Dezra's Quest

by Chris Pierson

  Dezra glowered. "Looking at something?"

  "I'll say," he answered, grinning drunkenly. "I'm Storvald. Storvald of—" he stifled a belch "—of Wayend. What's your name, lovely?"

  Lummox, Dezra thought, studiously ignoring him.

  His hand reached out, touched hers. His fingers were callused and crooked. "Have I seen you somewhere? At the fair, maybe?"

  A strangled laugh came from behind the bar. Dezra glared at Brandel, who quickly strolled into the storeroom in the back of the tavern.

  "I doubt it," she told the sellsword.

  "Well, no mind," Storvald declared. "We know each other now, don't we?"

  Suddenly, his fingers seized Dezra's wrist. His bearded face lunged toward hers, and he kissed her on the mouth. His breath was sour.

  Dezra leaned back, breaking the kiss. "Let go."

  Storvald snarled, his grip on her arm tightening painfully. "Now, love, be nice. We'll find someplace quiet, a hayloft maybe—"

  Brandel came back into the taproom. His lips tightened when he saw Dezra's red face. "Everything all right, Dez?" he asked. He held a knotted wooden cudgel. "You—don't make me use this."

  For someone so drunk, Storvald was surprisingly fast. Reaching over his shoulder, he yanked his massive axe from its harness and slammed it down on the bar. It buried itself an inch deep in the wood.

  "This ain't your trouble," he growled.

  Brandel stopped, staring. His cudgel fell to the floor with a thump.

  "That's better," Storvald said. "Now, the girl and me are leaving to find a nice, quiet hayloft." He jerked Dezra's arm. "And no one's stopping us, right?"

  "Wrong," Dezra said, and stomped on his ankle.

  Her attack came with no warning. Storvald howled in pain, staggering. He let Dezra go, grabbing the bar with both hands. Her fist slammed into his jaw. She wore a ring, set with a green cat's-eye gem. It opened his cheek, and blood ran down his face.

  Reeling, Storvald shook his head and lunged for her. She danced aside, however, and he stumbled against the bar, flattening his hand against the countertop. Dezra drew her dagger and drove it through that hand, pinning it to the bar. There was more blood, and Storvald cried out again. He clawed for her clumsily. She ducked, spun, and hooked his uninjured leg with her foot, then hit his forehead with her knee as he fell. He went limp, hanging from the bar by his impaled hand.

  Dezra straightened and pulled her dagger free. Storvald crumpled in a heap.

  The Rusty Shield was silent. She pried Storvald's axe out of the bar and handed it to Brandel. “Yours," she said, nodding at the cudgel on the floor. "Thanks for trying to help—but next time, stay out of it."

  She drained her half-empty tankard, then bent over the unconscious sellsword and grabbed his arms. "Give me a hand, Edelle," she said.

  Grinning, the barmaid hurried over and took Storvald's legs. They carried him out and dumped him in the prickly hedgerow. "What if he wakes up?" Edelle wondered.

  "He won't," Dezra said, and kicked him, hard, in the head. "That should keep him till morning."

  They went back inside. Now that the surprise had worn off, the patrons carried on with their business. This wasn't the first time someone had been beaten senseless in the Rusty Shield.

  Brandel poured Dezra another beer. "I'm looking for new muscle," he said.

  Dezra laughed, taking a deep drink. "Look somewhere else. I'm leaving this louse-ridden town."

  "Sure. You say that every week."

  She shrugged, tracing her fingers around the rim of her stoup. "I mean it this time. Tomorrow morning, I'm gone."

  "Dost thou, perchance, want company?" asked a voice from the doorway.

  Dezra sighed. "Not another one," she muttered, quaffing her ale. "Can't a woman have a drink without every lout in town thinking—Brandel? What's wrong?"

  The barkeep didn't say a word; he just gaped at the door. Curious, Dezra glanced over her shoulder, did a double-take, and stared.

  It was the centaur, the one her father had been wrestling when Ganlamar caught her stealing the amethyst. He stooped down awkwardly, half in and half out the door. He wore a quiver of arrows and an enormous bow, and there was a long-bladed lance strapped to his war harness.

  "Sorry, friend," Brandel said. "No horses allowed."

  The centaur's eyes blazed. "I'm no horse!" he blustered, chin rising. "I am Trephas, son of Nemeredes!"

