All Is Fair (Defense of the Land, Book 3)

By Vance Pumphrey

All Is Fair
Defense of The Land Series, Book Three

Have you sorted out who is good and who is evil yet? Neither have those in the third installment of the Defense of The Land series. The balance of power has shifted like the sands in an hourglass. Those who worship the Dark God, Valdaar, gain strength daily while those who support the God of Light, Praxaar, face uncertainty as to their convictions.
Now the shifting sands grow ever shorter. Those Jaramiile must stop have all but one piece of the puzzle required to return their god to The Land. That must not be allowed to happen.
Yet doubt weaves its tendrils into Jaramiile’s very being, augmented by forbidden visions of a man she has met only once. And the beautiful sorceress Shaarna knows that her brother’s abilities far exceed her own, but her resolve to stop him from raising the Dark God remains undaunted. Complications arise as similar doubts boil to the surface of her soul. Does she even want to stop him? Why?

Who is Good? What is Evil? Is there really a difference...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vance Pumphrey
• Release date: Jan 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005411558

Vance Pumphrey

Vance Pumphrey traces the evolution of his high fantasy novels from his Nuclear Engineering career in the U.S. Navy—not an obvious leap. He started playing Dungeons and Dragons while in the Navy, though, and the inspiration for Dragma’s Keep was born.Dragma’s Keep is the first book in the Valdaar’s Fist quartet. A second book in the series follows soon.Retired from the Navy, Vance lives in Seattle with his wife of thirty-plus years.To find out when the next Valdaar’s Fist book will be released, check out VancePumphrey.com.

Book preview

Prologue

To catch you up, All Is Fair is the third and last book in my Defense of The Land series and the seventh book in the overall story arc Valdaar’s Fist. If you have not read at least Live & Learn and Die & Don’t, books one and two in my Defense of The Land series, I recommend that you do so. All Is Fair is not a stand-alone novel, rather the seventh book in an overall story arc that will eventually have ten volumes. But, in the event it has been a while since you read any of the above, here is a refresher.

In the first series, Sordaak, Thrinndor, Savinhand, Vorgath, Cyrillis and Breunne band together to gather the Artifacts of Power required to raise their god, Valdaar, who was slain in the War to End All Wars some two thousand years hence.

This second series, Defense of The Land, picks up with another party of stalwart adventurers banding together to stop that first group. Their god, Praxaar, was the implement of Valdaar’s death. And he would prefer his brother stay that way. Yes, you heard it right: Valdaar was slain by his brother, Praxaar, and they are both gods served by various peoples in The Land.

In Live & Learn, Mesomarques, a cleric of Praxaar, and Shaarna, a sorceress, are joined by Ogmurt and Dolt, both sword-swinging fighter types—aka meat shields as Shaarna likes to call them. Their purpose? To locate and kill Thrinndor—the only tried and true way to stop followers of the Dark God. It has been thus since Valdaar and his people were defeated those two millennia ago. Those four are then joined by Jaramiile, a paladin of the Paladinhood of Praxaar, and Golfindel, a bard with a past—and possibly a drinking problem.

These six dive into Dragma’s Keep, chasing their adversaries and learning much about Thrinndor and company in the process. And even more about themselves. As such, they barely escape the keep with their lives. However, by doing so, their sense of purpose is reaffirmed, and they vow to fight on.

In Die & Don’t, Shaarna and her group renew their chase of Thrinndor and those who accompany him. Many harrowing encounters ensue as they crisscross The Land, making both friends and enemies. Golfindel finds his long-lost mother—or rather, she finds him. Each of them has their mettle tested by the dead kings of ages past in Valdaar’s Roost, a high peak overlooking the southern part of the island known as The Isle of Grief, or Valdaar’s Rest.

Finally, in a massive battle for supremacy in The Land, one of their own is lost. Vengeance is promised and vows are traded as Jaramiile struggles to keep her company together. In the end they agree to meet in Staggmire to determine what, if anything, they can do to continue their quest.

All Is Fair picks up there.

Chapter One

Farreach

If Ogmurt’s dead, Dolt said daily when they made a weary camp, then there should be a body!

Mesomarques, Dolt, Shaarna, Jaramiile and Golfindel had spent the better part of five days getting back to the Plains of Gherrand and another five days searching them. No valley was left unchecked, no hill left unclimbed.

Unless the wolves carried it off, Golfindel said solemnly. I have seen evidence that there has been a lot of activity among the packs in this region.

Dolt appeared to not have heard, continuing to poke the fire with a stick. At the end of the fifth day and the third complete search of the battleground, Dolt abruptly announced it was time to move on. He was tired of being cold.

The next morning Goldie rode toward Shardmoor while everyone else traveled to Farreach. Jaramiile had initially planned to travel with the bard, but her concern for Dolt was overriding and she decided to accompany him back to town.

Once there, Mesomarques made arrangements for them at Thule’s place.

