place.”
“What of the Duke?” Therian asked, speaking for the first time.
“He will not be joining us. You will see him tonight, I’m sure.”
Therian nodded. “We will join your hunt. But we have no spear or bow.”
“There is an armory downstairs, milord. I’m sure you can find suitable equipment there.”
Gruum watched the man leave. He turned to Therian. “What an odd bunch. Every one of them makes me uneasy. How can they know a lich walks among them and yet seem unperturbed?”
Therian gave him a slight smile. “You slept with a living shadow last night, and even managed to coax it into its pouch for transport. Who are you to judge the strange habits of these people?”
“I suppose you have a point there. But milord, we have not spoken of the Dragon’s charge. Do you know what we are to seek here? Is this the right place?”
“Oh yes,” Therian said. “We are in the right place. Of that much, I am sure.”
When they stepped downstairs, they found the armory to be a place of gloom, dust and cobwebs.
“Everything here seems ancient and disused,” remarked Gruum. Therian did not respond.
The two men poked about. There were barrels of rusty spears and an entire wall hung with swords. None of them seemed to be well cared-for.
“Perhaps I can help you gentlemen,” said a fair voice behind them.
Gruum and Therian turned with their brows uplifted. It was the huntress, wearing the same cloak and hood she had worn while Gruum carried her through the previous night. Gruum was especially surprised to see her standing behind them. He had not heard her feet echoing upon the stone steps.
Gruum smiled at her. “I did not catch your name at breakfast, miss…?”
“I’m Margaret,” she said, returning his smile.
“Maybe you can help, Margaret. I can’t find a weapon that isn’t coated with the work of a thousand spiders.”
She led them to a door in the back. They followed her through and Gruum made appreciative sounds. The room was full of well cared-for boar spears. Every point was shining, polished steel. There were crossbows as well, a dozen of them with strong prods. Each had two strings of fresh, braided gut hanging from the prods, ready to be strung by a huntsman’s hand.
Gruum took down one of the lighter crossbows and bent the prod against the stone floor. He found plenty of spring in the prod and had to grunt and struggle to string it. “I prefer a short bow, but this will do nicely,” he said. “Can I string one for you, master?”
Therian made a dismissive gesture. He stood inspecting the boar spears for a time before selecting one with a wide head and a haft of stout hardwood. He took it down and worked the air with it experimentally. Gruum sidestepped, frowning. Margaret stood her ground, smiling.
“An excellent weapon,” said Therian. “By the look of the grain, I believe the shaft is made of ash.”
“Ash wood is the best,” agreed Gruum, looking for a spear of his own. “Lighter than oak and almost as strong, it is less likely to split. What of you, Miss Margaret?”
“I have my own bow and dagger,” she said.
Gruum turned to her. “Do you recall how you came to be here?” he asked her.
By her reaction, he judged he had made a misstep. She looked down, and appeared embarrassed. “I’m told I owe you thanks, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” Gruum said quickly, not wanting to upset her. Perhaps the idea of having spent the night helpless and in the care of two strange men was disturbing to her.
Therian watched them closely. He tested his spearhead to see if it was firmly seated. The spearhead had a thick, central rib down the center of it, a sharply tapered point and twin broadening blades that ran down the sides. To prevent the spearhead from sinking too deeply into the target, two quillons extended from the base where it sat upon the shaft. The quillons resembled the crossguard of a broadsword.
Therian turned to Margaret. “I would ask you a
“What of the Duke?” Therian asked, speaking for the first time.
“He will not be joining us. You will see him tonight, I’m sure.”
Therian nodded. “We will join your hunt. But we have no spear or bow.”
“There is an armory downstairs, milord. I’m sure you can find suitable equipment there.”
Gruum watched the man leave. He turned to Therian. “What an odd bunch. Every one of them makes me uneasy. How can they know a lich walks among them and yet seem unperturbed?”
Therian gave him a slight smile. “You slept with a living shadow last night, and even managed to coax it into its pouch for transport. Who are you to judge the strange habits of these people?”
“I suppose you have a point there. But milord, we have not spoken of the Dragon’s charge. Do you know what we are to seek here? Is this the right place?”
“Oh yes,” Therian said. “We are in the right place. Of that much, I am sure.”
When they stepped downstairs, they found the armory to be a place of gloom, dust and cobwebs.
“Everything here seems ancient and disused,” remarked Gruum. Therian did not respond.
The two men poked about. There were barrels of rusty spears and an entire wall hung with swords. None of them seemed to be well cared-for.
“Perhaps I can help you gentlemen,” said a fair voice behind them.
Gruum and Therian turned with their brows uplifted. It was the huntress, wearing the same cloak and hood she had worn while Gruum carried her through the previous night. Gruum was especially surprised to see her standing behind them. He had not heard her feet echoing upon the stone steps.
Gruum smiled at her. “I did not catch your name at breakfast, miss…?”
“I’m Margaret,” she said, returning his smile.
“Maybe you can help, Margaret. I can’t find a weapon that isn’t coated with the work of a thousand spiders.”
She led them to a door in the back. They followed her through and Gruum made appreciative sounds. The room was full of well cared-for boar spears. Every point was shining, polished steel. There were crossbows as well, a dozen of them with strong prods. Each had two strings of fresh, braided gut hanging from the prods, ready to be strung by a huntsman’s hand.
Gruum took down one of the lighter crossbows and bent the prod against the stone floor. He found plenty of spring in the prod and had to grunt and struggle to string it. “I prefer a short bow, but this will do nicely,” he said. “Can I string one for you, master?”
Therian made a dismissive gesture. He stood inspecting the boar spears for a time before selecting one with a wide head and a haft of stout hardwood. He took it down and worked the air with it experimentally. Gruum sidestepped, frowning. Margaret stood her ground, smiling.
“An excellent weapon,” said Therian. “By the look of the grain, I believe the shaft is made of ash.”
“Ash wood is the best,” agreed Gruum, looking for a spear of his own. “Lighter than oak and almost as strong, it is less likely to split. What of you, Miss Margaret?”
“I have my own bow and dagger,” she said.
Gruum turned to her. “Do you recall how you came to be here?” he asked her.
By her reaction, he judged he had made a misstep. She looked down, and appeared embarrassed. “I’m told I owe you thanks, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” Gruum said quickly, not wanting to upset her. Perhaps the idea of having spent the night helpless and in the care of two strange men was disturbing to her.
Therian watched them closely. He tested his spearhead to see if it was firmly seated. The spearhead had a thick, central rib down the center of it, a sharply tapered point and twin broadening blades that ran down the sides. To prevent the spearhead from sinking too deeply into the target, two quillons extended from the base where it sat upon the shaft. The quillons resembled the crossguard of a broadsword.
Therian turned to Margaret. “I would ask you a
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