Chapter Six

In time, Dezra slowed her pace. Moonlight or no, it was getting hard to see. To her right was the gleam of a bonfire, the sounds of music and laughter—the feast, no doubt. In its ruddy glow she saw moss on the vallenwoods' trunks. She was heading south, into the disreputable part of town.

She smiled. It had been her wont, through her teenage years, to head this way whenever she and her parents had a blazing row. Why should tonight be different? She walked on, resting her hand on the pommel of her dagger. This was no part of town for a young woman to go unarmed, no matter how self-assured she was.

The path opened into a weed-choked courtyard surrounded by dilapidated buildings. Most were dark, their doors shut, but the one on the far side stood open, lamplight shining within. Above its door, creaking in the breeze, was a well-rusted shield.

The Inn of the Last Home had, since time out of mind, kept a policy of refusing business from truly unsavory folk. Before the Summer of Chaos, the ruffians and rogues the Inn turned away had gathered at a ramshackle alehall called the Trough. The Knights of Takhisis had burned the place down during the Chaos War, but soon after they retreated from town, the Rusty Shield had taken its place.

Ten years later, it had settled into comfortable decrepitude. Its slate-shingled roof buckled, and the paint peeled on its walls. It had no windows, nor a proper sign. Various stenches—smoke, soured ale, and worse—hung about it. Dezra smiled as she approached. She spat in a row of scrubby bushes beside the tavern's door, then stepped inside.

"Well, if it ain't the Flying Majere," said the tapman, his good eye crinkling mirthfully.

"Leave it alone, Brandel," she shot back. She swaggered to the bar, tossing down a few coppers. "Get me a drink."

Still grinning, Brandel snatched up the coins and turned to a keg behind him. He talked as he poured. "I'm surprised to see you. Reckoned your parents wouldn't let you out of sight after what you did today."

"Can we leave alone what I did today?" Dezra snapped. "I'm sick of hearing about it."

"Whatever you say." He set her ale in front of her.

Dezra drank in silence. The beer was stale, but she finished it and ordered another. While Brandel refilled her stoup, she turned and surveyed the taproom.

The place was nearly empty. Besides Brandel, the only person working was the barmaid, Edelle. Youth had left Edelle behind, but that didn't stop her from trifling with customers half her age. Right now she was whispering with Fingers, a pickpocket who'd lost half his hand years ago in a failed snatch-and-grab. A couple local drunks snored in the shadows. And sitting by the door was a big, blond-bearded man with a battle-axe strapped across his back: a sellsword. She'd seen plenty of his kind in the Shield over the years, and was used to the leer that creased his face as he looked her up and down. Sneering, she turned back to the bar.

After a moment, she heard a chair push back, and the jingling of chainmail. A shape appeared beside her, eclipsing the lamplight. He said nothing, but simply stared, breathing heavily and leaning against the bar.

Dezra glowered. "Looking at something?"

"I'll say," he answered, grinning drunkenly. "I'm Storvald. Storvald of—" he stifled a belch "—of Wayend. What's your name, lovely?"

Lummox, Dezra thought, studiously ignoring him.

His hand reached out, touched hers. His fingers were callused and crooked. "Have I seen you somewhere? At the fair, maybe?"

A strangled laugh came from behind the bar. Dezra glared at Brandel, who quickly strolled into the storeroom in the back of the tavern.

"I doubt it," she told the sellsword.

"Well, no mind," Storvald declared. "We know each other now, don't we?"

Suddenly, his fingers seized Dezra's wrist. His bearded face lunged toward hers, and he kissed her on the mouth. His breath was sour.

Dezra leaned back, breaking the kiss. "Let go."

Storvald snarled, his grip on her arm tightening painfully. "Now, love, be nice. We'll find someplace quiet, a hayloft maybe—"

Brandel came back into the taproom. His lips tightened when he saw Dezra's red face. "Everything all right, Dez?" he asked. He held a knotted wooden cudgel. "You—don't make me use this."

For someone so drunk, Storvald was surprisingly fast. Reaching over his shoulder, he yanked his massive axe from its harness and slammed it down on the bar. It buried itself an inch deep in the wood.

"This ain't your trouble," he growled.

Brandel stopped, staring. His cudgel fell to the floor with a thump.

