Dragonlance Tales, Vol. 3 – Love and War

“I’ve lost my appetite,” the guest said. Calmly rising to

her feet, she wiped stew from her hands on a greasy napkin

and headed for the stairs. “I’ll go to my room now,

innkeeper. What number?”

“Number sixteen. You can bolt lock it from the inside to

keep out the riff-raff,” Slegart said, his mug-polishing

slowing. Trouble was bad for business, cut into profits.

“Serving girl’ll be along to turn down the bed.”

The “riff-raff,” stew dripping off his nose, might have

been content to let the mysterious person go her way. There

had been a coolness in the voice, and the quick, self-

possessed movement indicated that the guest had some

experience caring for herself. But the big warrior laughed at

the innkeeper’s remark – a chuckle of appreciation – and so

did the “hunting” party by the fire. Their laughter was the

laughter of derision, however.

Casting his comrades an angry glance, the man wiped

stew from his eyes and leaped to his feet. Overturning the

table, he followed the woman, who was half-way up the

stairs.

“I’LL show you to yer room!” he leered, grabbing hold

of her and jerking her backward.

Caught off-balance, the guest fell into the ruffian’s

arms with a cry that proved beyond a shadow of a doubt

that she was, indeed, a female.

“Raistlin?” pleaded Caramon, his hand on the hilt of his

sword.

“Very well, my brother,” the mage said with a sigh.

Reaching out his hand for the staff he had leaned against the

wall, he used it to pull himself to his feet.

Caramon was starting to stand up when he saw his

brother’s eyes go to a point just behind him. Catching the

look, Caramon nodded slightly just as a heavy hand closed

over his shoulder.

“Good stew, ain’t it?” said one of the hunting party.

“Shame to interrupt yer dinner over somethin’ that ain’t none

of yer business. Unless, of course, you want to share some

of the fun. If so, we’ll let you know when it’s your tur – ”

Caramon’s fist thudded into the man’s jaw. “Thanks,”

the warrior said coolly, drawing his sword and twisting

around to face the other thugs behind him. “I think I’ll take

my turn now.”

A chair flung from the back of the crowd caught Caramon

on the shoulder of his sword arm. Two men in front jumped

him, one grabbing his wrist and trying to knock the sword

free, the other flailing away with his fists. The mob – seeing

the warrior apparently falling – surged forward.

“Get the girl, Raist! I’ll take care of these!” Caramon

shouted in muffled tones from beneath a sea of bodies.

“Everything’s . . . under . . . contr – ”

“As usual, my brother,” said the mage wryly. Ignoring

the grunts and yells, the cracking of furniture and bone,

Raistlin leaned on his staff and began climbing the stairs.

The girl was fighting her attacker with her fists – she

apparently had no other weapon – and it was easy to see she

must soon lose. The man’s attention was fixed on dragging

his struggling victim up the stairs, and he never noticed the

red-robed mage moving swiftly behind him. There was a

flash of silver, a quick thrust of the mage’s hand, and the

ruffian, letting loose of the girl, clutched his ribs. Blood

welled out from between his fingers. For an instant he

stared at Raistlin in astonishment, then tumbled past him,

falling headlong down the stairs, the mage’s dagger

protruding from his side.

“Raist! Help!” Caramon shouted from below. Though

he had laid three opponents low, he was locked in a vicious

battle with a fourth, his movements decidedly hampered by

a gully dwarf, who had crawled up his back and was beating

him over the head with a pan.

But Raistlin was not able to go to his brother’s rescue.

The girl, weak and dizzy from her struggles, missed her step

upon the stairs and swayed unsteadily.

Letting go of his staff – which remained perfectly

upright, standing next to him as though he were holding it –

Raistlin caught the girl before she fell.

“Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her head down. Her

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