Thank you, Jaramiile had replied. However, only one night for me. I must make my way back to Paladinhomme as soon as possible. It is my belief that there is danger there.

Meso raised an eyebrow. Should we go with you?

The paladin shook her head. No, I feel it is simply a family matter. But I must be on my way in the morning.

Very well. The cleric turned his questioning eyes to Dolt, who had been morose since leaving the Plains of Gherrand. Actually, he’d been that way since leaving Ice Homme. What about you?

Dolt shrugged. I’m going across the street for a drink, he replied. Tomorrow I’ll be headed to Staggmire. Maybe.

I do not envy him that task. Mesomarques nodded and turned to Shaarna. This is where his real concern lay. His master had said that he needed to remain at her side, yet both required time with their respective mentors.

I’m going to hang around here for a few days, the magicuser said before Meso could ask. I need a break. She reached up and pulled several pins, allowing her long red hair to fall to its full length. When I feel better, I’m going arrange a ship south to the Promontory region.

You are sure there are no satisfactory mentors in this area? Meso asked.

Shaarna looked at her old friend curiously. None of which I am aware, she said coyly. And we mages keep pretty good tabs on one another. Her smile robbed her words of rebuke. I’m not even sure there will be someone to work with down south. But—her smile grew broader—"I do know that searching for one down in the warmer climes will be far superior to hanging around here all winter."

But if you do not know of a suitable master—

"I didn’t say I don’t know of one," the sorceress replied. What’s with him? He’s acting a bit strange. Jerrdun told me that he had learned from an old guy named Wargherdd who resided in the Workman’s Promontory region. He even trained with him for a time. I don’t know if he’s still alive. Meso puffed up to speak again, but Shaarna cut him off. Either way, I know of no one around here so my best option to find someone to train with will be down there. So that’s where I’m going to start.

Worried, Mesomarques chewed on his lip and turned away. She must not know of my feelings for her. I must be ever wary. Very well, he said as he watched Dolt disappear into the tavern. I am going to have to watch him, too. He is despondent and has not improved. Thule said he would have a meal ready for us in an hour.

Jaramiile also looked to where Dolt had gone. That will give us time to get our mounts taken care of and get settled into our rooms. She shook her head as she picked up the reins the fighter had dropped. I will check to see if Dolt will join us before meeting you in the dining room.

Thank you, Meso replied. He is on my mind as well.

The appointed hour later Shaarna, Mesomarques and Jaramiile were joined by Thule in the private dining room of his inn. As Dolt had elected to remain in the tavern, Thule sent over a plate of food.

You should not encourage him to sit there and drink himself into oblivion, Meso cautioned.

Nonsense! A man must eat. Thule smiled hugely. Besides, a properly constructed meal will counter the effects of the alcohol. His face turned serious. Each must grieve in their own way. Give your man some space. Support and keep an eye on him but allow him his grief. If he’s as strong of will as you’ve suggested, he’ll come around.

Meso’s half smile showed hope. You are wise beyond your craft, Thule. It is my belief you missed your calling. You would have made a great cleric.

Not a chance! Thule raised his glass, his eyes showing his pleasure at the compliment. Too much praying. He winked at his culinary student. Besides, you heal with spell and bandage, I heal with food and wine!

Hear! Hear! Jaramiile said around a mouthful of succulent duck. She washed that down with a sip of her wine. What wine is this? Her eyes inspected the pinkish fluid. I have never seen nor tasted the like. She looked up at Thule. It is delicious!

Thank you, my dear! The proprietor bobbed his head. It’s called a rose—a blended wine that I’ve dabbled at many times over the years. But the proper balance has eluded me.

I would call this ‘proper,’ Jaramiile said, sampling the wine again.

Your praise honors me. Thule’s smile broadened. Normally I would serve a white with my duck, but I wanted to showcase this particular blend.

Why white with duck? Shaarna eyed the wine in her glass skeptically.

Ah my dear, you have so much to learn. He frowned at Meso. Have you taught her nothing of what you’ve been so painstakingly shown?

I tried! the cleric replied. But her affinity for wheat and barley over the grape has made that training somewhat moot.

Balderdash! Thule exclaimed. "One can have an affinity for any of the strong drink and still know of the culture associated with the other! He turned his attention back to the sorceress. I’ll do my best to be brief."

Good luck with that! Mesomarques rolled his eyes. He dove back into his plate and pretended not to notice the glare he got in return.

Ignore the buffoon masquerading as a food critic. Thule smiled at the pretty mage. Now, where was I? Oh yes, white with duck. Hmm… He tapped his cheek with a forefinger, pondering his answer. The long and short of it is that certain nuances inherent in each varietal of wine lend themselves to enhance a properly prepared dish from each of the standard meat groups.

Huh? Shaarna eyed her wine and then the duck.

Allow me some leniency, Thule admonished sweetly, and I assure it will all come together ere I’m done.

