The Dream Spheres (18 page)

“You mean to tell me we have to fly out west?” demanded the dwarf.

“A winged horse,” said a persuasive female voice. “You’re always saying there’s nothing on four legs you can’t ride.”

Elaith whirled toward the familiar voice, and his scowl deepened. He knew of that woman—Bronwyn was a merchant with a refreshingly devious streak. Though he was interested in making her acquaintance, this was hardly the time. He was even less pleased to learn that she had acquired a dwarven traveling companion.

This dwarf was a particularly squat, square fellow. An abundance of auburn curls rioted about his broad shoulders, and a long red beard spilled over his chest. His upper lip had been shaved, and his blue eyes were stormy. A horseshoe hung on a thong about his neck. The dwarf fingered his horseshoe as if laying claim to Bronwyn’s words concerning his riding abilities.

“Nothing on four legs,” he repeated. “That’s true enough, if’n those four legs got solid ground beneath them!”

Bronwyn cast a glance up at the sky, then turned a crooked grin upon her companion. “Clouds look pretty thick today.”

The dwarf snorted derisively.

“Look, Ebenezer,” she said in the tones of one who had finished with persuasion, “I have business in Silverymoon. You can come or stay, as you please.”

“Who said anything about staying?” the dwarf demanded. He pointed a stubby finger at an untethered pegasus. “That one’s a spare, most likely. Got my eye on him.”

The dwarf ambled off, a lump of maple sugar in one stubby fist. Bronwyn watched him go, and her sweeping gaze settled upon Elaith. After a moment of hesitation she poured wine from a flask into wooden cups and held out one to him in invitation.

Elaith approached and accepted the cup. “Are you always so generous to strangers?”

Her grin was quick and dagger-sharp. “Oh, I know you, at least, as well as I could be expected to. You’re Elaith Craulnober, and you seem to own an inordinately large chunk of Waterdeep.” She raised her cup in salute.

Amused, he drank to her toast. “Your name is known to me, as well. I take it you will also be traveling with the caravan?”

“One last trip to Silverymoon before winter sets in.” She used her cup to point toward a small man with a pointed beard and a wan, wasted countenance. “That’s Mizzen Doar—or what’s left of him! Looks a bit worse for wear, doesn’t he? He has been making the rounds of the harvest festivals, or so I hear. From the looks of him, a clan of rampaging kobolds is better for your health than a nobleman’s party.”

That brought a wry smile to the elf’s face. He had heard that Bronwyn had a warm yet forthright manner that put people at ease, and he found that he was not immune to her brand of charm. Still he remained cautious. “You know him?”

“As well as I need to. He deals in crystals and other minor gemstones.”

“So do others,” he prodded, “some closer to home than Silverymoon.”

“True enough, but none who can touch the variety that Mizzen carries in his shop.” She glanced around to

see if any were within hearing distance before continuing. “Appearances are important in this city,” she said dryly. “Even during times of declining fortunes, no one wants to part with jewelry, so they keep their baubles, but sell the individual stones as needed—”

“—And replace them with crystal,” Elaith concluded.

Bronwyn merely shrugged again, as if she found the matter a bit too distasteful for direct words. The elf could understand that, and he also saw the potential for profit in such endeavors—especially for a woman whose first trade had been creating counterfeit copies of coins and jewelry.

He could not help but wonder whether Bronwyn had another agenda. He hoped it was not too similar to his own. In his own way, he rather liked the woman. Elaith genuinely hoped that he could tend to the business at hand without killing her.

“Stones!” erupted the dwarf. “I’ve a mind to be biting you back, you long-legged excuse for a pigeon!”

The elf cast a glance toward the uproar. Ebenezer was shaking one hand and glaring at the pegasus he’d been trying to befriend. The winged horse munched sugar, then let out a delicate whinny that sounded suspiciously like laughter.

Elaith adjusted his thinking. He still hoped that Bronwyn could emerge from this journey unscathed; on the other hand, he would welcome a chance to reduce Waterdeep’s dwarf population by at least one.

“Your … companion seems to have met his match,” Elaith observed.

This set Bronwyn off into merry laughter. “You’re more right than you know. Those two will be firm friends within the hour. The worse-tempered the horse, the more fond Ebenezer is likely to become of it.”

