Free A Stone's Throw (The Gryphonpike Chronicles Book 3) by Annie Bellet Page A

toward us as we headed for the bar. “Don’ see so many elves around the Barrows.”
    Likely because we have keen eyes and always see you first . Not that there were elves in these parts anyway. My distant descendents lived mostly in the Woodland Reach to the northeast or far to the south in the River Kingdoms.
    “Leave off, Occo, or I’ll cut you off, eh?” One of the women behind the long wooden bar leaned out and flicked a rag at the old man.
    “Didn’t mean nothing,” the man muttered as he staggered back to his table.
    “So, handsome, where are you two from?” said the woman who had rescued us from the drunk. She and the other bartender looked similar, with curling brown hair and toothy smiles on round faces more friendly than comely. Sisters, I guessed.
    “Adventuring Guild,” Drake said. He slid his guild medallion out of his shirt more for a chance to flash a little chest muscle at the women than out of any real need to prove his statement. “I’m Drake Bannor.”
    I perched on a stool and leaned my bow against the bar. I gave him two, maybe three, minutes before he would have free drinks and their life story out of those women. Drake was handsome enough for a human, with smooth brown skin, black curly hair, and heavy-lidded hazel eyes that always crinkled with a knowing smile, as though your secrets were written on your skin in a language only he could read.
    That part was an act, of course. Drake had decent people reading skills, I supposed, but he wasn’t magical about it or anything. He was best with women. They melted under his attention like butter forgotten in the sun. He never seemed to care if they were ugly or too skinny, old or young. Not that the ample chests and cheery plumpness of the two barmaids didn’t factor in, of course, but if the sisters had been thin faced and flat-chested, Drake would still have cajoled a drink or six out of them while making them both feel as though they had his special attention.
    “We do,” said Myrie, the younger of the sisters. “Our granmama built this place. Her father was an adventurer like you. That’s his old rapier sheath there.” She pointed to the empty scabbard over the hearth. Above it was a sign carved into the wood plaque stating that attempts could be made for one silver bit. I wondered what that was supposed to mean. Curious, I moved to examine the sheath. It was lovely work, the metal appearing to be silver but it had too much luster to it, hints of blue such as the very finest of steel can take on. My eyes widened as I picked out a word among the scrolling designs.
    Raaz . Hidden or secret.
    “Brought it back from his travels. Said the words were Elvish. Can you read it?” Myrie asked me, coming around the end of the bar.
    “She can’t speak,” Drake said as he followed Myrie over. “Lost her voice dueling a wizard,” he added with a wink when the plump tavernkeep shot him a surprised glance.
    I curled my fingers into my palms and swallowed the urge to break Drake’s aquiline nose. This was his latest theory, one in a string of many and none of the others were here to tell him to shut up. Myrie’s great granddad had lied or never known the truth. The writing on the sheath wasn’t Elvish at all, but Dwarven. The Fire-kin never left their strongholds deep beneath the volcanic archipelago known as the Flamespine. Yet here was dwarfwork.
    Drake reached past me for the sheath and then hesitated. “May I?” he asked over his shoulder. At Myrie’s nod he took the sheath down and turned it over in his hands with a wistful sigh. “I bet the sword that goes with it is impressive.”
    “I don’t know. It was lost in my great grandad’s final duel.”
    “What’s the sign all about?” Drake asked.
    “Cost you a silver bit to find out, or mayhap something else,” Myrie said, moving up beside him with a coy look on her face.
    “Myrie,” clucked her sister. “The rules are the rules. Anyone wanting to attempt the challenge has