the clearing. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly, holding his empty hands in plain sight.
The matronly halfling stared at Kelemvor in astonishment and fright. The others stepped away, brandishing their weapons and chattering between themselves in their own language. The children began to cry and ran behind the adults.
Kelemvor kneeled, hoping to appear less intimidating. “Don’t be afraid,” he repeated.
A moment later, Midnight stepped into the light on the opposite side of the campfire. She said, “We’re not going to hurt you.” Her voice was comforting and melodious. The halflings looked startled, but they did not flee.
A shrewd look of comprehension crossed the matron’s brow then she turned to Kelemvor. “What you want? Come back to finish job?” She held the stolen dagger toward the fighter.
Adon stepped into the light, taking advantage of the opportunity to say, “No. We’re not the ones who-“
“Phaw!” the woman spat, turning Kelemvor’s dagger in Aden’s direction. “Tall Ones all the same. Come to loot rich halfling cities.” She waved the weapon menacingly. “Not take Berengaria without fight. Cut off-“
“Please!” Adon cried, pointing at the dagger. “That’s our knife you’re using to threaten me!”
“Mine now,” Berengaria replied. “Spoils of war, like tent -” She waved at Kelemvor’s cloak, “- and wineskin.” She pointed at his glove.
“We’re not at war!” Kelemvor interrupted, his patience strained. Considering how close they lived to Hilp, these halflings seemed remarkably wild and uncivilized. Perhaps they weren’t welcome in the city, for halflings were commonly considered to be a race of thieves. Apparently, it was a well-earned reputation.
“We at war,” Berengaria snarled. She nodded at two old men and they stepped forward, bearing spears folded into two pieces. Despite the old men’s trembling arms, Kelemvor was nervous. Their spears were woomeras, a special weapon he had seen used to good effect. The woomera was simply a three-foot stick with a groove along the length and a cup at the end. The halfling warrior placed his spear in the groove then used the stick like an extension of his arm, launching the spear with incredible speed and accuracy. In the proper hands, the weapon was as accurate and powerful as a longbow.
Adon stepped forward, careful to keep his empty hands in sight. “We didn’t destroy your village. We’re your friends.”
“To prove it,” Kelemvor added, “we’ll make a gift of the dagger, the tent, and the wineskin.” He pointed at the items as he mentioned them.
Adon frowned but said nothing. The “gifts” Kelemvor had named belonged to him, and it was his business if he wanted to give them away.
The matron studied the heroes for a long time, shrewdly appraising their words. “Gifts?”
Kelemvor nodded. “To help your village recover.”
“What you want in return?” Berengaria demanded, squinting at the warrior.
“The book,” Adon said. “And Kelemvor’s flint and steel. We need those to survive.”
Berengaria frowned in concentration, but the children began giggling and she said, “Done. We all-“
Midnight, silent until now, let out a cry of anguish and rushed to the fire. Pulling his sword, Kelemvor leaped past Berengaria and her two old men. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“My spellbook!” the raven-haired mage yelled. “They burned it!” She snatched Kelemvor’s sword, then started poking at a wide strip of shriveled leather in the fire. Kelemvor knew the book was where Midnight stored her spells when they were not committed to memory, so he could understand why she was so upset. Still, he grabbed his sword away from her and put it back into its sheath; fire was no better for a sword’s temper than it was for a spellbook.
Midnight stared into the fire, a single tear running down her cheek. “Gone,” she whispered.
“It’s not so serious,” Kelemvor said, trying to comfort
The matronly halfling stared at Kelemvor in astonishment and fright. The others stepped away, brandishing their weapons and chattering between themselves in their own language. The children began to cry and ran behind the adults.
Kelemvor kneeled, hoping to appear less intimidating. “Don’t be afraid,” he repeated.
A moment later, Midnight stepped into the light on the opposite side of the campfire. She said, “We’re not going to hurt you.” Her voice was comforting and melodious. The halflings looked startled, but they did not flee.
A shrewd look of comprehension crossed the matron’s brow then she turned to Kelemvor. “What you want? Come back to finish job?” She held the stolen dagger toward the fighter.
Adon stepped into the light, taking advantage of the opportunity to say, “No. We’re not the ones who-“
“Phaw!” the woman spat, turning Kelemvor’s dagger in Aden’s direction. “Tall Ones all the same. Come to loot rich halfling cities.” She waved the weapon menacingly. “Not take Berengaria without fight. Cut off-“
“Please!” Adon cried, pointing at the dagger. “That’s our knife you’re using to threaten me!”
“Mine now,” Berengaria replied. “Spoils of war, like tent -” She waved at Kelemvor’s cloak, “- and wineskin.” She pointed at his glove.
“We’re not at war!” Kelemvor interrupted, his patience strained. Considering how close they lived to Hilp, these halflings seemed remarkably wild and uncivilized. Perhaps they weren’t welcome in the city, for halflings were commonly considered to be a race of thieves. Apparently, it was a well-earned reputation.
“We at war,” Berengaria snarled. She nodded at two old men and they stepped forward, bearing spears folded into two pieces. Despite the old men’s trembling arms, Kelemvor was nervous. Their spears were woomeras, a special weapon he had seen used to good effect. The woomera was simply a three-foot stick with a groove along the length and a cup at the end. The halfling warrior placed his spear in the groove then used the stick like an extension of his arm, launching the spear with incredible speed and accuracy. In the proper hands, the weapon was as accurate and powerful as a longbow.
Adon stepped forward, careful to keep his empty hands in sight. “We didn’t destroy your village. We’re your friends.”
“To prove it,” Kelemvor added, “we’ll make a gift of the dagger, the tent, and the wineskin.” He pointed at the items as he mentioned them.
Adon frowned but said nothing. The “gifts” Kelemvor had named belonged to him, and it was his business if he wanted to give them away.
The matron studied the heroes for a long time, shrewdly appraising their words. “Gifts?”
Kelemvor nodded. “To help your village recover.”
“What you want in return?” Berengaria demanded, squinting at the warrior.
“The book,” Adon said. “And Kelemvor’s flint and steel. We need those to survive.”
Berengaria frowned in concentration, but the children began giggling and she said, “Done. We all-“
Midnight, silent until now, let out a cry of anguish and rushed to the fire. Pulling his sword, Kelemvor leaped past Berengaria and her two old men. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
“My spellbook!” the raven-haired mage yelled. “They burned it!” She snatched Kelemvor’s sword, then started poking at a wide strip of shriveled leather in the fire. Kelemvor knew the book was where Midnight stored her spells when they were not committed to memory, so he could understand why she was so upset. Still, he grabbed his sword away from her and put it back into its sheath; fire was no better for a sword’s temper than it was for a spellbook.
Midnight stared into the fire, a single tear running down her cheek. “Gone,” she whispered.
“It’s not so serious,” Kelemvor said, trying to comfort
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