The Dragonstone (3 page)

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.

Armed 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.

E
ven before Tryg could leave the table the sodden old man slurped down his ale, running his grimy finger about the rim of the mug to pick up the remaining light froth of foam then licking the finger clean, dirt and all. He looked up at Tryg expectantly and then over at the two ladies and smiled his brown-stained gap-toothed grin at them and bobbed his head eagerly.

The saffron-skinned, black-haired female warrior merely stared back at him impassively. The Dylvana sighed and looked into the blind white eye of the oldster as if considering her options.

Tryg cocked an eyebrow at the Dylvana. She, too, was dressed somewhat like a man: a long-sleeved pale green silk jerkin and tan breeks and brown boots. Her chestnut hair was held in place by a green silk ribbon bound ’round her head. He guessed she was shorter than the yellow woman by as much as seven or eight inches—perhaps no taller than four feet six or seven—though it was difficult to judge with her sitting down. As far as he could tell, unlike her companion she was unarmed. He cleared his throat. “Lady?”

She turned her tilted hazel eyes his way and nodded, and Tryg took up the empty mug and headed for the bar, the old man’s full attention now locked upon his retreating back.

“The taverner seems a decent sort, Aiko,” said the Dylvana. “I do not think thou didst need show him thy swords to have him release our guest.”

Aiko’s almond-eyed gaze followed Tryg as well. “Even at rest a sword in the hand speaks with a loud voice, Dara.”

The Dylvana smiled, then turned to Alos, but the oldster was totally absorbed in watching Tryg refill the mug. The Dylvana sighed but said nothing, instead studying the old man’s face, her gaze returning ever again to his white eye.

Shortly the tavernkeep came back to the table, and Alos avidly reached out both of his liver-spotted hands to eagerly take the mug. Again he quickly drained it and once more fingered up the remaining froth of foam. He ardently looked at the Dylvana in anticipation and smiled his yellow-brown snag-toothed smile, but his face fell as she shook her head and waved Tryg away and said, “We will talk first and then perhaps have some more ale.”

“But, mum, I could talk better if—”

Aiko’s hand struck viper-swift across the table and snatched the old man by his still damp wrist. “
Kojiki,
you will address her as ‘Lady’ or as ‘Dara,’” she hissed. As if to underscore her words, a thunderbolt cracked the night sky, light flaring through the window, Aiko’s face standing out in bold relief.

The old man whined and tried to pull back, to no avail.

“Aiko,” came the Dylvana’s soft words. “Let be.”

Roughly, Aiko pushed Alos’s arm away, and the old man pulled back his sleeve and rubbed his age-marked skin and looked for damage, finding none.

“This unclean
yodakari
cannot be the one,” said Aiko, turning her dark gaze to the Elf.

The Dylvana shook her head. “Aiko, we know it not.”

After a moment Aiko looked away, her black eyes impassive again.

The Dylvana reached across to pat Alos’s hand, but the old man flinched back. She withdrew the gesture and instead took up her wine cup and stared into its depths as if seeking something within. At last she lowered the cup to the table and said, “I am called Arin, and my companion’s name is Aiko. We have journeyed far to reach Mørkfjord…perhaps to see thee.”

Alos nodded, but his one good eye was on her nearly full wine cup as she absently turned it about and about.

“Tell me, Alos, art thou the only one-eyed person in the steading?”

Momentarily taken aback, he looked up at her, his white eye seeming to glare. Then he grinned gap-toothed and said, “As far as I know, mu—er, Lady Arin.”

At this answer, Arin glanced at Aiko, but the warrior woman just shook her head and said nothing. Arin gazed back at Alos. The old man’s good eye was once again locked on her wine cup. Arin put her palm down over the top, and a look of resigned disappointment fell upon Alos’s face as he blew out through his lips and looked up at her.

Arin leaned back in her chair, away from the oldster.
He smells like a wet goat and his rank breath could knock a camel off its feet. He is filthy and dirt smeared and probably hasn’t seen soap and water in a year or more. Even so, he could be the one, for there seems to be no other choice, at least not in this village.

“Dost thou know of any other one-eyed person living nearby? Mayhap in another steading?”

He shook his head and muttered, “None I know, Lady Arin.”

“Thy blind eye, Alos, there is scar tissue all about, as if burned long past. Pray tell, if it bothers thee not to speak of it, how came thee to be blind?”

Flinching, Alos looked down and covered his white eye with his right hand. “I take it you are looking for someone one-eyed, mu—er, Lady Arin, true?” He lowered his hand to the table and stared at her with his white eye. “If it’s to give a reward, then I’m your man; if it’s to reap one, I’m not him.”

Arin smiled. “Thine accent, Alos, it does not sound Fjordlander to mine ear.”

“I’m Tholian by birth, from th’ Long Coast.” Alos glanced at his empty mug and at Tryg, then asked in a plaintive voice, with a hint of whine in overtone, “Lady, could we have another nip?”

