Merek stood just inside the tree line, Demaria at his side; the two looked upon the Inn, curiously deserted, though the sun was slipping under the Flatland’s West end. It wasn’t a safe road. Tribesmen in the Highlands came down to the Flatlands for raids. But even so, there ought to have been more than just three horses tied up outside, snorting at a trough’s soiled water with disgust.

Honor demanded he go in--his desire for coin demanded it more--but that didn’t mean he had to abandon good sense. He bet Demaria felt the same.

Not that she’d tell him. His report with her devolved to one-word answers after he’d called her delusional. He hadn’t helped things when he’d cracked wise about dragons jumping out of bags and cloaks and from under dress skirts. She’d stopped talking, but he hadn’t sent Demaria on her way, delusional as she might be; sometimes delusional women could make life interesting, outside of the sheets as well as in them.

That, and there were real questions he wanted answers to, so why not ask them along the road to the Inn? Questions like, how long had she been following satchel-men (or whatever the satchel held, as it were--but he didn’t want to know what that was, so created the code-word: the satchel)? Years, she had said. She did not elaborate. He asked her how she’d survived the Highlands. Fear, she had said. Her fear? No. He then assumed she meant she struck fear into the hearts of the tribal men. He wasn’t sure what to make of that. She had indeed survived; he couldn’t deny it.

He asked her how long she’d been secretive about following the satchel-men. Long, she had said. Finally, he asked her why, if she had been so secretive for so long, had she decided to out herself to him. A feeling. Two words, that time. Not bad. After that, she clamped up like a vise.

They’d come upon a hoverstone, a small boulder, floating aside the path--much like the first he’d found her on. She asked him to stop, floated up onto it, and collected some stones--hoverstones, she explained. Yes, he got that. He didn’t ask her why she needed them, probably she would not have told him, anyway, but he decided to watch himself. He wasn’t going out of his way to get clouted on the back of the head by some little blonde woman with elf-ly delusions.

Now, they stood watching the Inn, Merek’s unease growing, Demaria still keeping mum. He put his hand to the hilt of his sword, then thought better of it. He kneeled, reached into his boot, and brought a knife out instead. He tucked it in his belt. Inside the Inn, who knows what would happen--a sword wouldn’t do well in close combat.

“Keep watch,” he said. He glanced at Demaria. “Are you armed? You must be to make it through the Highlands.” She brought out a rondel dagger, a weapon with a thin blade and disc-like guard and pommel--the kind of weapon wielded by nobles, great for stabbing each other in the back. “That’ll work.”

The Inn was a dark, dingy establishment, with uneven floors and horizontally placed tables that looked like they pieces from a newly felled tree. There was a fire in the fireplace, roaring under an oak mantle, and next to that, a counter ran the length of the back wall. Leaning against the wall, two men, and a third behind the counter. None seemed the matronly type.

“Valian,” the man behind the bar grunted. He was tall, bald, and had his left ear pierced with what looked like Hoverland gold. “Been expecting you, Flatlander.”

“I’ll give you some free advice,” Merek said. “Never call a Flatlander a Flatlander while you’re in Flatland. Tells right away that you’re from somewhere else.”

“Wise man, I see--got any more free advice?”

“Just a compliment: nice earing.”

The man’s hand went to it, touched it, put his hand down and glared. “You know what you’re here for, so give the bag over and you’ll get what’s yours.”

“You mean, I’ll get paid.”

“That’s right,” one of the men on the wall said, giggling. “Paid.”

The third one grunted.

“Quiet, you,” the bald man said. He slapped a hand on the table. “Give it here”

Merek--his right hand on his knife’s hilt--took off the satchel with his left. He placed it on the counter. There was a small thunk.

The bald man unwrapped it, not taking his eyes of Merek the whole time, no doubt trying to determine if he was being played a fool. Merek didn’t care. Let him look. He’d done his duty by Jorbert; he had nothing to hide. Except his blade.

Merek sniggered--he couldn’t help it--when it turned out to be an egg, not a dragon. If Demaria was still outside after this, he meant to give her a good ribbing. A dragon, he thought. Ridiculous. Although....

