One of the adventurers bad chanced to spill a platter of food, so Shandril was there when it happened. The Company of the Bright Spear were six in number, led by an important, square-bearded, young giant of a man who was fast becoming too drunk to keep his seat. His name was Burlane. Gold gleamed and winked in the firelight at his ears and his throat, upon his fingers, and at his belt. He belched and chuckled and reached vaguely for his tankard again.

To his left sat a real dwarf, the worn and baggy leather of his breeches not a foot from Shandril’s bent bead as she scrubbed and scraped beneath the table. The breeches smelled of woodsmoke. The dwarf was called Delg, “the Fearless,” as one of his companions had added mockingly, to everyone’s amusement. Delg wore a dagger strapped to his leg just above his boot; its hilt shone enticingly inches from Shandril’s face. Something rose up within her and, trembling a little, yet with infinite care, she reached out…

One of the veterans of the dale, Ghondarrath, a stern-eyed old warrior with a gray-white beard edging his hard jaw, was telling of the treasures of the ruined City of Beauty, Myth Drannor. Shandril had heard it before, but it was still fascinating. She listened intently, scarcely daring to breathe, as she took hold and pulled ever-so-gently. The dagger came free, cold and hard and heavy in her hand.

“… So for many long years the elves kept all others away, and the woods grew over the ruins of Myth Drannor. The Fair Folk let it alone; not a harp or spellbook or gemstone did they take. There it all lies in the woods still, not a week’s ride north of here. Waiting for the brave-and the foolish- to try for it, for it is guarded by devils… and worse.”

The old man paused, his audience intent upon his every word, and raised his tankard. His free hand slid across his chest like a striking snake.

One of the adventurers, a thin man with short blond hair and a ratlike face, was passing behind him, and old Ghondarrath grunted and set down his tankard. He raised his other hand, and all could see the adventurer’s wrist clasped within. In that captured hand was Ghondarrath’s purse.

“Well,” Ghondarrath said dryly, “look what I’ve found.” The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire. No one moved. Shandril clutched the dagger fiercely in excitement. She knew she should creep away quickly, lest the dwarf reach for his blade… and yet, she couldn’t miss this!

There was a flurry of movement; the thief whipped a slim dagger out of a sheath at the back of his neck with his free hand, stabbing downward. Ghondarrath jerked him coolly sideways, and he crashed helplessly forward onto the table. Ghondarrath’s free hand came down upon the back of the thief’s neck with a solid crash, like a tree falling. “Dead?” asked one of the other dalemen in a hoarse whisper. For a second more there was silence, and then with a roar the Company of the Bright Spear was on their feet.

“Get him!”

“Sword the graybeard!”

“He’s killed Lynxal!”

The dwarf nearly took Shandril’s nose off as he kicked back his chair and sprang to his feet, but Shandril jerked back just in time. Chairs overturned and men shouted. Adventure, she thought ruefully as she scuttled on hands and knees beneath the table, was upon her at last.

“They’ll kill you, Ghondar!” said one of the old warriors, face white. Beside him, Ghondarrath stood defiant, his chair raised before him in his hands. He had no other weapon.

“I was never one to back down,” he said roughly. “I know no other way. Better to die by the blade, Tempus willing, than grow old shamed and craven.”

“So be it, graybeard!” said one of the company’s warriors viciously, striding forward, blade out.

“Stop!” the old man bellowed with sudden force, startling all there. “If it’s to be a fight, then let us go outside. Gorstag’s a good friend to us all-I’d not see his house laid waste!”

“You should have thought of that a breath or two earlier;’ sneered another company member through the general laughter of his fellows. They surged forward. Shandril reached her feet just as Gorstag and Korvan pounded past her, the cook swearing, a cleaver in his hand. She turned in time to see two blades flash in the firelight as, catlike, the two ladies Shandril had noticed earlier leaped in front of the old man. One of those blades glowed and shimmered with blue-white fire. A rumbling gasp of wonder shook the room at the sight.

“I apologize to this house and to its master for drawing steel,” said its silver-haired owner in a clear, lilting voice. “But I will not see butchery done by young fools with quick tempers. Put up your blades, company”-her voice twisted that into a shaming quotation rather than rightful name- “or die, for we shall surely slay you all.”

“Or,” her companion added pleasantly over the point of her own ready blade, “this can be forgotten, and all keep peace. The thief was caught and drew steel. The fault is his and his alone, and he has paid. That’s an end to it.”

With an oath, one of the adventurers plucked at his belt, meaning to snatch and throw a dagger. The man grunted and then cried out in fury and frustration, but his hand was held in a grip like unmoving iron. Gorstag said quietly, “Drop your blade. All others, put away your weapons. I will not have this in my house.”

At the sound of his voice, everyone relaxed, the dagger clattered to the floor, and blades slid back into scabbards.

“Have I your peace white you stay at The Rising Moon?” the innkeeper asked. The company members nodded, said “Aye” in reluctant chorus, and returned to their seats.

Across the room, the silver-haired bard sheathed her glowing blade and turned to Ghondarrath. “Forgive me, sir/’ she said simply. “They were too many. I would not shame you.” The chair trembled in the old man’s hands.

“I am not shamed” he said roughly. “My friends sat all around, and when it came to the death, I was alone, but for you two. I thank you. I am Ghondarrath, and my table is yours. Will you?” He gestured toward a chair.

The two ladies clasped hands with him. “Aye, with thanks. I am Storm Silverhand, a bard, of Shadowdale.”

Her companion smiled, too. “I am Sharantyr, a ranger, also of Shadowdale. Well met.”

Gorstag passed them wordlessly, reached the bar, and turned. “The night is hot,” he said to the crowd, “so the house gives you all chilled wine from far Athkatla.” There was a general roar of approval. “Drink up,” he added, as Lureene hastily started around with flagons, “and let this incident be forgotten!” He lifted the limp body of the thief, its head dangling loosely, and carried it away.

Across the room, Marimmar removed a restraining hand from Narm’s arm. “Well done, boy,” he said. “Continue to hold your peace, and life will be far easier for you.”

“Aye,” agreed Narm dryly. His master had certainly given him much practice in holding peace. All around them laughter and the clink and clatter of eating built up again. Tempers had been restored, and it was too soon to talk of the near-brawl. The company seemed in fairly good humor, as if the thief hadn’t been liked much anyway. Narm looked about for the girl he had locked eyes with earlier, but she was nowhere to be seen. There was something about her… Ah, well…

Narm turned his attention to the chilled wine the serving girl had just brought, before Marimmar could forbid him to drink more. Now, if the old man would just take up his tale of the treasures of lost Drannor, and the city’s ruin by devils again…

But Ghondarrath, it seemed, had no more tongue for tales this evening. He sat talking quietly with the two tall, lithe ladies whose ready blades had saved his life. His eyes shone and his face was ruddy, and he seemed more alive than for many a long winter. Several of the locals called on him to resume his tale, but he paid them no heed. Finally, the calls became more general, floating across the taproom to the travelers from afar.