Larson received no reply from anywhere in the crowd. He spun awkwardly, like a drunken dancer, without sighting the boy. Brendor and Valvitnir had disappeared completely. Larson seized an old man by the collar and jacked him against the tavern wall. "Which way did he go?"
The man pointed a shaking finger toward a narrow throughway between buildings. Dropping his informant, Larson charged through the gaping onlookers. He hurtled down the alleyway, well aware there could be only one enemy. Bramin's use of a child seemed a ruse so obvious he wondered how he had come to overlook it. Booby-trapping children was a favorite trick of the Viet Cong; he should have expected no less from Bramin. Brendor was certainly Bramin's accomplice, placed in a piteous position where Larson and his companions would happen upon him. Once Brendor gained Larson's trust, he waited for an opening to steal the sword. And Larson had fallen for the plan like an idiot, his only comfort the fact that Silme and Gaelinar had been duped as easily as himself.
The roadway forked suddenly. Larson chose his direction at random. Wind blew a discarded rag under his feet, and Larson skirted it instinctively. The pathway narrowed between cottages and ended at a staunch wooden gate. Beyond lay a plowed field. Across acres of sprouting grain stood a cottage. As Larson watched, a small figure darted toward it.
Larson sprang for the gate. A poorly-timed memory slammed his consciousness with a force akin to Anrad's blows. He flinched back as the scene in his head exploded in red light. "They've wired the gate!" screamed Gavin. Even as Larson surrend-ered to flashback, he pitched himself over the barrier.
The illusion mushroomed to a cloud of fire, and impact with the ground jarred Larson back to the wheat field. Sweat stung his eyes. Field dirt clung to his limbs. He ripped his tunic as he struggled to his feet and sprinted toward the cottage. The child grew more visible as he approached, dark-haired, dressed in tan and blue, and pressed to the mud-chinked stone wall. It was unmistakably Brendor. The boy turned as Larson closed, and his face went pale.
"You conniving little bastard," Larson panted as he seized Brendor's forearm. "I ought to break your goddamned neck."
Brendor's face screwed into a harried mass of wrinkles. "Stop, shhh:" He pulled against Larson's grip.
Larson tightened his fist as Brendor fought against him. "Don't ' shhh ' me, you little brat. I'lclass="underline" "
Brendor took a sharp intake of breath. His gaze suddenly focused beyond Larson. Menaced from behind, the elf loosed the child. Brendor fell against the wall with a pained whimper. Larson whirled to face two men with drawn swords. A third stood between them, unarmed but no less formidable. A heavy cloth bandage enclosed his right hand. "If you were trying to be subtle," said one, "you failed miserably."
The second man stepped forward. "If you've come for your sword, I may decide to give it to you." Spit sprayed from his mouth as he pronounced each word with gloating force. "Jammed through your ugly, elven heart."
"What do we do with them?" asked the unarmed man.
"Take them inside," replied the first. "I think Bramin would be grateful if we accidentally killed them." He gestured. " Gilbyr, you lead. Then the boy, followed by the elf." His eyes met Larson's. "Do anything we don't like and you earn two swords between your ribs. "
The name Gilbyr blazed in Larson's awareness from the previous night when Bramin's bandits tried to break through Silme's wards. He stared at Gilbyr's bandaged hand, recalling the power of the sorceress' white-hot magics. / can't face Bramin without Silme. Rising fear blurred memory into purpose. Still uncertain of Brendor's role in the swordnapping, Larson glanced at the boy.
The fear and betrayal stamped across Brendor's features hurt Larson worse than the bandits' gibes and death threats. "They grabbed the sword from me and ran. I tried:"
"Silence!" Gilbyr raised his injured hand to strike Brendor and immediately realized his mistake. The thief bit back a scream. Fresh blood colored his bandage. "Another thing you'll pay for. Come along."
Hesitantly, Brendor went to Gilbyr, rubbing elbows skinned from Larson's unceremonious push against the cottage. Bereft of alternatives, Larson followed. He wished he had a means to judge the sword skill of the man behind him.
In a line, captors and victims passed around the cottage. Gilbyr paused before the front door and tripped the latch. Larson fretted, the thought of dying indoors no more palatable than that of dying outside. Now or never. The oaken door swung open. As Gilbyr started through the portal, Larson pretended to stumble. The swordsmen lurched with him. Larson shoved Brendor into Gilbyr with all the strength he could muster. Man and boy tumbled into the cottage, a twisting wheel of arms and legs. A blade licked Larson's back as he sprang through the opening and pulled the door shut behind him.
Swords thumped against the wood, mingled with muffled curses. While Gilbyr and Brendor untangled themselves, Larson shot the bolt home, aware the swordsmen could not quickly break through solid oak. Fists clenched, Larson turned to engage Gilbyr. As Brendor freed himself, he stomped on Gilbyr's wounded hand. Howling curses, Gilbyr backed toward an open doorway several feet away. Brendor ran to Larson's side.
Larson advanced. Behind him, the door rattled beneath the swordsmen's blows. A plan took form, and he repressed an amused smile which might ruin its effect. He let his fists go lax and trained his eyes on Gilbyr. "Stop, fool!" Larson borrowed the voice of a summoned god from a cheap horror flick.
Gilbyr hesitated.
Larson loosed a rumbling laugh and wished he sounded less nervous and more evil. "You chose the wrong victims for your childish prank." He snapped a hand in Brendor's direction. "This is no boy, but a master Dragonrank in child form."
Brendor looked as startled as the thief. The door shuddered and groaned warningly.
Larson sacrificed a dramatic pause for brevity. "You've already sampled his power. Look at your hand. He could slay you with a single word, but your transgressions have gone beyond merciful death. Now he shall twist your very soul." He raised his arms for effect and took a threatening forward step. "Your person will transform to a wolf-being which feasts upon blood and howls at the full moon. Men will hunt you downV
Wood splintered as a sword tip cracked the door and retreated. Larson kicked Brendor's shin. "Shave, kid," he whispered.
"Shave!" hollered Brendor.
Hair sprang from Gilbyr's face. The thief loosed a blood-curdling shriek and bolted through the crumbling door. The oak panel broke open. Gilbyr spitted himself on his companions' swords, and his screams transformed from panicked to agonized.
Brendor grabbed Larson's arm. "Come on!"
Larson needed no urging. Elf and boy sprang through the rearward portal and found themselves in a small storage room. Behind, Gilbyr's sharp screams rose over the exchanges of the thieves. Brendor clawed at a square of fur which covered the window, but a faintly-glowing sack in the storeroom corner arrested Larson's escape. "The sword!" He crossed the room in two leaping strides and ripped the cloth bag, spilling woolen garments to the bare stone floor.
Dropping to a crouch, Larson buried his hands in the cloth and was rewarded by a touch of metal. His wild gesture flung tunics through the storeroom and uncovered Valvitnir's jeweled hilt. With a relieved sigh, Larson caught the grip as Gilbyr's shrieks subsided to anguished moans in the other room.
Valvitnir quivered in greeting. Its presence inspired a strange joy, lulling Larson's mind to an inner peace instantly shattered by a string of curses from the adjoining room. No sign remained of Brendor but a rumpled pile of furs beneath the window. Larson flung the sword. It flew, straight as an archer's arrow, through the window into the gathering grayness of evening. He scuttled after it.
The rough-hewn stone of the window scraped Larson's skin despite his clothing. He caught the outer ledge, swung his legs between his hands, and hit the ground prepared to run. A short distance ahead, Brendor's slight form darted toward the town square. Closer, Valvitnir flared blue as a beacon.