"That's better," Storvald said. "Now, the girl and me are leaving to find a nice, quiet hayloft." He jerked Dezra's arm. "And no one's stopping us, right?"

"Wrong," Dezra said, and stomped on his ankle.

Her attack came with no warning. Storvald howled in pain, staggering. He let Dezra go, grabbing the bar with both hands. Her fist slammed into his jaw. She wore a ring, set with a green cat's-eye gem. It opened his cheek, and blood ran down his face.

Reeling, Storvald shook his head and lunged for her. She danced aside, however, and he stumbled against the bar, flattening his hand against the countertop. Dezra drew her dagger and drove it through that hand, pinning it to the bar. There was more blood, and Storvald cried out again. He clawed for her clumsily. She ducked, spun, and hooked his uninjured leg with her foot, then hit his forehead with her knee as he fell. He went limp, hanging from the bar by his impaled hand.

Dezra straightened and pulled her dagger free. Storvald crumpled in a heap.

The Rusty Shield was silent. She pried Storvald's axe out of the bar and handed it to Brandel. “Yours," she said, nodding at the cudgel on the floor. "Thanks for trying to help—but next time, stay out of it."

She drained her half-empty tankard, then bent over the unconscious sellsword and grabbed his arms. "Give me a hand, Edelle," she said.

Grinning, the barmaid hurried over and took Storvald's legs. They carried him out and dumped him in the prickly hedgerow. "What if he wakes up?" Edelle wondered.

"He won't," Dezra said, and kicked him, hard, in the head. "That should keep him till morning."

They went back inside. Now that the surprise had worn off, the patrons carried on with their business. This wasn't the first time someone had been beaten senseless in the Rusty Shield.

Brandel poured Dezra another beer. "I'm looking for new muscle," he said.

Dezra laughed, taking a deep drink. "Look somewhere else. I'm leaving this louse-ridden town."

"Sure. You say that every week."

She shrugged, tracing her fingers around the rim of her stoup. "I mean it this time. Tomorrow morning, I'm gone."

"Dost thou, perchance, want company?" asked a voice from the doorway.

Dezra sighed. "Not another one," she muttered, quaffing her ale. "Can't a woman have a drink without every lout in town thinking—Brandel? What's wrong?"

The barkeep didn't say a word; he just gaped at the door. Curious, Dezra glanced over her shoulder, did a double-take, and stared.

It was the centaur, the one her father had been wrestling when Ganlamar caught her stealing the amethyst. He stooped down awkwardly, half in and half out the door. He wore a quiver of arrows and an enormous bow, and there was a long-bladed lance strapped to his war harness.

"Sorry, friend," Brandel said. "No horses allowed."

The centaur's eyes blazed. "I'm no horse!" he blustered, chin rising. "I am Trephas, son of Nemeredes!"

"Son of an old nag," Brandel muttered.

"Easy," Dezra said.

"No," the barkeep shot back, loud enough for Trephas to hear. "I don't want him in here, stinking the place up."

Trephas's face darkened. He lifted his head, sniffing disdainfully. "I hardly think my smell would hurt this place."

"Let him in, Brandel," Dezra murmured. "You've heard the stories about how much his kind drink. That's a lot of money to turn away."

Brandel thought it over. "Good point," he noted. "But if he craps on the floor, you're cleaning it up." He beckoned to the centaur, smiling thinly. "Come in, then, whatever your name is."

With some difficulty, Trephas squeezed through the door. He glanced around, then walked toward the bar, his iron shoes clacking against the wooden floor.

Edelle bustled over to Dezra with a tray of empty mugs. "You should see him from behind," she whispered, grinning. "Now I know where that saying comes from."

Brandel and Dezra snickered, drawing another hot look from the centaur. "What'll you have?" the barkeep asked, composing himself. "A glass of wine?"

Trephas regarded him like something he'd just scraped off his hoof. “A glass?" he asked scornfully. "You may as well fill a thimble, man. Bring me a pitcher!"

Brandel bristled, but Dezra gave him a look, and he brought himself under control. "Fine," he said.

"And it had best not be watered." Tossing his mane, Trephas pulled his lance from his harness and leaned it against the bar.