Shaarna nodded, but her brow remained reserved.

Thank you, the master chef continued. Basically, the red, more robust wines tend to go better with red meat. White, generally sweeter wines tend to go better with seafood and fowl. While a good rose—he held up his glass and assessed its contents closely—can go either way. Not as sweet as a white, not as full-bodied as a red, a properly crafted rose can enhance just about any meal. He shrugged. I still prefer a red with most of meats—but that’s because I prefer reds over all else. He smiled at his red-headed pupil and took a sip of the rose. But there are qualities in each type of the grape that lend themselves to certain similarities in each type of food.

Shaarna arched an eyebrow. So, you’re saying this duck tastes better because of this wine?

Precisely. Thule beamed. And that the wine tastes better because of the way the duck was prepared.

The magicuser put a bite of the fowl in her mouth, chewed, swallowed and then took a small sip of the wine. Damn, Meso, Shaarna said, turning to her friend, it looks like you’re going to have to carry a different wine for every meal!

The cleric laughed. Not exactly. As my opulent master alleviated to, a good red goes well with just about everything.

But—

And, the healer interrupted, perfect wine pairings are wasted on the ignorant masses.

Hey! Jaramiile and Shaarna replied as one.

Shaarna spoke first. "You calling us ignorant?"

If the boot fits… Mesomarques smiled and then held up both hands. Of course not, he amended as both women puffed up to argue. "Look, Thule has trained myself and a select few in what spices go with what meats and what wines best enhance the dining experience in the proper setting. That training can take weeks, months or even years. Sometimes a student never masters the technique. He held up his glass and checked the color of the wine against the light of the lamp. But, traipsing around the countryside for weeks on end, sleeping in caves or under the open sky, can hardly be classified as the proper setting. He took a sip. At the end of such a day, all a fighter, magicuser, rogue, paladin or even a cleric can ask for is a hot meal and something to wash it down with. Ale. Wine. Sometimes just cool, clear water is the best drink for a given situation." He sighed wearily. It has been a long journey thus far. "It is not my intent to call anyone ignorant. I was merely pointing out that those not trained in the culinary arts would normally care less about whether a white wine would go best with whatever was caught or killed for dinner that night. He smiled. No more."

Jaramiile and Shaarna exchanged glances. The sorceress wasn’t inclined to let her friend off the hook so easily. I don’t know, she said, deliberately trying to talk around a mouthful of roasted vegetables. I think he’s callin’ us ignant. She winked at the paladin. How ’bout you?

Jaramiile nodded. Yep. She belched loudly. Me think you be right.

Mesomarques threw his hands into the air and looked over at his master. Do you see what I have to put up with?

Don’t drag me into your squabbles! Thule also raised both hands. It sounded to me like you were calling them ignorant. But what do I know?

Meso stared down at his plate. I can get ambushed across the street with Dolt just as easily.

Yeah, Jaramiile said with a sidelong look at the cleric, but over there it would not be near as enjoyable.

Mesomarques raised an eyebrow and smiled. He lifted his glass to the paladin. I do believe you are correct. I apologize if my words raised any ill will. I assure you it was not intended.

Jaramiile clinked her glass against his. None taken.

Dinner proceeded with similar banter accompanying every course. When dessert—a magnificent lemon torte—had been cleared away, Thule suggested they retire to a more comfortable setting in his basement study. The women had started to make excuses, both wanting to soak in a hot bath, but their host insisted. The tipping point was when he said he had some news for them all.

Once below, they found a fire had been laid in the hearth and the room was warm but not hot. There were four overstuffed, comfortable-looking leather chairs arranged in a semicircle in front of the hearth with a small table between each. Bookcases lined most of the walls, each filled with hundreds of leather-bound volumes. The exception was that one wall was given over to a long, beautifully crafted bureau laden with crystal carafes and several different types of matching crystal glasses.

Please make yourselves comfortable. Thule waved a hand at the chairs. May I suggest a glass of my special port while we talk?

Yes please, Mesomarques replied as he dropped into a chair.

Not for me, Shaarna said. That stuff is a bit sweet for me. I’d like more of that rose, if you don’t mind.

Same here please, Jaramiile said.

There’s no accounting for taste! Thule shook his head sadly. "However, port wine is certainly an acquired taste."

Their host poured the drinks and brought them over on a mirrored tray, embellished with gold lace along the edges.

So fancy! Shaarna said, selecting a glass filled with the rose.

Beautiful, Jaramiile agreed, taking her glass as well.

It’s very old, Thule said as he crossed to the cleric, who picked up his glass of port without comment. He’d seen the service ware many times over the years. It is beautiful, though.

When all were seated and had sampled their respective libation, Mesomarques cleared his throat. You mentioned something about news? He knew that his master’s information-gathering team was second only to that at Shardmoor. As the owner/operator of the best inn and restaurant in Farreach, he had access to information that others didn’t just by listening. He enhanced that by paying the informant handsomely for what he deemed exceptionally useful tidbits. As such, there were spies all over The Land on his payroll.

