"Good, good. My thanks," Mirt called, and waved at Delg to lead the rest in. As Shandril followed, she noticed Mirt's sword was still drawn, and his eyes darted around alertly, peering into the shadows.

Their rooms were simple but warm and clean, clustered together at one end of a low-ceilinged gallery. Broad stairs led down from the center of that passage to a landing overlooking the main taproom of the inn, and from there descended again to a lobby just within the front doors.

The Wanton Wyvern was old and dusty and dark, paneled in fine woods and hung with torn and faded, once fine tapestries. "Battle spoils." Mirt identified them briefly as they passed; Delg nodded agreement. Everyone noticed the crossbows hanging ready behind the front desk of the Wyvern.

The place was warm and friendly, however, with perhaps a dozen other guests-two warriors, a rosy-

robed priest of Lathander with two servants, and the rest merchants already drinking and joking in the taproom. The staff was easygoing and attentive; a serving lass whose girth matched Mirt's own showed them to a table against one wall, near the crackling hearth-fire.

Shandril looked around, taking in the colors and lights and warmth for a while, letting the talk and the strong smells of wood smoke and cooking wash over her. She heard Mirt rumble something about this being one of those inns you could feel at home in. and Delg growling something in reply, about too much wood and not enough honest solid stone, but at least they didn't give dwarves funny looks… and suddenly, even before the promised dinner came, Shandril felt something hard touch her forehead, hard and unmoving and restful…

"Thy lady, lad," Mirt said, reaching over to poke Narm. "She’s out dreamstalking already… Nay, nay, don't wake her. Just keep her hair out of the soup when it comes…"

Unmoving, Shandril lay face forward on the table, her hair spread out around her in a swirl of ash-blond tresses. Narm's gentle hands gathered it back to her shoulders, combing out the worst tangles. Shandril slept on, shoulders rising and falling faintly.

She was running barefoot through night-dark woods, flames of spellfire racing up and down her bare body like a beacon. Where her feet came down, flames leapt up and left a fiery trail. Behind her, she could hear wolves running, wolves and men… men with dark cloaks and cruel eyes. They rode skeletal dragons that laughed hollowly, even after she blasted them. There were more of them, more and more, and the spellfire in her hands was fading away and failing… They came nearer, the men laughing now along with the bony dragons… near, nearer… Dark hands shifted suddenly, fingers lengthening horribly into reaching, writhing black tentacles…

"No! No, you won't take me!" Shandril screamed, lashing out with her hands. She was somewhere warm and bright-sitting at a table at the inn. With her friends. Shandril blinked and stared about wildly, breathing hard.

"Easy, Shan, easy," Narm said, holding her. "It was only a dream."

Shandril nodded-but her gaze had settled on a hard faced man approaching their table. He looked like a warrior, and lie strode slowly at the head of four others of similar cut Mirt turned in his seat to face these strangers, but did not rise.

Delg leaned across the table and hissed, "No spellfire unless you have to, Shan. Let us handle this, aye?"

Shandril had no time to reply. The newcomer's voice was already raised in anger. "You're the ones who stole my little girl! Thieves! Slavers! You won't get away this time! Innkeeper! Bring your crossbows!" He waved a hand and stepped aside. The warriors behind him, all armed, started menacingly forward.

Mirt rose ponderously from his chair to meet the foremost man, who held a naked scimitar ready.

"You're first, fat one," die man sneered, drawing up his blade for a slash.

Mirt ducked suddenly beneath its bright edge and slammed into the man's midriff. The man flew backward, crashing into another brigand in a confusion of clattering blades, hard knees, and helplessly flailing hands. Mirt continued his lunge, grabbed the belt of yet another man, and flung him sideways into the man who'd first accused them. 'The landing!" he bellowed as he fell amid a growing hubbub.

Narm and Delg were already looking up. Two more warriors were hurrying down the stairs to the landing, cocked crossbows in their hands. Delg's axe flasher! across the room, whirling as it flew. Men shouted in fear, and the tables all around emptied in haste. The axe sailed true, and the next moment one of the archers was slumped on the stairs, whimpering and clutching at the red ruin of his shoulder, where the bright dwarven axe was buried deeply amid the spreading blood.

Narm stood up coolly, shielding Shandril with his body, and raised his hands to cast a spell. Before he could, Delg slapped his leg. Narm looked down-and the dwarf thrust a small, loaded hand-crossbow into his hands. Narm stared at it for a moment, and then took it, aimed it carefully, holding it in both hands, and fired. An arrow thrummed into the floor as the bow from which it had come crashed over the railing. Its owner clutched at Narm's quarrel in his throat, made strangling noises, and followed his weaponry to the floor below.

Without pause, Delg snatched a handful of quarrels from his belt, thrust them into Narm's hands, and scrambled up onto the table, drawing a long knife from his boot.

Men shouted out in the lobby, and the thunder of running feet answered the call. Blades had been drawn all over the taproom. Some sort of alarm gong rang behind the bar, and there was a momentary lull in its wake-so everyone heard the grisly cracking sound as Mirt calmly broke a man's neck. The attacker's body slumped to the floor like a heavy sack of coal as the old merchant's hairy hands released hint Wheezing, Mirt snatched up a chair and met the charge of the last swordsman, sweeping aside the slashing blade.

All the while, Narm's trembling hands fumbled at reloading the unfamiliar weapon, He wished he knew some better battle spells and cursed himself for not having enough magical strength to protect his lady. The bolt slipped once again from its groove. Narm cursed and looked up in frustration. Over his shoulder, he glimpsed the man who'd accused them all, drawing back his hand and snarling. A dagger glittered in it, a dagger meant for Shandril. Narm roared a warning.

Shandril twisted desperately sideways in her seat to get below the table. The knife came down, leaping through the air at her with frightening speed, twinkling as it came. A straining body leapt to intercept it in midair over the table, shielding her for a crucial instant before crashing heavily down amid the scattered remains of their dinner. Narm landed with a ragged gasp and lay still.

Shandril stared at him in horror. Fear and anger coiled in her throat with the rising spellfire. Trembling with rage, she stood to lash out at the man-but the warrior no longer stood there.

Delg had leapt from the table where he had been fighting and struck the man squarely in the face-knife first and with all the dwarf's bearded and booted weight behind it. The man was falling with Delg still wrapped around his head, both of them covered in blood that did not belong to the dwarf.

Off to one side. Mirt had just broken his chair over the disarmed swordsman, who was falling now in a strangely boneless, flopping way to the floor.

There was no foe left to smite. Shandril stood there, hands smoldering, facing a frightened innkeeper and two red-faced but rapidly paling cooks with cleavers and crossbows in their hands. Other patrons stood farther back, swords and daggers and eating-forks held outs, fear on their faces. Silence came again to the taproom of The Wanton Wyvern.

"No, lass," Mirt rapped out al her, pointing to where Narm lay on the table. The bloody dagger stood out of the young mage's side, just below his left shoulder. "Delg, take his feet, will ye? We've no time to lose!"