  "Son of an old nag," Brandel muttered.

  "Easy," Dezra said.

  "No," the barkeep shot back, loud enough for Trephas to hear. "I don't want him in here, stinking the place up."

  Trephas's face darkened. He lifted his head, sniffing disdainfully. "I hardly think my smell would hurt this place."

  "Let him in, Brandel," Dezra murmured. "You've heard the stories about how much his kind drink. That's a lot of money to turn away."

  Brandel thought it over. "Good point," he noted. "But if he craps on the floor, you're cleaning it up." He beckoned to the centaur, smiling thinly. "Come in, then, whatever your name is."

  With some difficulty, Trephas squeezed through the door. He glanced around, then walked toward the bar, his iron shoes clacking against the wooden floor.

  Edelle bustled over to Dezra with a tray of empty mugs. "You should see him from behind," she whispered, grinning. "Now I know where that saying comes from."

  Brandel and Dezra snickered, drawing another hot look from the centaur. "What'll you have?" the barkeep asked, composing himself. "A glass of wine?"

  Trephas regarded him like something he'd just scraped off his hoof. “A glass?" he asked scornfully. "You may as well fill a thimble, man. Bring me a pitcher!"

  Brandel bristled, but Dezra gave him a look, and he brought himself under control. "Fine," he said.

  "And it had best not be watered." Tossing his mane, Trephas pulled his lance from his harness and leaned it against the bar.

  "Of course not," Brandel said tightly. He disappeared into the back. He carried a ewer, brimming with red wine, when he returned. Trephas reached for it, and he snatched it back. "I think you're forgetting something."

  "What?" Trephas blurted. Then he chuckled haughtily. "Oh, of course. I forgot—humans pay for their drinks." He reached for the purse that hung from his harness. "Will five pieces of silver suffice?"

  Brandel had been about to ask for only two pieces, but he quickly swallowed his words. "Er, yeah, that's right," he declared. "Five." He waited while the centaur counted the coins—they were old, dating back to before the first Cataclysm—then handed him his wine.

  The pitcher was heavy, but Trephas hoisted it as easily as a human might lift a flagon. Then he poured a large measure— enough to fill a goblet—on the ground.

  "Hey!" Brandel exclaimed. "My floor!"

  Trephas waved him off. "That was a sacred libation," he said. "For Chislev the Beast. The gods must have their due, departed though they may be."

  Brandel peered over the bar at the dark stain before the centaur's hooves, then at Trephas's full purse. "Sure," he said. "Whatever you say."

  Trephas blew out his lips—a peculiarly horselike gesture— and brought the pitcher to his mouth. He drank it down in one draught. Wine spilled around the corners of his mouth, flowing in twin runnels down his bearded cheeks. Most, however, went straight down his throat. Everyone in the tavern stared. He slammed the empty pitcher on the bar, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Ahhh," he declared lustily. "A bit plain, but 'twill do. Fetch me another."

  Brandel was too awed to reply. He grabbed the empty pitcher and headed for the back room again.

  Trephas turned to Dezra, his thick eyebrows rising. "Now. Thou wert saying, when I came in, that thou art planning to quit this town?"

  Dezra blinked. "Well," she said, "planning's a strong word, but… yeah, I'm leaving."

  The centaur nodded. Brandel brought a second pitcher, and Trephas traded another handful of silver coins for it, then poured another libation and drank. H
e didn't finish it in one gulp this time, but still put it away with astonishing speed.

  "Come with me, then," he said. "I have use for thee."

  "Use for me?" Dezra repeated. "That's a hell of a way to put it. Anyway, I thought your kind preferred to take young women without asking their permission."

  Trephas snorted and let out a braying laugh. "Oh, ho!" he declared. "Of course—those childish tales thy people tell. My folk kidnapping and ravishing maidens and such. No, that isn't my meaning. I want thee to come to Darken Wood, Dezra Majere. I need thy help."

  It was Dezra's turn to laugh. “My help? What in Hiddukel's name for?"

  The centaur waved his hand. "My people are having trouble with some renegades in the forest. We have need of human aid to put a stop to the trouble. I saw what thou didst at the fair today, and again with that sells word." He set down the pitcher and folded his arms across his chest. "I think thou wouldst be fine for the job."