Yes, yes of course. Thule swirled his port and took a deep sniff. He nodded. Next he studied the dark fluid against the light of a sconce on the wall. Let’s see. He leaned back. You have been out of touch for more than a month this time, I believe.

Something like that, Meso agreed.

Hmm…where to start? Thule sampled his port and smacked his lips in appreciation. Most of the important stuff that has happened in The Land during that time you would be aware of because of your involvement. Things like the death of the minion supreme leader, High Lord Kiarrah, and the subsequent demise of the Minions of Set as a viable force.

That last part may not be completely true, Jaramiile interrupted.

Their host raised an eyebrow. How so? He was not accustomed to being wrong where events in The Land were concerned.

One of the Priests of Set, an elf named Urjanna, survived the conflict and is actively gathering the remnants of the demigod’s followers. She estimates she can gather forty or fifty followers to the University at Desert Homme if those that remain at Ice Homme come to join her.

So many? Thule frowned at his guest. I had so wished that any that remained of their kind would simply move on.

It is seldom to the benefit of The Land when a group of peoples—regardless of their beliefs—is eradicated from our midst. Jaramiile’s lips pursed into a disapproving fine line.

Thule’s eyes widened. Quite so! he said. But I would have thought that as a paladin in the service of Praxaar you would have rejoiced in their passing.

You would have thought wrong, the paladin said sternly. Urjanna and I have become…friends. There is even the possibility she may join us in our quest to put a stop to Thrinndor and his companions.

You would consort with a Minion of Set?

I would and I have. Jaramiile knew the news must come as a shock to her host, but still his reaction rankled. The minions have long been misunderstood. I will do what I can to help them.

Your father might—

My father will see the side of right once properly explained to him. The paladin’s voice was sharp.

Hargraaft? Thule knew her mentor would be less likely so swayed.

In time, Lord Hargraaft too will come to understand.

Thule shook his head. In that I fear you are mistaken and must tread lightly. You are aware that his parents were sacrificed on an altar to Set while he was forced to watch?

Everyone is aware of that story, Jaramiile said evenly. However, there are always two sides to every such tale.

Thule’s eyes opened wide in shock. You’re saying that Hargraaft’s tale is not true?

Jaramiile’s eyes narrowed. "Take care where you tread, Thule. Lord Hargraaft is a paladin of Praxaar and therefore incapable of falsehood."

Of course, Thule said quickly. I meant no—

See that you do not, the paladin interrupted again. I merely meant that my master’s side of the story is only one side. The minions tell a different tale. She paused as she sipped her wine. I must take care as well. I can cast no doubt on the Paladinhood. Minion records show that Hargraaft’s parents—both paladins of Praxaar—attacked a minion outpost, looking for two children that had gone missing from a nearby village. They did not ask questions, instead attacking at dawn with the intent to burn the minion temple to the ground. However, they underestimated their opponents and were thus soundly beaten. Hargraaft—merely a child of six at the time—had been brought along so as to witness the death of the High Priest of Set. Instead, he watched from the shadows as his parents were slain in sacrifice to the demigod.

A still silence settled on the study. I am unsure how that is different from the story Hargraaft tells, Thule said tentatively.

Jaramiile set her glass on the table. There were no children. At least, none of which the minions were aware.

So they say.

Jaramiile stood and walked over to lean over her host as both Shaarna and Mesomarques held their breath. Know this, she said, her nose inches from his, the minions are a misunderstood people. They keep to themselves because of all the misconceptions and outright lies that are circulated about them. I have befriended a minion lord and found her to be an honorable ally. Just because their beliefs are different from mine does not necessarily make them an enemy. In fact, we have found common ground: stopping Thrinndor and his from raising Valdaar. She straightened. And I shall take it as a personal insult if any further attempt is made to dishonor them.

Jaramiile turned and went back to her chair. Briefly she considered continuing back to her room but decided she needed to hear whatever news Thule had to offer. With her back straight, she sat down.

Quite so, Thule said, flummoxed. He lifted his glass to his lips, surprised to see his hand shaking slightly. I will make the necessary notes to the recorded histories of that event.

Thank you.

An uneasy stillness mounted until Mesomarques broke it. Surely you did not bring us down here to tell us about what we already knew.

No, Thule agreed. He sipped his port and noted his hand was already steadier. No, there are other things about which I thought you might like to know. Such as… He glanced quickly at the paladin before continuing. He was suddenly nervous about proceeding with news from her home. There are rumblings of discord coming from Paladinhomme.

What? Jaramiile’s mind had wandered. How so?

Their host chose his words carefully. That is not precisely known. However, it has been reported that your father does not agree with the recent policies and actions of Lord Hargraaft.

That does not surprise me. Jaramiile relaxed.

