The Dragonstone Read Free

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 gut 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 thedoor, 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