  Dezra pursed her lips, then shook her head. "You've got the wrong Majere. I'm not the one who goes off on grand quests for people I hardly know. Why don't you ask my father?"

  "I already did. He refused."

  Dezra looked at him sharply, her eyes narrowing. They were both silent for a time. At length, Dezra coughed and glanced away. "Maybe I am interested, after all," she said. "What's in it for me?"

  Trephas looked at her, confused.

  Dezra nodded at the centaur's purse. "I'm not going to Darken Wood for free, you know."

  "Oh," he said. He thought on this. "I suppose I could give thee some silver… ."

  "Steel," she corrected. "Two hundred pieces—and that's just for me to go to Darken Wood with you. Once I'm there, if I decide to help, I'll expect more."

  He pondered, pawing the floor with his forehoof. "Very well," he said after a moment. "I didn't realize thy people sold themselves so, but there it is. I'll pay thee, if thou wilt go. We leave in the morning."

  "It's a deal," she said, offering her hand. He took it, clasping her wrist painfully tight. She raised her stoup. "To Darken Wood, then."

  "To Darken Wood," Trephas echoed, flashing his big-toothed grin as he lifted his pitcher.

  It had been a long night for Uwen Gondil. He'd eaten an obscene amount of food at the feast, and drank enough ale to make the ground rock underfoot. He'd also earned the attentions of many young townswomen. They'd heard of his heroics at the fair, and at times there were whole packs of them trying to catch his eye.

  It wasn't that Uwen didn't appreciate all that giggling and eyelash-batting—he was seventeen, after all—but his attention was elsewhere. How could it be otherwise, when he'd lost his heart today? So, even when the chandler's daughter was whispering unladylike words in his ear, he'd kept an eye on the crowds, searching for Dezra Majere.

  Sometime after midnight, when all but the young and the foolish had gone home, Uwen had found himself talking with Borlos, the bard, who claimed to be Caramon Majere's best friend.

  "This ain't the first time this has happened," Borlos said, drunkenly flinging his arm about Uwen's shoulders. "That girl's been in more trouble than a kender in a gnome-hole. Anyway, she's more than you want to handle, believe me. Why not try her sister instead?"

  He'd pointed at a red-haired girl who was busy keeping people's flagons filled. Uwen had walked over to her and exchanged a few words, but it had led nowhere. Laura was nice, yes, and friendly, but she was too docile and demure. Not at all like her sister. They'd drifted apart, and he'd resumed his vigil.

  In the end, Dezra didn't show up; disappointed, Uwen stumbled away from the fire's embers. The sky was gray, brightening with coming dawn. He was weary and still a bit drunk, and had to stop now and then to lean against a vallen-wood's trunk.

  It was during one of these stops that he saw her. He blinked in surprise as he watched Dezra skulk through the morning mist, bound for the fairgrounds. He thought to call out to her, but decided against it. There was something about the stealthy way she moved that made him think it would be a bad idea. Taking a deep breath, he pushed away from the tree and followed.

  The fairgrounds were quiet and still. Most of the merchants would set out on the road this afternoon—after sleeping contentedly through the morning—bound for Haven or Gateway, or towns farther away. Dezra crept between the stalls, stopping now and again to lift a tent flap or peer inside a sack. At last she smiled, picked up a loaf of bread, and tucked it into a pouch at her hip.

  Uwen gaped, not believing his eyes. There was no one to see her but him.

  He should stop her, he knew. His parents had taught him good from evil, enough to know stealing wasn't right. But he didn't. He was captivated, watching the way her lithe form moved, the crooked smile that curled her lips. She crept on, and he went after her.

  The bread wasn't all she stole—she also filched a wheel of white cheese, a few apples, and several hard sausages. She hooked a full ale-skin from a brewer's stall, as well as a silver flask of stronger spirits. From a tailor, she took a hooded, gray cloak. Last, she stopped at a weaponsmith's tent. The smith's apprentice, who should have been standing guard, slumped in his chair, snoring and drooling. Dezra eyed the drowsing lad, then nodded to herself, chuckling softly. Quiet as a shadow, she slipped into the tent. Uwen held his breath until she stepped out again, nearly a minute later. She buckled a swordbelt about her waist as she emerged. A slender, scabbarded blade now hung at her hip.

  Uwen Gondil had lived most of his life on his family's farm. He'd never seen a woman wear a sword before. His fascination with Dezra Majere grew even stronger.

