Laronnar scooted back. He still held the crossbow. His fingers fumbled for the quarrels on his belt. They were all gone-lost in the struggle!
Laronnar upended a table, crawled behind it and tried to pull himself up. His leg burned like it was on fire. And he could hear the scraping of Dralan’s approach.
Then he felt a soft hand on his arm, urging him to remain where he was. He wheeled to face the red-haired barmaid, Kaelay, smiling sweetly and smelling of spice. Not a hair was mussed, but her tunic was smeared with blood across the breast where she had helped his commander to stand.
“Let me help you,” she said, and her voice carried the music of rushing wind.
“What game is this you play?!” Laronnar snarled. He dropped the useless crossbow and clutched a broken chair leg like a dagger. “Revenge for the taking of your paltry little town?”
“No game, my lord. I will help the one who can best help me in return.” She went to her knees beside him.
“First you help him, then me.” Laronnar tried again to stand. The sound of scuffing, booted feet on the plank floor was very near.
Laronnar fell, and she caught him.
The heavy sword suddenly clanged down on the table edge, right above his head. Wood chips and splinters flew.
Ignoring the twisting pain in his thigh, Laronnar pushed himself to his feet. He swung the chair leg. It whistled in the air just inches from Dralan’s face, and he lost his footing. The heavy sword slid from the edge of the table, its tip thunking on the floor.
While Dralan struggled to lift the sword once more, Laronnar wheeled on Kaelay.
“Bitch! You try to distract me!” He slashed at her as he had slashed at Dralan. “If you kill us all, more will come to take our places.”
More nimbly than his commander, she dodged. “I will help the one who would help me in return,” she repeated. Her sweetness was gone, replaced with venom and fire. She slapped her hand down on his, clutching his fist, and uttered a single, incomprehensible word.
Laronnar gasped. A noxious, smoky glow flared from the joining of their hands. It stung his flesh like the barbs of nettles.
Kaelay uttered another word, then released his hand so abruptly he reeled. In place of the chair leg, where the warmth of her hand had covered his, was the little cross-bow, loaded with a quarrel and cocked.
Her quick intake of breath alerted him. He wheeled to meet Dralan, who held the draconian sword, gleaming, in his hands.
Laronnar stepped forward and pressed the loaded crossbow to Dralan’s chest. Laronnar pulled the smooth trigger of the bow.
The little quarrel, only a hand long, exploded Dralan’s heart, just as Dralan’s sword hit Laronnar’s shoulder. Pain spangled out and down, but it was amazingly mild.
Laronnar watched surprise, then anger, flit across Dralan’s face. Watched Dralan’s dead fingers slide off the sword. Watched as Dralan slipped to the floor. Heard the sword rattle as it fell off his shoulder and hit the table edge, then the floor.
And Laronnar was still standing!
Cautiously, he moved his chin just half an inch to the side, just half an inch down, shifted his gaze to his shoulder. No blood. No torn flesh or bloodied bone ends. The sword had not cut him! How-?
He turned to Kaelay. She had moved away and was standing alone among the jumble of tables near the door. She smiled and shrugged, the movement tugging the soft tunic across her breasts. Then she turned away.
Before he could go after her, a rousing cheer went up from the soldiers who had remained in the bar. They rushed Laronnar, grabbing up his numb hands to shake them, pounding him on the back in congratulation.
*****
Laronnar stepped out of the inn and breathed deeply of rain-freshened salt air. The call to battle had been sounded. The lull was over.
In the evening sky, the twinkling of the night’s first stars glinted off puddles of water on the rough board-walk. The street before him was a mire, so empty and quiet that he could hear the sound of the sea, the creaking of the ships at water’s edge.