Well, it might surprise you to know that Lord Hargraaft has made it known he does not care to have his policies and actions questioned. He watched the paladin for a reaction, but Jaramiile kept her reactions to herself. Disappointed, Thule continued. Word has it the lord of all paladins has made several decrees, admonishing those who would question him. He has also called the Paladinhood together on a number of occasions to train for combat.

That is not unusual.

It is when their preparation appears to be directed at training for close combat while operating in formation.

"What are you trying so hard not to say?" Jaramiile felt the vestiges of concern at the innkeeper’s words.

War, Thule said, taking another sip of his port. It has been reported to me that he’s preparing the Paladinhood for war.

That is preposterous! Jaramiile exclaimed. There is no war!

That’s what makes it so unusual, Thule agreed. Yet I assure you my sources have seen multiple occasions where Lord Hargraaft has amassed dozens of your brethren solely to work on horseback fighting skills. Using mostly lance and shield during these sessions.

I think your sources are mistaken.

Jerri, Meso cautioned, I can assure you that Thule’s sources are correct in their assessments far more than incorrect. He winced at the stern look he got from the paladin. His network is second to none, outside of Shardmoor.

Thank you, my son. Thule alternately beamed his pleasure at the compliment and frowned at the distrust. There’s more.

Both Mesomarques and Jaramiile returned their attention to their host.

The Dragaar dwarves have left their home in the Silver Hills.

What? Shaarna sat her empty glass down hard.

Their host breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have changed topics and conversational opponents. Yes. It’s true—I had it verified by a second source.

Left for where? Mesomarques asked.

When? Shaarna wanted to know.

The ‘when’ and ‘where’ I don’t really know, Thule began. It was not immediately discovered that they’d left because they left a contingent behind to keep up the appearance that they were still there.

Why would they do that? Jaramiile asked.

For now we can only guess as to the answers to all of those questions. Thule stood and walked to the bureau. He picked up two decanters and returned to refill everyone’s glasses without asking. No one thought to refuse him. But I feel there is sufficient evidence to make an educated guess. He raised his glass to the light and then to his nose.

Quit stalling and spill it, Shaarna demanded.

West. Thule returned the mage’s glare. They went west.

Shaarna raised her hands. What’s west?

Ardaagh, Jaramiile answered for their host.

The Isle of Grief, Mesomarques whispered.

Damn.

Chapter Two

Shardmoor

You will tell me who has put a bounty on my head, or I will bring this goddamned guild down around your ears! Golfindel sat across the table from Bealtrive in a small room in the back of one of the taverns she ran in Shardmoor. He was less than pleased at the responses he had received from her since his arrival.

The beautiful second-in-command of the thieves’ guild swatted her wine glass aside and leaned forward. "You threaten me in my inn? In my town? It was difficult to tell whether she was mad or incredulous. Maybe both. If I but raise my voice, no fewer than six guards will come crashing through those doors. She swung an arm at both entrances into the room that held only the table and two chairs. You would not leave this place alive!" OK, pissed.

Abruptly the assassin stood and walked to the door on his left. He opened it, took two steps into the other room and when he returned, he was dragging a pair of bound and gagged men behind him. Kicking them against the wall, he went to the other door and did the same. After which there were three men and one woman writhing on the floor, all trying in vain to free themselves.

Stop fighting the ropes you morons. Bealtrive spoke sharply. The bindings he uses only tighten with struggle. She frowned. I can see that some of you ignored his warnings by the color of your blood-deprived hands. She shook her head. Idiots. Her eyes followed the assassin as he moved to a bare wall.

Golfindel appeared not to notice. Instead, he reached up and slipped a hidden catch along the rough boards that made up the wall near the ceiling. The wall swung open, allowing one more man and woman to tumble into the room, each also bound and gagged.

You’ve proven your point, the senior thief present said.

Goldie held a finger to his lips, crossing to yet another blank section of wall, opposite the first. He used his foot to press another switch and a section of the wall pivoted on a central post. This time the figure that hung from a pair of pegs in the wall didn’t require binding or gagging. He was dead, as evidenced by the deep gash across his throat that went from ear to ear. Never mind. I guess this one won’t hear me sneaking up on him again.

That was my best man! Bealtrive stared at the body in disgust.

Golfindel shrugged and slipped back into his chair, straddling it this time. Then you are going to require a new best man, the assassin said. His smile didn’t touch his eyes. If there are any more, he said evenly, ask them to come in and join us or bury their bodies as well.

A nervous tic caused the female thief’s right cheek to twitch. Rheanne, she said loudly, come in here. Twitch. Slowly, please.

No weapons, Goldie cautioned.

No weapons, Bealtrive repeated more loudly.

They heard a scratching in the ceiling them and a portion of it dropped, swinging on unseen hinges. A young woman who looked remarkably like the guild’s second-in-command dropped to the floor lightly. A blade flashed in the light of the single candle on the table.