"Of course not," Brandel said tightly. He disappeared into the back. He carried a ewer, brimming with red wine, when he returned. Trephas reached for it, and he snatched it back. "I think you're forgetting something."

"What?" Trephas blurted. Then he chuckled haughtily. "Oh, of course. I forgot—humans pay for their drinks." He reached for the purse that hung from his harness. "Will five pieces of silver suffice?"

Brandel had been about to ask for only two pieces, but he quickly swallowed his words. "Er, yeah, that's right," he declared. "Five." He waited while the centaur counted the coins—they were old, dating back to before the first Cataclysm—then handed him his wine.

The pitcher was heavy, but Trephas hoisted it as easily as a human might lift a flagon. Then he poured a large measure—enough to fill a goblet—on the ground.

"Hey!" Brandel exclaimed. "My floor!"

Trephas waved him off. "That was a sacred libation," he said. "For Chislev the Beast. The gods must have their due, departed though they may be."

Brandel peered over the bar at the dark stain before the centaur's hooves, then at Trephas's full purse. "Sure," he said. "Whatever you say."

Trephas blew out his lips—a peculiarly horselike gesture—and brought the pitcher to his mouth. He drank it down in one draught. Wine spilled around the corners of his mouth, flowing in twin runnels down his bearded cheeks. Most, however, went straight down his throat. Everyone in the tavern stared. He slammed the empty pitcher on the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Ahhh," he declared lustily. "A bit plain, but 'twill do. Fetch me another."

Brandel was too awed to reply. He grabbed the empty pitcher and headed for the back room again.

Trephas turned to Dezra, his thick eyebrows rising. "Now. Thou wert saying, when I came in, that thou art planning to quit this town?"

Dezra blinked. "Well," she said, "planning's a strong word, but… yeah, I'm leaving."

The centaur nodded. Brandel brought a second pitcher, and Trephas traded another handful of silver coins for it, then poured another libation and drank. He didn't finish it in one gulp this time, but still put it away with astonishing speed.

"Come with me, then," he said. "I have use for thee."

"Use for me?" Dezra repeated. "That's a hell of a way to put it. Anyway, I thought your kind preferred to take young women without asking their permission."

Trephas snorted and let out a braying laugh. "Oh, ho!" he declared. "Of course—those childish tales thy people tell. My folk kidnapping and ravishing maidens and such. No, that isn't my meaning. I want thee to come to Darken Wood, Dezra Majere. I need thy help."

It was Dezra's turn to laugh. “My help? What in Hiddukel's name for?"

The centaur waved his hand. "My people are having trouble with some renegades in the forest. We have need of human aid to put a stop to the trouble. I saw what thou didst at the fair today, and again with that sells word." He set down the pitcher and folded his arms across his chest. "I think thou wouldst be fine for the job."

Dezra pursed her lips, then shook her head. "You've got the wrong Majere. I'm not the one who goes off on grand quests for people I hardly know. Why don't you ask my father?"

"I already did. He refused."

Dezra looked at him sharply, her eyes narrowing. They were both silent for a time. At length, Dezra coughed and glanced away. "Maybe I am interested, after all," she said. "What's in it for me?"

Trephas looked at her, confused.

Dezra nodded at the centaur's purse. "I'm not going to Darken Wood for free, you know."

"Oh," he said. He thought on this. "I suppose I could give thee some silver… ."

"Steel," she corrected. "Two hundred pieces—and that's just for me to go to Darken Wood with you. Once I'm there, if I decide to help, I'll expect more."

He pondered, pawing the floor with his forehoof. "Very well," he said after a moment. "I didn't realize thy people sold themselves so, but there it is. I'll pay thee, if thou wilt go. We leave in the morning."

"It's a deal," she said, offering her hand. He took it, clasping her wrist painfully tight. She raised her stoup. "To Darken Wood, then."

"To Darken Wood," Trephas echoed, flashing his big-toothed grin as he lifted his pitcher.

It had been a long night for Uwen Gondil. He'd eaten an obscene amount of food at the feast, and drank enough ale to make the ground rock underfoot. He'd also earned the attentions of many young townswomen. They'd heard of his heroics at the fair, and at times there were whole packs of them trying to catch his eye.

