“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