“A risky thing,” the elf mused, not without pleasure. “One must be able to trust a mount under any circumstances. Pegasi fly high and are notoriously skittish.”

Bronwyn’s smile didn’t falter, but the warmth drained from her eyes. “No friend of mine falls but I do my best to catch him.”

Their gazes locked for a moment, unspoken challenges made, met, and countered. Elaith broke first, instinctively making the small, subtle hand gesture used between elves under such circumstance—a proud but gracious gesture that was part apology, part acknowledgment of a battle averted.

“D’rienne,” Bronwyn said softly, speaking the traditional Elvish word of acceptance of potential challenge avoided.

Before the startled elf could respond, she turned and ambled over to her dwarf friend.

Elaith’s first thought was chagrin over his unconscious lapse into old patterns. The encounter with the Eagle Riders had apparently affected him more than he knew. Bronwyn’s display of knowledge troubled him, though, especially considering the real focus of his journey. Was it possible she knew about the elven gem and was giving him fair warning that they sought the same prize?

If so, some might consider it a gesture worthy of an elven adventurer. Obviously Bronwyn had made a study of the cultures whose artifacts she sought. Elaith observed the woman as she stood at ease, stroking the pegasus and nodding with tongue-in-cheek sympathy over Ebenezer’s continued rants.

She did not lack for courage or style. It would be a shame to kill this woman. Elaith raised his wooden cup to her in silent salute—and probable farewell.

The squall had blown itself out by the time Arilyn and Danilo left the Eltorchul manor. The gate swung open of its own accord. The couple hurried out into the

street, instinctively skirting the blackened walk with the same cautious respect that prompted cemetery ramblers not to tread upon a grave.

“You actually studied with the Eltorchul mages? How could you stand spending time in that place?” Arilyn demanded.

Her companion shrugged and veered down a side street. “Lord Eltorchul is not so bad. He’s very serious about the art of magic and dedicated to teaching it well. Oth was too involved in his research to bother much with the students.”

Arilyn nodded absently, scarcely hearing his words. A faint, tingling awareness swept through her. She touched her fingers to the sheathed moonblade and concentrated on the magical warning.

“We’re being followed,” she said tersely.

Danilo glanced behind them. The sudden downpour had all but emptied the streets, and there was no one on the narrow walkway behind them. Water pooled here and there on the large flagstone paving, enough of it to make dry passage impossible. There were no damp footprints but theirs. The sun was resolutely pushing aside the clouds. It was almost directly overhead, leaving no shadows to hide possible foes. He tilted back his head and scanned the rooftops overhead.

“Nothing that I can see—yet.”

Without breaking stride, he reached into his spell bag and quickly cast an enchantment that would reveal magic at work. The blue light of the spell settled upon his spell bag, upon the singing sword he kept as a novelty, and upon Arilyn’s moonblade. No other enchantment was at work nearby. No one followed them in a cloak of invisibility.

As the light of his reveal-magic spell faded, the moonblade’s warning intensified into glowing blue light.

“We’re being followed,” Arilyn repeated stubbornly.

She put one hand to the hilt of her sword, ready to fight their as-yet-unseen foe.

The stone near their feet shuddered. Arilyn darted a look behind her as one of the flagstones that paved the street exploded into shards.

A large, reptilian head thrust up from the opening. One huge, clawed hand swiped at Arilyn’s boots.

She danced back out of reach and drew her sword. As the moonblade hissed free, the tren gripped the stone ledge and hauled itself out in one quick, nimble leap. The beast drew from its weapon belt a curved knife with a stout blade and an elaborate guard designed to trap and break swords.

Arilyn could imagine no better weapon for a tren. With its long arms, the creature could easily reach over a trapped or broken sword and tear out an opponent’s throat with a single swipe of its claws. It was a variation on an assassin’s trick: focus attention on one threat, and strike with another.

In short, this was not the sort of battle for which Danilo was prepared. She glanced back. He had already drawn his blade and was moving into position beside her.

“Back off. This is my fight,” she said. He looked dubious, so she added by way of explanation, “Narrow street.” He hesitated for a moment, then moved away to give her room to maneuver.

