Mirt uttered a satisfied sound, came to a halt, and pointed. “That fence line, there? That’s the eastern paddock of the Wyvern. Come. My belly tells me it’s past time for some hot roast dinner.”
“Master, we obey,” Narm said in gentle mockery. Mirt sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and waved at them all to follow him. The stout old merchant pushed past a tangle of wild raspberry canes, creating angry crackling and tearing noises. He waded through the canes toward the road, slipped on a muddy patch of bank—and fell with a heavy splash into the ditch.
For a long, breathless moment, silence descended. Shandril smothered giggles, not very successfully. Delg cut his own way through the canes with a few deft swings of his axe, and then launched himself into an exaggerated pratfall down the bank, coming to rest so that one boot just crashed down into the edge of the water with a splash. The spray drenched Mirt’s face, which had just arisen from the muddy waters wearing a dark expression.
“Unusual maneuver,” the dwarf remarked cheerfully, “but I can see its virtues now, O Great Warrior. It’ll certainly lull any waiting foes into false overconfidence and allow us to make a grand entrance while they’re still rolling about on the ground, laughing helplessly.”
One muddy paw lashed out from the water, enfolded the dwarf’s boot in a loving grip, and pulled. Delg’s mirth was cut suddenly and damply short, leaving only bubbles to mark its passing.
“I hope you don’t expect us to join you,” said Shandril carefully, reaching a hand down to him. Mirt waved it away, spitting muddy water considerately off to one side.
“Nay, nay, lass—if ye gave me yer hand, ye’d end up in the wet here beside me, instead o’ getting me out of it. Nay, me an’ the intrepid Delg here’ll just wallow about for a bit, and then join ye on the far bank. If ye don’t feel up to leaping the ditch, any of ye, just step on my shoulder—here—and find yer way across … blast it!”
Shandril did giggle then, but made use of his offer. Full darkness had fallen by the time they all reached the road beyond. Mirt and Delg dripped their way to the front and rear of the band, respectively, and both set off in grim silence for their goal.
The farms and woodlots of Cormyr stretched out before them in the gloom, and stars winked overhead. Selûne had not yet risen, and the four travelers went over the hill under the cloak of night.
Before them, at the bottom of the slope, two bright pole-lamps flickered on the right-hand side of the road. The lamps flanked a stout gate that led off the road into a high-fenced yard. Up out of the dark shadows of this enclosure rose several large, dark buildings. The nearest one was a rambling place; they could see part of it by the light of another, dimmer lamp on a post near the door.
From a leaning spar that jutted above the closed gate, a rusty shield hung down on a chain. On the shield, the words “Strike to enter” were painted. Under this sign slumped the body of someone filthy, dressed in a very tattered collection of rags, and sitting up against one of the gateposts.
In heavy silence, Mirt went alertly forward, his sword drawn. The figure did not move. As they drew nearer, they heard faint snoring. Nonetheless, Mirt warily faced the fat, unmoving, ragtag figure, and he rapped the shield-gong with the pommel of his raised, ready sword.
The snores broke off abruptly, just as a small wooden window squealed open in the gate above. A face looked out at them. “Travelers?” came a gravelly, not unfriendly voice.
“Aye,” Mirt replied. “Two men, one women, and a he-dwarf, on foot. We’re armed but come in peace, and prepared to pay well for a warm meal and a good bed—if they’re as good at the Wyvern as I remember.”
“Well met!” The voice was less wary. “Welcome to The Wanton Wyvern, then. I’ll open the gate.” The window closed, and they heard the hollow sounds of wooden bars and props being shifted. Then the gate groaned inward.
The man standing inside looked tall and battered, and so did the stout wooden staff in his hand. They’d scarce got a look at him before he leapt out, past Mirt—who turned automatically to keep his drawn sword facing the man—and raised his staff threateningly over the ragtag, awakened sleeper.
“Be off, you! Move, Baergasra! I’ve told you before—away from the gate!” The staff thumped the tattered derelict solidly in the shoulder, and the tall man used it to shove and roll his bedraggled, gruntingly protesting target away from their path.
“Please come in,” he puffed over his shoulder. He raised the staff again as the bundle of rags moaned and tumbled hastily out of reach. “This old leper is always hanging about here—but we’ve never let her inside the gate. The Wyvern is clean, I assure you.”
Mirt merely nodded and strode into the inn yard. The others followed.
The tall man came after them, closing the gate hurriedly. “Please go within,” he said. “There, under the lamp. We’ve plenty of room tonight, and there’s food hot and ready.”
“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 ….