The chamber was plunged into near total darkness and a struggle ensued. A double thud rattled the table. Something hit the tabletop hard followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Goldie snapped his fingers and the candle relit. A shapely young woman dressed in tight-fitting leathers stood with her eyes transfixed on the assassin. Her right hand was pinned to the table by a long, thin dagger that went through the back of her hand and deep into the wood beneath.

I could’ve taken the bastard had you not alerted him to my presence, the newcomer accused Bealtrive without taking her eyes from Golfindel.

Possibly, Bealtrive agreed. If anyone could, it would be you. The older woman shifted her gaze back to Golfindel. But, if you were to fail, I fear irreparable damage would be done our respective guilds.

Goldie’s eyes showed no emotion as he continued to stare unblinking at Bealtrive. She lives only because I chose it to be that way. His voice was just as emotionless. Are there others?

Open malevolence poured from Bealtrive’s eyes as she returned the glare. Then, without turning her head, she asked, Rheanne, is Flahrtenth still in place?

Of course.

Get him, Bealtrive said. Then the two of you go to my home and await instructions.

But—

"Do it! she snapped as Golfindel jerked the blade free of both the hand and table. And get the clerics to verify no permanent damage has been done your hand." Goldie handed her the bloody dagger.

"Yes, Mother." Rheanne snatched the dagger from the assassin and stepped over one of the now motionless figures on the floor, kicking him in the process. She did not even look at her injured hand as she exited the room.

Thank you, Bealtrive said, her eyes not leaving the door her daughter had left through. She finally acknowledged the assassin—again seated at the table—by turning her glare on him. You know she is going to kill you for that?

She’ll try. Golfindel shrugged. If you don’t want to bury her, you should do your best to keep her from doing so.

Bealtrive cocked her head to one side. Where does this confidence come from? You are not the same Goldie I knew even two months ago.

"I am not the same Goldie I knew two months ago, he replied cryptically. Things happened. The old Goldie had to go. His eyes measured hers. I am not going to ask if there are others."

Others? Bealtrive raised an eyebrow. "Others? I had to search hard even for these seven who were willing to stake their abilities against your reputation, such has it grown!" She shook her head, her eyes settling on her spilled wine. Damn. No, there are no others.

Very well, Golfindel said. Answer my question, please. Who put all that coin on my head?

You’re likely going to have a tough time believing this but—Bealtrive hesitated—I don’t know.

Golfindel’s lips thinned but he held his tongue. He could see she was telling the truth. Damn!

However… That one word snapped his wandering attention back to the beautiful theif. I’m getting rumblings that Paladinhomme has been showing…cracks in its loyalties, of late.

Why should that concern me?

Because it has become widely known that Hargraaft is funding pursuit of the Dark Paladin. She waited for Goldie to take the bait but was disappointed. It is less widely known that he is less than pleased at one of his pupils’ choice in traveling companion.

Jaramiile?

Bealtrive nodded.

Interesting. Golfindel stood. It sounds like I need to pay my benefactor a visit. He turned to leave.

How did you tie up all of my people? The question stopped him. I mean, surely they didn’t sit by quietly and watch while you tied up the other?

Actually, they did. His face split into a wry grin. After I explained to them their options, they were kind enough to allow me to do so. He pointed to the dead man hanging from the pegs. Except for him.

Yeah, helping was not Fregthorn’s style. Bealtrive’s expression turned thoughtful. You know, you and Rheanne would make a formidable partnership.

Goldie paused at the door while he considered a response. That is something to consider, he replied without turning. If she doesn’t kill me. And then he was gone.

Two days later, Golfindel stood outside the main gate to Hargraaft’s palatial home. Deciding the direct approach would work best, he used the large brass knocker to announce his presence. Not knowing much about the interior of the paladin leader’s complex, that seemed prudent.

After a few moments a small, unseen door opened inward at head height. Yes? a deep voice asked.

I would like an audience with his Lordship, please, Goldie said formally.

Who should I say is calling?

Golfindel. I probably should have hid my identity. It’s doubtful he will want to see me.

I will see if my master is taking visitors at this hour. The door closed and Goldie heard a latch slide into place. The bard/assassin/monk with ranger training spent the next few minutes studying the old lord’s residence as best he could from his limited vantage point. The gate in front of him admitted or denied one to a narrow courtyard. Beyond that was yet another door that led into the main house. He knew from his previous visit that the house was expansive with multiple levels and four towers. More like a keep.

Finally the hidden door opened again. Lord Hargraaft is currently unavailable. Please call another time.

When will he be available? But Golfindel was speaking to a closed door. He frowned, grasped the knocking mechanism and rapped it sharply against the opposing metal plate.

A few moments later the small door opened again. I said for—

Golfindel’s right hand shot through the opening, grasped the tunic of the man on the other side and jerked hard. The assassin heard a satisfying thud as the man’s head slammed into the gate’s wood. Goldie felt the man’s weight sag against his grip, and he allowed him to slide to the ground.

