Free Sacrifice of the Widow: The Lady Penitent, Book I by Lisa Smedman Page B

retreating, the deep gnome collapsed in the middle of the street, the tiny silver sword falling from his hand.
    Q’arlynd probed his slave’s mind. Flinderspeld was still alive. His thoughts were sluggish and dreamlike, but there.
    The tawny-furred creature let out a loud roar. An answering roar came from elsewhere in the ruined city.
    Realizing it had just called another of its kind, Q’arlynd immediately sank to the floor of the ruined building. Still invisible, he hurried out into the street, toward Flinderspeld.
    He wasn’t the only one. A drow came running out of a doorway on the opposite side of the street—a female with waist-length white hair, wearing a chain mail tunic over trousers and a padded shirt. She reached Flinderspeld a heartbeat ahead of Q’arlynd and slapped a hand onto the deep gnome’s chest.
    “Sanctuary!” she cried.
    Both the drow female and Flinderspeld disappeared.
    Q’arlynd skidded to a stop on the sand-dusted flagstones and swore softly under his breath. His only slave, gone. Before he had time for regret, however, he felt a tickling sensation, deep within his mind.
    I know you’re there, somewhere. Free me. I can help you
.
    Q’arlynd glanced toward the trapped creature. It held its arms out imploringly, its eyes fixed on the dust that slowly settled around Q’arlynd’s boots.
    Q’arlynd laughed. The creature’s magical suggestion might have worked on someone less suspicious than a drow. He drew his wand from its sheath, pointed it, then spoke its command word. Jagged balls of ice erupted from it. They streaked across the street and slammed into the creature’s chest with harsh, meaty thuds. Q’arlynd corrected his aim and shot again, and the ice smashed into the creature’s face, knocking its head back. The creature collapsed, either unconscious or dead, its feet still encased in stone. Q’arlynd heard a bone snap as one of its ankles twisted and broke.
    His direct attack had rendered him visible once more. He could sense eyes on him. He whirled and saw another drow female standing in the street staring at him. She was armored as the first had been, in a chain mail tunic, and she carried a sword. Her hair was whiter than the other female’s and was twisted in a knot at the back of her head. The tiny sword that was Eilistraee’s pendant hung against her chest. She glanced past Q’arlynd at the collapsed creature, then nodded and moved forward.
    “Nicely done. Lamias can be challenging opponents.”
    Q’arlynd lowered his wand but did not sheathe it. Under his breath, he whispered a simple cantrip. When he pinched his fingers together, the tiny silver sword that had been lying on the ground at his feet—the one Flinderspeld had dropped—rose to his hand. He held it out with a flourish and bowed. When he straightened, the female had visibly relaxed.
    “Where did the other female take the deep gnome?” Q’arlynd asked.
    “Your friend is safe. Rowaan will take care of him.”
    Q’arlynd nearly laughed aloud. Friend? Anyone with half a cup of cunning would have realized Flinderspeld was Q’arlynd’s slave.
    As the priestess walked toward Q’arlynd, her eyes lingered on his face. He suppressed a sigh. Despite his broken nose, he seemed to have that effect on females, but still she frowned when she asked, “What House are you?”
    Q’arlynd almost lied—deceit was a reflex—then decided against it. “House Melarn.”
    The priestess’s eyes widened.
    Q’arlynd’s heartbeat quickened. He took a risk—something he would normally not have done. “You know my sister,” he said. A statement, rather than a question. “Halisstra Melarn.”
    She started to nod then checked herself. “I knew her.”
    “Knew?” Q’arlynd asked. “Is she—”
    From another part of the ruined city, a roar sounded. The second tawny-furred creature, calling out. Or perhaps a third.
    “We must go.” The female raised a hand, her palm toward Q’arlynd’s chest. “Are you