  She was moving again, faster this time. He followed, the fog muting his thudding footsteps. Once she was out of the square, Uwen expected Dezra to head back to the Inn of the Last Home. To his surprise, she turned west instead, toward the edge of town. He kept after her.

  Suddenly, another shape emerged from the fog in front of Dezra. Uwen stopped, staring in amazement. He'd heard there'd been a centaur at the fair, but he hadn't seen the beast. Now his mouth dropped wide open.

  Dezra and the centaur spoke together a moment, too soft to hear, then he bent low beside her. She swung a leg across his withers, pulled herself astride his back, and gripped his shoulders as he rose again. Turning, he trotted west, out of Solace and onto the Haven Road.

  Uwen was too stunned to do more than stare as Dezra and the centaur vanished into the mist. The sound of hoofbeats faded away. He thought of the stories his grandfather had told him when he was a boy. Didn't centaurs kidnap young ladies? Yes, of course they did—kidnapped them, took them to Darken Wood, and did things Grandfather hadn't wanted to talk about. Now that he was older, he had an idea what those things were.

  One of the creatures had just taken Dezra.

  He took a step forward, then stopped. Uwen could run fast, but not as fast as a horse—which was what the centaur was, after all. And if he did catch them? What then? He was a farm-boy, not a warrior. He'd seen the horse-man's lance and bow. He needed help.

  Turning, he hurried back across Solace, toward the Inn of the Last Home.

  7

  Fortunately Caramon saw the mug coming, he ducked as it flew toward him, and it hit the wall behind him with a crash. Its shards clattered down around his feet.

  "She's gone!" Uka shouted. "He took her, damn you!"

  "What are you talking about?" Caramon asked, raising his hands to ward off more flying tankards.

  Tika looked behind her. "You tell him."

  Looking past her, Caramon saw the farmboy he'd wrestled at the fair. "Uwen?"

  "It—it isn't my fault," the boy stammered. His eyes were wide, his face pale. "I wanted to stop him—"

  "Hold on," Caramon said. "Slow down, lad. What's the matter?"

  Uwen told him, pale and terrified: He'd seen Dezra at dawn, watched her pilfer traveling gear from half a dozen different merchants, then seen her and the centaur ride west out of Solace. Caramon bowed his head, a hollow feeling in his gut.

  "It's
your fault!" Tika yelled, letting another mug fly. He grunted as it glanced off his elbow. "Blast it, Caramon! How could you?"

  "You'd have done the same thing."

  "Exactly," she said, tears on her cheeks. "That's why I asked you to deal with her. I didn't trust my temper." She gestured at the shattered mugs. "I thought you'd go easier on her. You've always been the reasonable one. Was it reasonable to throw her out?"

  Caramon sighed. He walked toward her, took her hands, gazed into her eyes. "Maybe it's time she was on her own. The boys were, when they were her age."

  Tika's eyes flashed. "Look where that got them."

  Caramon winced as he thought of Tanin and Sturm, their graves overgrown with ferns and myrtle. "Palm was young too, the first time he left home," he murmured. "If we'd kept him here, he wouldn't have met Usha, or had children of his own." There was unspoken meaning behind his words. If they'd sheltered Palin, Krynn might no longer exist. His magic had helped stop the mad god Chaos from destroying the world.

  Tika shook her head stubbornly. "We're not talking about Palin. We're talking about our little girl."

  "Gods, Tika," Caramon said, throwing up his hands, "what am I supposed to do?"

  "Find her, you dolt! Get her back from that centaur."

  Uwen stepped forward. "I think he kidnapped her," he said. "Like in the stories."

  "I don't know," Caramon said, scratching his head. "You say she was wearing a sword… ."

  "Kidnapped or not, she's riding into Darken Wood," Tika argued. "She doesn't know what she's getting into."

  Caramon thought she probably did, but didn't say so. He bowed his head, gesturing at himself. "Look at me, Tika," he said. "Even Lord Gunthar quit sallying forth from his keep when he was my age—and he was a Knight of Solamnia."

  "Gunthar would have gone, if it had been his daughter."

  Yes, Caramon thought, I guess he would, damn it.

  "And I know another man who wasn't much younger than you are now when he set out on a quest," Tika pressed. "A quest much more dangerous than following a runaway daughter into Darken Wood… ."