The unlike assassins circled each other, weapons level. The tren’s knife was no longer than a dagger, but its arms were so long that its reach was nearly the equal of Arilyn’s. She tested the tren with a quick, thrusting lunge, which it caught on the curved guard of its knife. Without disengaging, it pivoted hard to the side—wrenching the sword with all its considerable strength.

Elven metal shrieked in protest as the iron guard slid along the moonblade’s length, then locked and

twisted brutally. A lesser blade would have shattered. Arilyn spun in toward the tren, leaning in to ease the pressure on her sword.

The hooked claws of the tren’s free hand slashed up to meet her, aiming for her throat. The half-elf tore her weapon free, but she was in too close to parry the blow. She lashed out with her elbow and caught the tren’s massive wrist, flinging it up as she ducked under the attack.

The tren’s aim was spoiled, but its claws caught and tangled in the half-elf’s hair. Arilyn’s head jerked sharply to the side, and burning pain exploded in her scalp. She danced back. Curly strands of her hair flowed from the tren’s claws like streamers as he came in with another furious blow.

This time she got her sword up. The moonblade cut a deep line in the scaly hide of its forearm. Without pause, Arilyn changed the direction of her stroke, sweeping the sword down low and aiming for the creature’s hamstring.

The tren got its knife down for the parry, catching the sword again in the curved guard. It brought up a massive, clawed foot over the joined weapons, clearly intending to stomp on the captured sword.

Arilyn twisted away, turning the blade so that the edge greeted the tren’s foot. The tren could not halt its momentum in time and roared in rage and anguish as the sharp edge sliced deep. She threw the sword up hard and high, cutting through the thick pad of scale, severing bone. A clawed toe fell to the cobblestone.

The creature again began to circle her, limping now and emitting panting little hisses of rage. Arilyn turned with it, her sword in guard position. She suspected what its next tactic might be. Sure enough, as soon as the tren had maneuvered her so that her back was to the gaping hole, it tucked in its head like a charging bull and leaped at her, massive arms outstretched in a deadly embrace.

Arilyn deftly stepped to the side and pivoted on her outer foot. Her sword slid along the ribs of the lunging creature, drawing a long deep line. She pulled the blade up high and back, and then plunged it between the beast’s ribs.

Holding the sword with both hands, she braced her feet at the edge of the hole and held on for life. The sharp pull of the falling tren’s weight almost tore her arms from her shoulders, and the sudden release when its body fell clear sent her staggering back.

She stumbled into Danilo’s arms. It occurred to her that he had a grip on her belt—and that he had probably seized it the moment she’d stabbed the tren.

“You shouldn’t interfere during battle,” she reminded him. “What if things had gone differently, and I’d pulled you down with me?”

He turned her to face him. “That would have saved me the trouble of jumping in after you.”

She acknowledged this with a nod, then glanced toward the hole. “We’d better move on. Listen to that. The other tren will be finished soon.”

“Finished?” His face took on a pained expression as the meaning of her words came clear to him. “You don’t mean to say that these creatures eat their own?” he demanded, although the faint sounds emanating from the tunnel below made the question unnecessary.

“The price of failure,” Arilyn said as she kicked into a trot. “I’d say there’s at least five or six down there. Now the others will only be more determined. It’s a matter of honor now. As tren reckon honor, that is.”

Danilo fell in beside her. “Keen motivation! As well, one should not discount the bracing effect of a good meal.”

She sent him an incredulous look, but she saw a certain logic in his grim humor. “There’s that, too,” she agreed.

They ran until they reached a wide, busy street. Danilo flagged down a carriage and promised the halfling

driver double his hire if he could get them to the North Ward swiftly. The halfling set a pace brisk enough to inspire angry shouts from some of the passersby.

Arilyn relaxed against the plush seat, certain that their hired driver could outrun any tren that cared to give pursuit.

Why, then, was she still beset by the conviction that she and Danilo were not alone?

After leaving Arilyn at her lodging, Danilo headed for the North Ward and the Thann family villa. For once the sedate, quiet streets did not have their usual effect on him—the familiar mixture of exasperation and ennui, and the numbing certainty that nothing particularly dangerous or entertaining could possibly occur.