"Thank you, Lord Parseval, for the kind and generous offer of sharing," she said. "I, for one, have no desire to brood in some room for the next few hours and would indeed enjoy sharing elven joy at Midsummer's Night."

"Come then, fair lady cavalier," Parseval said with a gracious smile as he extended his arm. "There are fountains where you may refresh yourself, and bowers where gear such as yours can be changed for the dress of the revel – and you may call me Parseval… if I may call you…?"

"It is Deirdre, my lord – Parseval, rather," the young cavalier said. Then she waved toward her associates and smiled at them. "I shall see you at mid-forenoon, then, and good night!"

Gord was the last to head for the rooms where they would rest, and he stumped along with a black look as he went. Surely, he thought, as bad as elven fickleness was, that of humans was worse still.

Chapter 12

"You must leave now," said the cleric to the elf. "Time works against you."

Melf shook his head. "I have but three others with me," he countered. "If there is to be a chance of overcoming more than a score of the most savage brigands in a decade, the party must be augmented – a good cleric, at least!"

"I can offer no assistance there," came the reply, "for this temple houses only myself and a handful of underpriests. None are suitable for such an undertaking, Melf. May I suggest to you that you underestimate your own prowess?"

"Venerable Halomew, you subtly seek to influence me by flattery. I seek only to complete my mission."

The balding high priest of Celestian smiled benignly, took the elf by his mail-clad arm, and steered him toward the rear exit of the chamber. "Let us walk to the stables as we converse," he said. "Although you serve Mordenkainen, Veluna's interests are at stake here also, I assure you. All that I can do has been done, and it is now up to you and your associates, but you are not alone. Honor and glory to the first who stop these rogues and gain the prize."

"Are you certain that this intelligence is correct?" Melf asked, tapping the small roll of parchment the high priest had given him earlier.

"The facts are as given, and divination has revealed that if you speed due east the foe will be met," the high priest reassured him.

The elven warrior-mage shrugged. "Then we four bear a heavy burden – but bear it we must. We will leave immediately, for all is in readiness."

"The stars guide you and the heavens watch over you," Venerable Halomew said in benediction. Then, smiling and clasping the gray elfs hand, he said, ''Melf… good luck! Before you go, there is a question I must ask.”

Melf was puzzled, but he liked the old cleric, and nodded m him. "You may ask."

"Why do you use this name Melf? Prince Brightflame…"

"Cease!" Melf commanded without regard for Halomew's station. "It is recorded that I gave up all titles and claims, so name not these bygone things to me. As for Melf, it is a simple name, as good as any." Then he unbent a little and admitted, "This art of dweomercrafting is a perilous one, good cleric, and one must protect one's true name as carefully as a miser hoards his treasured gold."

"My blessings upon you and the others, then… Melf," said the priest, and he took his leave of the elven fighter-mage as they reached the stables.

Four armored riders cantered eastward on swift destriers. In the lead was the gray elf fighter and spell-caster, Melf. Next to him rode his friend and henchman, Biff. This halfling certainly had another name also, but as a swordsman and thief, one of his sort wished to avoid notoriety, to say the least. Behind these small figures came a pair of large men. The larger by far was Chert, a barbarian axeman wearing chainmail shirt and a plain helmet. Leather leggings and heavy boots protected his legs, but he disdained a shield. Beside him rode a hard-eyed crossbowman who called himself Lizard. This worthy was clad in scale mail, which did lend a semblance of reptilian nature to him. Tall and lean-muscled, Lizard prided himself in his accuracy with his chosen weapon, the arbalest.

"There is a fire under the elfs saddle," Lizard commented as he and Chert moved their steeds from canter to gallop following Melfs lead.

"Aye," agreed Chert, laughing. "When I signed on for this expedition, I thought to escape the dull routine of soldiering in Veluna. Now we might as well be warding some caravan!"

"Better the merchant train than this," the leathery-skinned crossbowman called back. "Caravans move at a more dignified pace, offer comfortable ease at night, and often have comely lasses amidst their baggage!" Further conversation was withheld, for they needed their attention and wind for the journey.

"There is the Velverdyva!" Melf shouted as he reined in his sweating steed. They had ridden hard for two days to arrive at this place on the great river that formed the boundary between Veluna and the Kingdom of Furyondy. There was a collection of buildings near the pier that marked the ferry here. "We will spend the night at Shanscross and take the first ferry tomorrow," said the leader.

All were pleased to find a small but well-kept inn in the thorp. Lizard, Biff, and Chert retired immediately after supping, but Melf stayed late in the common room, sipping wine and listening to the crackle of the fire and the idle chatter of barman and a pair of local patrons.

"Bring me a cold meat pie, Okelard cheese of the smoked sort, fruit, and your best wine!" a whining voice demanded.

This woke Melf from his doze, and he turned to see what the commotion was about. He noted that the order had come from a tall, skinny elf. As he looked, the lanky fellow returned his gaze with a smiling face but cold, cold eyes. The barman hurried to comply, going into the kitchen to fetch the viands, while a young wench, probably his daughter, drew a beaker of wine from a large cask behind the counter. The girl was well-formed, and the mop of auburn ringlets that framed her delicate face was most fetching.

"Draw two goblets extra, my pretty!" the thin elf called to her as she finished filling the container he had ordered. "One for me, one for you," he said with a rising cackle. "Then you can help me Carry the lot upstairs," he concluded with a suggestive giggle.

The wench flushed and shook her curls. "My father does not permit me to drink with patrons," she said with a tone of disgust that could be taken as discontent with either the for-biddance or the offer. The expression on her pretty face, however, left little doubt as to the cause of her revulsion.

"Eh? We'll see about that, my saucy little trollop. Barman! Come here at once!" Although the fellow was still laughing as he called, there was cruelty and threat in the cackling.

Melf arose from his chair and strode to a place near the unsavory elf. "Allow me to buy those two flagons you mentioned, sir elf, and to introduce myself to a fellow demi-human. I am Melf of the Arrow. And you, sir?"

The skinny elf stared unblinkingly at Melf, assessing him carefully. It was evident that he cared for neither the intrusion nor the offer of wine. But Melfs steel-clad form and the easy bearing he maintained under the scrutiny disconcerted the other elf, and he cackled to break the tension he felt within. "Yes, of course," he said. "I am Keak, and I will accept offer of a drink."

"Keak, then. A native of these parts?"

"Nay, a stranger like yourself – merely passing through," the odd elf giggled in reply.

"Crossing the Velverdyva?"

"No, my comrade and I are taking… goods… from his home in the Kron Hills to my own. Do you know Highfolk?" Keak's laughter rang with a happy yet mocking note as he asked Melf the question. "It is a lovely, lovely place, you know."