Everyone knew the old tales of dragon’s eggs, that ages back they’d been scattered across the realm. Suppose you found one. It would be, as Demaria said, valuable...and dangerous; dangerous, he knew, should one find a way to make the thing hatch.

It was orange, this egg, with swirls of yellow and red mixed in. There were bumps on the outside. It was the shape of a hens egg only as big as his foot. And he already knew the weight of it, the fact that it was solid. Still the fire seemed to shine through it, somehow, to make it glow.

“Fates in hell,” the bald man whispered to himself. “Though the lad was barking mad.”

“The man?”

He jerked back, looked at Merek. “Never mind you that. You’ll be wanting your pay?” Merek nodded. The man said, “Then Master Jorbert sends his regards.”

The giggler from the side moved first in burst of steel. Merek jumped back. The man’s sword zinged by, cutting into the Inn’s counter. Merek grabbed him by the collar and slammed his head into the man’s skull. The man slumped. Merek let him go. He crumbled to the floor.

He stared at the other two men. “That all you got?”

The third man who had grunted lunged at Merek now, this one using a knife. Merek pulled his out from his tunic and got it up in time to parry. The man got his hand around to knock Merek across the jaw. Pain erupted under his teeth as though he’d bit down on a rock. But Merek held the parry, blade to blade. The man hit him again. Merek leaned closer, offering him his face again. The man hit him a third time, this time in cheek. He felt the skin grow hot. It’d well up. Leave a bruise.

“My turn,” Merek said. He punched the man once in the gut, breaking the stand-still, and somehow got the man falling forward, past him. He put a boot to his ass and sent him sprawling head-first into a table. Neither of the two man moved, just heavy breathing; they’d be fine, if not a little more cautious in the future. “Now, about my--” Merek was talking to thin air. The man with the earing was gone. “Fate’s sake.”

He moved swiftly past the counter to what looked like a back hall, paused, leaned back. He saw a man and a woman tied up behind the counter, amazed that they were both alive. The man’s eyes were wide and he shook his head, trying to talk while gagged. Merek didn’t need to take the gag out to know what he was saying: by the Fates, don’t kill me, don’t kill me. Merek said, “I’m not going to kill you; I’ll be back to let you out.”

Wait, wait! It’s what he assumed the muffled man said as he jogged down the hall to the Inn’s back door. They should have staked out the whole Inn, back to front. Sloppy. Sloppy and stupid. He shook his head. The girl was a distraction.

He unsheathed his sword and burst through the door, yelling at the top of his lungs, ready for combat. Yet, Demaria was already there.

The man with the earing had dropped the egg on the ground next to him. He had his sword out, a wicked, double handed menace, that would cut a grown man in half if well-struck, not to mention a little thing like Demaria. She, in reply, had her rich-woman’s blade out. And she was watching his hips, pupils drawn down to nail heads.

“You’re not taking this egg,” the man said. He hadn’t seemed to notice that Merek had come through the back door. Merek lowered his sword. A tinge of feeling inside him bade him to do so. “And Master Jorbert ain’t getting it neither. This egg could buy me a castle. Hell, it could buy me a hoverstone! You think I’m ready to give up all that. Mad. Barking mad.”

“I’m not taking the egg,” Demaria said calmly. “I told you. Elves don’t steal.”

The man said, “Whatever girl, just put the knife down and get the fuck out of my way.”

“I cannot.”

The man licked his lips. “Fine then. Feel my steel!”

He took a great swing at Demaria, putting all his weight into it, pulling his sword down has hard and as fast as possible. It whistled as it cut through the air. Merek moved to do something to help, but there was no time. He stopped. Just watched.

A glow came from Demaria’s necklace, the pendant attached flashing bright white. She whispered something under her breath. The sword’s blade came down on her and shattered, ringing waves of steel through the air. The man made a terrible sound as the shock traveled up through his arms. There was a crack. His wrist was broken. He fell to his knees. His whole body shook. “Please,” he whispered. “Please.”

