?"
Mheren nodded. "Our old friend, Jenas." She glanced at the elf. "And there's no need to be snide about it."
Harrow grinned, and Poiniard decided he might grow to like this elf after all.
"Is there a wizard staying at the Bear tonight?" Brandt asked.
Harrow shrugged again. "Not that we've seen. If there is, he's very good, or very discreet." He looked over at the Knights. "I don't think they're here for an Inquisition. There hasn't been a wizard in Culhaven since the river caught fire. Isn't that right, Poiniard?"
"I don't honestly know." Poiniard sensed something in the elf's question. He was being tested. "I've not lived here that long," he said. He thought it best not to mention Bhenyamin. Still, most folk knew the story. Ten winters ago, a cabal of firemagi had come to Culhaven and tried to take control of the guilds. The town would have no part of it, though, and the guards and the militia took up arms against them. Many men died in the fighting, it was said, but it was no force of arms which brought down the cabal. The wizards turned on each other when it became apparent that Culhaven would not submit to their rule without a fight. During the battle, a good part of the city burned, and the River Cule itself caught fire. The town suffered through a dark week of chaos and fire before a battalion of coth-curai arrived, and put an end to the firemagi. The townsfolk were grateful, but the guildmasters wanted the Knights of the Sea about as much as they wanted the wizards. The coth-curai left completely soon after. Poiniard always wondered how the knights had arrived so quickly. Their nearest monestary was at Wintra, a good ten days ride to the south, and he never wholly believed the tale.
Harrow sniffed, and Poiniard suddenly felt again like the turnip farmer he was. He tightened his grip on Wyrding.
"Well," Brandt asked, "if they're not here on the trail of some untrained wizardling, and it's not us they're after, then what brings them here?"
"And of all the Knights, why does it have to be HER?" Mheren grumbled. "Well, there's no need to tangle with them tonight. You three stay here and keep a watch. I'll go in through the back. We can still be well away from here by dawn."
"Hold," said the elf. "You can't go in that way, either."
"What do you mean?"
"That's where I left Gimbal, in the back room." The elf smiled briefly, evidently enjoying the consternation and confusion on their faces. "There's other guests at the inn tonight as well. They arrived at the Bear this afternoon, while you and Brandt and our new friend here were out doing whatever-it-was. Pomainians they are, and rough to look at. They said they were looking for a certain member of the royal house-"
"Curse my luck," Mheren said, shrugging off Brandt's comforting hand from her shoulder. "Has everyone from my past come here to haunt me tonight? Is the Darkblade inside, too, come to ask me to come back and fight for him in another war?"
Harrow chuckled. "Or perhaps Lord Megedaine?"
Brandt growled. "Shut your mouth, Harrow."
The elf scowled. "Well, this IS the best inn in Culhaven. But you can't go in through the back, Mheren, or your father's hirelings will spot you."
"You said Gimbal's in there with them?"
Harrow chuckled. "Buying them drinks, no doubt. I told you he was looking out for you, Mheren, whatever you think. You can wring his neck later. For now, why don't you wait in the stables. Get your horses ready to ride. I'll get Gault and Hafgrim and bring your gear out. Don't worry about these folk here- we'll distract them for you. You ride for Pelham, and we'll catch up to you later."
"Thank you, Harrow," Brandt said.
"First trolls, now this," Mheren said again.
"Trolls?" Harrow asked. "What are you talking about?" His eyes narrowed.
Brandt nodded. "Three of them attacked us in an alleyway earlier."
"By the Great Hunter," the elf snapped, appearing truly angry for the first time. "This is more deadly than I feared. I told you we should not have gotten mixed up in all this. We've stuck our heads in a nest of hornets. I only hope we can get out."
Feeling as if he was to blame for their most serious peril, Poiniard unobtrusively drew his cloak around himself, hiding Wyrding from sight.
"Well," Brandt said, "maybe Gault will get to try out that new axe of his after all."
***
Mheren immediately went over to their two horses and began to saddle them, in preparation for their flight from the city. "We've only the two horses between us, Poiniard, so you'll have to ride behind me."
Poiniard nodded. He had been around horses before- the sort used to pull plows and wagons. He had no experience in riding them. But he looked over at the beautiful swordswoman, and the thought of sharing a saddle with her didn't sound so bad. She had hung her cloak over a peg, and he saw that she was clad from head to toe in well-worn, tight-fitting leathers, the kind worn for both fighting and riding. Without a cloak, Mheren's armor did little to conceal her athletic form.
Brandt chuckled, and Poiniard blushed. He'd been caught staring. Mheren didn't seem to have noticed, so he sat down in the hay a respectful distance from the wizard. Brandt was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rummaging through his travel-stained pack. The dim lighting gave Brandt an ominous look. Poiniard half expected him to produce a skull or claw or some other instrument of sorcery. Brandt pulled two apples from his pack and tossed one to Poiniard.