His eyes widened as Arin pushed her cup across to him, for seldom did wine come his way. He held the nearly full cup to his nose and savored the aroma; perhaps it was some of Tryg’s best, her being a Lady and all, and an Elf at that. In two gulps it was gone, its warmth filling his belly and spreading outward. Smacking his lips he ran his
licking-finger around and down into the bottom of the cup, searching for a leftover drop or two.

Her black eyes glittering in the lamplight, Aiko stared impassively at the dirt-streaked old man as he slurped at his digit, grime embedded under the split nail.

“Ah. From the Long Coast of Thol,” said Arin. “Yes, I recognize thine accent now. But how came thee to be here in Mørkfjord?”

Alos blew out a long breath and leaned slightly up on one hip and noisily passed gas, then peered about as if to find the miscreant. A look of disgust fell across Aiko’s face and she wrinkled her nose and glanced at Arin and raised an eyebrow, but Arin merely shook her head slightly.

“My ship, uh…foundered,” replied Alos. “Yes…foundered.”

Arin waited for him to continue, to elaborate, but he said no more.

Lightning flared as Alos looked into the wine cup, searching, and thunder rolled as he shoved the empty cup aside and shifted his gaze to his leftover ale mug. His good eye widened and he tilted the mug up to catch one more drop of brew on his tongue, while rain drummed on the roof of the tavern. He smacked his lips and emitted a belch—a bubble of frothy spittle appeared at the corner of his mouth, which he quickly sucked back in.

Aiko looked away in disgust, but Arin took a deep breath and leaned forward. “Alos, ’tis no accident we are here with thee.”

“Here? In the Cove? With me?” Alos’s good eye widened then narrowed. “How did you know I would be here?”

Arin shrugged. “We asked about. They said thou wouldst likely be making the rounds of the taverns and there are only three. This one is closest to thy…sleeping place.”

Alos finger-combed at the long wet strings of white hair fringing his bald top and he smoothed his scraggly beard. He tugged at the lapels of his damp cloak, straightening it. Then he looked at Arin. “Well now, you came to talk with me personally?”

Arin nodded. “Perhaps.” She glanced at Aiko, then back at Alos and said, “We come on a mission, and it seems as if thou art part and parcel of it.”

Aiko sighed.

The oldster’s watery brown eye widened, and he glanced Tryg’s way. Then he smiled his yellow-brown grin and turned toward Arin. “A mission, you say? And with me in it? Well anow, let’s have some more wine—or even brandy, eh?—while you tell me about this mission, aye? It needn’t be the best brandy, or even the best wine. In fact, it could be mere ale, what with—”

There came above the storm the cry of voices, and the dock shuddered as if struck a blow. Tryg stepped ’round the end of the bar and toward the door, but both Olar and Yngli were there before him.

“’Tis a ship,” called Yngli, peering out into the rain. “Tyin’ up now.”

“Who be it, eh?” asked Tryg.

“Ship’s lanterns or no, I can’t tell,” replied Yngli. “Too dark in this blasted rain.”

“Some o’ them be comin’ this way,” said Olar, “carryin’ somethin’ or some’n on a litter.”

“Here now, step back,” commanded Tryg. “They be comin’ to th’ Cove.”

Aiko was on her feet, her swords in hand. Arin, too, was standing, though her hands were empty. Behind them Alos scrabbled back and away and crawled under a table in a far dark corner.

Through the door came a large, burly man, helmed and cloaked, fleece vest and leather pants and buskins beneath. He carried a lantern and behind him came two more men, these bearing an unconscious fourth.

“Orri!” cried Yngli. “Y’r back.”

“Some’n fetch th’ healer,” called the burly man as he set aside the lantern and swept the mugs from the bar. “Lay him here, lads,” he ordered the two bearers. As they hefted the litter to the plank, the large man’s gaze fell upon Yngli. “You, Yngli. Run get Thar. Damned Jutes; Egil took a sword cut from th’ duke’s brother—killed him dead for it, though—but th’ wound ha’ fevered him.”

“Right, Orri!” Yngli gulped down the last of his ale,
then snatched up his cloak and Orri’s lantern and dashed away on his errand.

As the Dragonship was secured, more men came through the door and into the Cove, a few with bandaged wounds, but most hale though wet from the storm. Orri glanced about as the place began to fill, then he cast a handful of silver coins onto the counter and called out to the taverner: “These men fought like wild wolves, Tryg, ‘n’ worked up a mighty thirst, so open y’r taps wide V start th’ ale t’ flowin’.”

There was a glad whoop and men surged toward the bar. “But what about Egil?” cried Tryg, shouting to be heard.

“Ar, there’s nought can be done till Thar arrives,” bellowed Orri above the clamor. “Besides, wound or no, fever or no, should Egil wake he’ll want an ale o’ his own.”

As men crowded forward to get one of the mugs of brew being served across Egil’s prostrate form, Olar wormed his way through the press to get one of his own. As he stood behind Orri, he craned his neck up and looked over the raider’s shoulder at the wounded man. “Adon’s daughter Elwydd,” Olar burst out atop the milling din, “Egil’s lost an eye!”

At these words, Aiko, standing unnoticed in the shadows along the wall, drew in her breath and glanced at Arin just as the Dylvana started forward.