If it had been him, he would have cut the man’s throat and been done with it. But Demaria tilted her head. She looked the man up and down. “I’m not going to kill you,” she said. “But understand that you cannot kill me. I’m protected by the light of the East Shore. All you can do is leave here with your life. The egg stays,” she nodded to Merek, “with him.”

The bald man turned to look. Fear was plain in his eyes. Eggs, elves. He looked like he had had enough. But Merek wasn’t quite done. “And when you go, leave your coin-purse. I’m not quite as forgiving as my friend here. I’d have no problem picking you apart, piece by piece.”

The man’s eyes widened. With his good hand he threw a coin purse down to Merek’s feet. He picked it up, tossed it up in the air once to measure its weight. It was nice and heavy. Full.

“Good. Now go.” The man rose to his feet and sprinted around the front of the Inn. Merek smiled. It was the oldest trick in the book, an ambush, a double-cross. Not just Merek himself, but the man tried to do Jorbert ill. Amazing. The low-lives never seemed to learn. He turned to Demaria. “That thing you did, with the necklace...”

“It wasn’t my doing. It was--”

“The East Shore,” Merek said, scratching his neck, trying not to look sheepish--failing in his attempt. “So. An elf, then. Really?”

She nodded.

“You know, I’d never heard of the East Shore Elves before you mentioned them. I thought all the elves either left the continents or were killed.”

“Maybe I’ll give you a history lesson in the future,” she said. “For now, we have the other men to deal with--I have to believe that this man was not working alone?”

“Your belief is well-founded. Two other men jumped me inside the Inn.”

“Men are braver in groups.” She smiled. “But not you, Merek Valian.”

“Just Merek. And I’m in a group now, too. Or a duo, at least. Let’s tie the men to their horses and give the horse’s haunches a good slap. They’ll end up where they end up.” Demaria scooped up the Egg. Then the two started to walk inside together toward the Inn’s back door. “The Inn Keeper is tied up behind the counter. I’ll bet he’d appreciate being let loose.”

“No doubt.” She stopped walking, turned to Merek. “Did you mean it?”

He cocked his head. “Mean it?”

“When you called me your friend.”

Merek stuck out his bottom lip, looked towards the misty white clouds. “Why not.”

She grinned, a beautiful smile of pearls. She said nothing, but nothing needed to be said. Merek figured that she’d been alone for so long, that....

Merek knew the feeling.

They released the Inn Keeper and, it turned out, his wife. The two of them were thankful and offered them free rent and board. They didn’t question the egg. Glanced at it, but didn’t question it. Probably questions were what got the two in trouble to begin with that day. Merek chuckled, a half smile across his face.

They tied the would-be thieves to their horses and sent them down the dirt road; Merek wondered where they’d end up. That road led to a Flatland village that was none to fond of Hoverlanders. Oh well, he thought. Everyone pays for the privilege of living.

Inside the Inn, as he sat at a table, awaiting the Inn Keeper’s wife’s porridge, porridge she seemed excited to be alive to provide, he asked Demaria, “What’s next?”

She seemed to have anticipated the question. “We’ll have to move swiftly, Merek. There is one Jorbert who knows that the egg is still exists. He’ll soon know that we--you--took it...”

“Since elves don’t steal.”

“...because his hired man will report back.”

“Conveniently leaving out the part about his treachery.” He shook his head. “We’ll see more like him.”

She nodded. “But the one comfort we can take is that Jorbert will not tell his father of his own double-cross. He wouldn’t dare. Else it would be him that next goes over the Godscliff.”

“There are worse things than the Godscliff, Demaria. You know that.”

The woman served them their porridge, regaled them with the history of the recipe, then scurried off to the kitchen to come up with some bread.

“I know it,” Demaria said. “For if you are caught with the egg, you and I both will be the ones to receive the the full force of Jorbert’s curtesy.”

Merek thought of the whore in Jorbert’s litter who had lost her head for a noble’s schemes. “Then it’s a good thing I’m a Flatlander. I know my way through my own lands. At least until the desert. We’ll have to go through that to get to the East Shore. I doubt Jorbert would follow us through that.”

“Merek,” Demaria said softly. “There are far worse things than the Jorberts who are looking for this egg. And they will not stop until the both of us are dead.”