"Have a few bites, lad," he said between mouthfuls. "On a night like this, you never know when you might get a chance to eat." They sat in silence for a while, Brandt eyeing Poiniard thoughtfully. "I find it strange," he said suddenly, "that two magical swords would remain in such close proximity. They rarely choose to work together."
"Choose?" Poiniard asked. Two swords? Did he mean Mheren?
"Magical swords often have personalities of their own."
Poiniard felt Wyrding hanging heavy from his belt. He had no inkling swords could even have personalities. "What do you mean?"
Brandt's answer was cut off by a crash from outside. It came from the direction of the inn, the sound of breaking crockery. Brandt sighed. "Whenever Gimbal's around, there's bound to be drinking," he said. "Hopefully you'll get a chance to meet him before this is all over. For a gnome, he's really not all that- " There was another crash, a heavy thud and the sound of splintering wood. "And when there's drinking, Gault and Hafgrim are bound to be fighting," he said, tossing away his apple core and getting to his feet.
Mheren had not yet finished saddling their horses, but she came over and handed Brandt his staff. She had heard the sounds as well, and looked concerned. "I just hope that's my father's spies and not the Knights they're brawling with."
Poiniard finally worked up the courage to ask Mheren something he'd been wondering- who was her father? Some wealthy merchant, perhaps? And why was he sending men after her? He wished he had a drink of something. Then he'd ask. But then, he heard a voice.
"To arms," it said. "Sorcery!" Another loud crash came from across the courtyard outside.
Mheren and Brandt looked up with a start. A chill ran down Poiniard's spine as he realized both he and Mheren were standing there with swords drawn. He couldn't remember doing that.
"This is no mere brawl," Brandt said. They could quite plainly hear the sounds of combat- the clashing of swords, the cries of wounded men. They rushed to the stable doorways and saw that the far side of the courtyard was filled with people, and that the inn was afire. But Poiniard's eyes were drawn away from the commotion. In the shadows beneath the wall, a sinister hulking figure was creeping towards them. The shadows were moving. Wyrding throbbed in his hand. A chill fell over them.
"Mheren, take Poiniard and get out of here," Brandt ordered. No one moved. Brandt's expression darkened, and he seemed to grow taller. Evidently, he was not accustomed to having his orders questioned. "Forget the horses. I'll hold them off. Go- NOW!" This time, there was no hesitation. Mheren dashed out into the night.
Poiniard felt a strong hand grip his shoulder as he went to follow her. It was Brandt. He released his hold and drew an amulet from beneath his tunic. He pressed it into Poiniard's hand. "She would never let me give this to her," he said, "but it will be more useful to her than to me. Soon, she will have need of it. You must keep it for her and give it to her once you are safe outside the city."
"What is it?" Poiniard asked, though he already knew the answer. A magic sword had already taken over his life. The last thing he needed was a magic charm.
Brandt gave him a comforting smile. "Nothing so ancient or powerful as Wyrding, I assure you. But a potent little bit of magic in its own fashion. Call it an heirloom, a reminder for Mheren of better days, of a time she will one day recall with fondness. She will regret it if it is lost, though now she would as soon throw it in a fire. Keep it for her, for a while."
Poiniard slipped the amulet around his neck.
"Mheren may act as if she is sure about everything," Brandt continued, "but this I must tell you. She is not at home on the streets of a city after dark. You are, I judge, or at least moreso than she. YOU will have to guide HER out of Culhaven. If you don't know the way, then you will have to trust to your instincts." His eyes twinkled, reflecting the light of the burning inn. "I think you will find them surprisingly reliable."
"I hope so," Poiniard said. If nothing else, he was due for some good luck for a change.
"Cheer up," Brandt said. "After all, you've still got three bags of gold."
That did little to brighten his spirits. Poiniard stepped outside. Mheren stood atop the wall, sword drawn, waiting for him. Poiniard glanced down at the sword in his hand, and thought of the trolls he knew were in the courtyard. That was why Wyrding was forged, to slay the evil spawn of sorcerers, to hew their twisted limbs and spill the burning blood of trolls and orcs and skraelings. To flee would be cowardice. Was he to be a warrior? But then he remembered Brandt, with his stern eyes and command in his voice. And he imagined Mheren swarmed by clutching monstrous trolls, her face determined, her lithe, deadly swordstrokes keeping them at bay. He remembered her eyes, full of defiance and courage, and wondered what really lay behind them. He wasn't sure why, but he ran to join Mheren. Wyrding felt like a cold, silent hunk of metal in his hand.
Their last glimpse of Brandt as they scaled the wall of the courtyard was the wizard standing in a circle of flames, surrounded by beastlike shadows, with the Inn of the Dancing Bear aflame behind him.
