One of the veterans of the dale, Ghondarrath, a stern-eyed old warrior with a gray-white beard edging his hard jaw, was telling of the treasures of the ruined City of Beauty, Myth Drannor. Shandril had heard it before, but it was still fascinating. She listened intently, scarcely daring to breathe, as she took hold and pulled ever-so-gently. The dagger came free, cold and hard and heavy in her hand.

"… So for many long years the elves kept all others away, and the woods grew over the ruins of Myth Drannor. The Fair Folk let it alone; not a harp or spellbook or gemstone did they take. There it all lies in the woods still, not a week's ride north of here. Waiting for the brave-and the foolish-to try for it, for it is guarded by devils… and worse."

The old man paused, his audience intent upon his every word, and raised his tankard. His free hand slid across his chest like a striking snake.

One of the adventurers, a thin man with short blond hair and a ratlike face, was passing behind him, and old Ghondarrath grunted and set down his tankard. He raised his other hand, and all could see the adventurer's wrist clasped within. In that captured hand was Ghondarrath's purse.

"Well," Ghondarrath said dryly, "look what I've found." The room fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire. No one moved. Shandril clutched the dagger fiercely in excitement. She knew she should creep away quickly, lest the dwarf reach for his blade… and yet, she couldn't miss this!

There was a flurry of movement; the thief whipped a slim dagger out of a sheath at the back of his neck with his free hand, stabbing downward. Ghondarrath jerked him coolly sideways, and he crashed helplessly forward onto the table. Ghondarrath's free hand came down upon the back of the thief's neck with a solid crash, like a tree falling. "Dead?" asked one of the other dalemen in a hoarse whisper. For a second more there was silence, and then with a roar the Company of the Bright Spear was on their feet.