Having decided the wall was too high to easily scale, Golfindel reached through the opening. His hand quickly found the mechanism. Lifting that, he felt the gate shift inward under his weight, made harder because of the doorman that lay unconscious at its base.

Goldie paused after closing and latching the gate to slip on his ring of invisibility. A glance at the man on the ground showed an ever-widening pool of blood from a smashed nose. Quickly the assassin bound and gagged the man, leaving him sitting upright against the portal.

Golfindel crossed to the double doors opposite, choosing the known path over the unknown. They were unlocked—as he had assumed they would be—and he stepped to his right once inside to let his eyes adjust. And to listen.

Hearing nothing, he stuck to the shadows and crept through, pushing to his right. Next was a large library, its walls lined with bookcases and adorned with suits of armor, various weapons and the trophies from past conquests, including the head of a red dragon. Nice. Beyond that was an enormous dining hall, with entrances from the library where he stood, a hall that led back to the entry, two from the kitchen and one that led to another hall and deeper into the residence.

His earlier foray into the manor had only gotten him as far as the library, so this was all new territory. Goldie frowned. Hargraaft is not in the common areas. That means he’s probably back in his personal quarters. Too early for him to be in his bedchambers, so maybe a personal study? Or maybe he’s with a guest in another part of the house?

Goldie heard the rattle of pans and knew that at least one cook was in the kitchen preparing a meal. A glance at the table showed a place setting for only one. No guests. He grinned. No invited guests.

The assassin slipped along the wall toward the opening he assumed went back toward Hargraaft’s personal quarters. He paused briefly once clear of the dining hall to assess his options from there.

Kluug?

Golfindel stopped. That’s Hargraaft. The voice came from further down the hall. There were three doors at the other end. Keeping against the wall to his right, he continued down the corridor.

Kluug?

Goldie detected concern in the paladin lord’s tone. He suspects. Golfindel sprinted toward the open door at the end of the hall.

Geoft, Hargraaft said loudly. Check on Kluug.

Yes, master, Goldie heard from the direction of the kitchen.

Trusting his ring, Golfindel stepped through the doorway from which he’d heard Hargraaft’s voice. The lord of the manor sat in an overstuffed leather chair facing the doorway. Nearby, a hearth blazed cheerily. He wore a house robe tied at the middle and had spectacles perched on the end of his nose. A blanket lay draped across his lap.

Hello, Golfindel, Hargraaft said without looking up from his book.

True Seeing! Damn! The element of surprise lost, Goldie slipped the ring from his finger and back into the pouch in his belt. Nonchalantly he closed the door and twisted the key in the lock.

Finally the fighter looked up and raised an eyebrow.

I don’t want us to be disturbed, Golfindel explained.

There was a crystal decanter on the table with two glasses, both half-filled. He’s expecting someone.

Lord Hargraaft nodded and pointed to a second chair across the table from him. Sit down, please. I have been expecting you.

Well, I suppose that makes sense. Goldie crossed to the chair and sat, every sense at maximum alert. Something’s wrong. He’s too relaxed.

The leader of the Paladins of Praxaar leaned forward, set his book on the table and picked up the wine glass nearest him. Have some wine.

The alarm bells were going off in Golfindel’s head as he leaned forward and picked up the other glass. When he sat back, his adversary watched him curiously.

Why have you come here?

Why doesn’t he bring up how I got here? Why did you refuse me?

"I wanted to try to find out why you came before I agreed to meet." He shrugged and took a sip of his wine.

Makes sense. Goldie raised the wine to his nose and took a tentative sniff. As an assassin, he’d been trained in the use of most known poisons and, possibly more importantly, any associated aroma. Nothing. Smells like a good vintage.

You do not trust me? Hargraaft said. The smile lines at the corners of his eyes were mocking the assassin. Poison is for cowards.

Goldie took a sip. It is a good vintage. Maybe even as good as Meso’s. Dying is for cowards. He took another sip and raised his glass in salute. This is a good vintage. He leaned back in his chair. And I trust no one.

The paladin lord leaned forward, his smile disappearing. Not even Jaramiile? He poured more wine and raised the carafe, silently asking Golfindel if he wanted a refill.

Direct. Goldie shook his head. Jaramiile is a paladin—as such she is incapable of falsehood. Another sip. Can I trust you?

Hargraaft’s eyes widened slightly. You know that I too am a paladin.

Golfindel shrugged. That’s not what I asked.

The lord chuckled. Good point. He sampled his wine. You can trust me not to lie to you and you can trust me not to poison you. Beyond that? His smile was not intended to put one at ease.

Did you put a price on my head?

Direct, Hargraaft said, raising his glass. I like that. When he sat the glass down, he looked into the eyes of the assassin. Now, why would I put a price on the head of the person I am counting on to claim the price I put on Thrinndor? That seems a bit counterproductive.