It wasn't that Uwen didn't appreciate all that giggling and eyelash-batting—he was seventeen, after all—but his attention was elsewhere. How could it be otherwise, when he'd lost his heart today? So, even when the chandler's daughter was whispering unladylike words in his ear, he'd kept an eye on the crowds, searching for Dezra Majere.

Sometime after midnight, when all but the young and the foolish had gone home, Uwen had found himself talking with Borlos, the bard, who claimed to be Caramon Majere's best friend.

"This ain't the first time this has happened," Borlos said, drunkenly flinging his arm about Uwen's shoulders. "That girl's been in more trouble than a kender in a gnome-hole. Anyway, she's more than you want to handle, believe me. Why not try her sister instead?"

He'd pointed at a red-haired girl who was busy keeping people's flagons filled. Uwen had walked over to her and exchanged a few words, but it had led nowhere. Laura was nice, yes, and friendly, but she was too docile and demure. Not at all like her sister. They'd drifted apart, and he'd resumed his vigil.

In the end, Dezra didn't show up; disappointed, Uwen stumbled away from the fire's embers. The sky was gray, brightening with coming dawn. He was weary and still a bit drunk, and had to stop now and then to lean against a vallen-wood's trunk.

It was during one of these stops that he saw her. He blinked in surprise as he watched Dezra skulk through the morning mist, bound for the fairgrounds. He thought to call out to her, but decided against it. There was something about the stealthy way she moved that made him think it would be a bad idea. Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from the tree and followed.

The fairgrounds were quiet and still. Most of the merchants would set out on the road this afternoon—after sleeping contentedly through the morning—bound for Haven or Gateway, or towns farther away. Dezra crept between the stalls, stopping now and again to lift a tent flap or peer inside a sack. At last she smiled, picked up a loaf of bread, and tucked it into a pouch at her hip.

Uwen gaped, not believing his eyes. There was no one to see her but him.

He should stop her, he knew. His parents had taught him good from evil, enough to know stealing wasn't right. But he didn't. He was captivated, watching the way her lithe form moved, the crooked smile that curled her lips. She crept on, and he went after her.

The bread wasn't all she stole—she also filched a wheel of white cheese, a few apples, and several hard sausages. She hooked a full ale-skin from a brewer's stall, as well as a silver flask of stronger spirits. From a tailor, she took a hooded, gray cloak. Last, she stopped at a weaponsmith's tent. The smith's apprentice, who should have been standing guard, slumped in his chair, snoring and drooling. Dezra eyed the drowsing lad, then nodded to herself, chuckling softly. Quiet as a shadow, she slipped into the tent. Uwen held his breath until she stepped out again, nearly a minute later. She buckled a swordbelt about her waist as she emerged. A slender, scabbarded blade now hung at her hip.

Uwen Gondil had lived most of his life on his family's farm. He'd never seen a woman wear a sword before. His fascination with Dezra Majere grew even stronger.

She was moving again, faster this time. He followed, the fog muting his thudding footsteps. Once she was out of the square, Uwen expected Dezra to head back to the Inn of the Last Home. To his surprise, she turned west instead, toward the edge of town. He kept after her.

Suddenly, another shape emerged from the fog in front of Dezra. Uwen stopped, staring in amazement. He'd heard there'd been a centaur at the fair, but he hadn't seen the beast. Now his mouth dropped wide open.

Dezra and the centaur spoke together a moment, too soft to hear, then he bent low beside her. She swung a leg across his withers, pulled herself astride his back, and gripped his shoulders as he rose again. Turning, he trotted west, out of Solace and onto the Haven Road.

Uwen was too stunned to do more than stare as Dezra and the centaur vanished into the mist. The sound of hoofbeats faded away. He thought of the stories his grandfather had told him when he was a boy. Didn't centaurs kidnap young ladies? Yes, of course they did—kidnapped them, took them to Darken Wood, and did things Grandfather hadn't wanted to talk about. Now that he was older, he had an idea what those things were.

One of the creatures had just taken Dezra.

He took a step forward, then stopped. Uwen could run fast, but not as fast as a horse—which was what the centaur was, after all. And if he did catch them? What then? He was a farm-boy, not a warrior. He'd seen the horse-man's lance and bow. He needed help.

Turning, he hurried back across Solace, toward the Inn of the Last Home.