Indeed it does, Goldie agreed. He’s evading. I asked myself that same question. As such, I have come up with a possible answer. He drained his glass and leaned forward to refill it. There is a rumor circulating that you do not approve of one or more of Jaramiile’s traveling companions.

There was a knock on the door, followed by a rattling of the mechanism.

Yes? Lord Hargraaft called out.

I found Kluug, sir, the muffled voice announced through the door. He was bound and gagged inside the front gate. His nose is broken.

The paladin raised an eyebrow and Golfindel nodded. Very well, Hargraaft said. Take him to see the cleric. I will be out shortly for dinner.

Indecision obviously slowed the man’s answer. Very good, sir. Steps could be heard receding down the hall.

Just so that we understand one another—Hargraaft’s voice was ice cold—"I do not approve of more than one of her traveling companions. He raised his glass and sipped slowly. And she is going to have to answer to both myself and Praxaar for that. He glared at Golfindel, daring him to counter. Consorting with an assassin is not permitted by our bylaws. The timbre of his tone dropped another several degrees. And my spies tell me that she also travels with a High Lord of Set. Yes, she will have to answer for her choices. But, neither of those warrant paying someone to do what I can handle myself."

Golfindel sat perfectly still for a moment. You consort with me.

"Wrong! The paladin leader leaned forward. I put a price on a man’s head who must die, and you answered the call. No more."

And yet here I sit, drinking your wine.

Uninvited.

Damn! He’s difficult! Did you put a bounty on my head?

Yes. Hargraaft again locked eyes with Goldie.

Remove it.

Do you not want to at least know why?

Golfindel looked down at his wine. Very well. Why?

It is a simple case of monetary advantage. If you kill Thrinndor and are then slain, I save half a million in gold. He set his glass down. And I am rid of the two men who threaten my way of life.

Remove it.

No.

Golfindel fought back the urge to lunge at the man. If someone kills me and then Thrinndor, you will be out three times that amount. Advantage lost.

That is a chance I am willing to take. Thrinndor has become too powerful when grouped with those who surround him. My advisors tell me that only one such as yourself has a chance to deal with him.

I can’t do my job while constantly looking over my shoulder. Remove the bounty.

No. Align yourself with those you trust. Deal with it.

Remove it, or… Golfindel stood.

"You threaten me in my home? Hargraaft flung the blanket aside and stood as well. In his right hand he held a very nasty looking short sword, in his left a long thin dagger. The paladin held them like he was accustomed to using both at once. You should leave now."

Goldie didn’t like it. His training as a monk gave him certain advantages in stand-up combat, but his true forte was when he wasn’t seen or heard. Attacking from shadows was his game. There was also the possibility of guards nearby, as well as at least two servants.

But, having a price on his head was unacceptable. In a flash both of his own weapons appeared in his hands as he dove for the floor at the feet of his new enemy. Tumbling as he landed, the assassin slashed at the back of the lord’s leg, hoping to hamstring him. However, the closeness of his seat foiled his swing and his blade bit deep into a chair leg.

Lord Hargraaft swung the sword in his right hand at the first sign of movement, but it slashed harmlessly past the diving assassin, missing by at least a foot. The dagger in his left hand got closer on a hasty down swipe, but also missed.

Goldie rolled back to his feet and whirled to meet the paladin leader.

Hargraaft turned, shoving his recently vacated chair at the assassin with a stockinged foot. The bard tried to stop it with a foot of his own but underestimated the mass of the wood chair and was knocked back a couple of steps before he could recover. The paladin followed the chair and hacked at his adversary with first the weapon in his left hand and then the one in his right.

Steel clanged on steel, and Golfindel was momentarily surprised by the strength of his opponent; he was knocked back another step.

I see you are realizing your mistake. Hargraaft laughed as his continued attack drove Goldie further back. A wary, able-bodied and prepared opponent will always win over one that uses shadows and subterfuge to achieve their victories.

Furiously the paladin lord’s blades danced their jig of death, leaving shallow cuts and bloody slashes in their wake.

Within moments the assassin bled from multiple places, and beads of sweat broke out on his brow. Yet he survived the initial onslaught, with his own blades finding their mark on occasion as well. The older lord clearly kept himself fit and ready for battle but was countered by Golfindel’s recent adventures and training, along with youth and stamina.

With feints, counter-feints, lunges and retreats the pair pirouetted and twirled their way to every part of the large study. On one pass near a weapon display, Lord Hargraaft exchanged the short sword in his right hand for a longsword that burst into flames when his hand wrapped around the pommel. Goldie tumbled and dodged his way to the other two doors to the chamber, closing and locking both to ensure the hired help did not interfere.

Ha! the paladin shouted after the last door had been locked. You have sealed off any possible escape! His smile turned into a grimace of determination. You will die this day, Golfindel, Chief Assassin of Shardmoor.

Actually, Goldie replied as he blocked yet another thrust by the paladin, "I have moved