turned back to the floating blade. Murmuring something to himself, he reached toward the blade and made a certain gesture. Blue lightning crackled suddenly, coiling and twisting along the gleaming steel like a snake spiraling around a branch. Then there was a brief, soundless flash, and the reaching, blue-white tongues of lightning were gone. The wizard nodded and wrote something on a piece of parchment in front of him.
Then he tugged at his beard for a moment, spoke a single, distinct word Shandril had never heard before, and made another gesture. This time there was no response from the magical blade. The wizard made another note.
Delg squinted up at the Purple Dragon commander. 'In a breath or two, I'll tell you all that,' he said, 'if you've time to listen by then. There's near thirty Zhentilar riding on our heels, they'll be here very soon.'
The commander stared at him, saw that he was serious, and said, 'Zhentil Keep? Twill be a pleasure, Sir Dwarf, to turn them back.' He made no move to call his men to arms, but nodded his head at the guardhouse into which Shandril had been taken. 'So speak, what befell?'
Delg turned to look east. His hand glided swiftly to the reassuring hardness of his axe. 'She won time for us to escape, blasting a score of Zhents out of their saddles. Unfortunately, there are more, and all her, ah, magic is gone.'
The captain was not a stupid man. His eyes widened for a moment as the dwarf spoke of magic younger than most spell-hurlers, that lass. His eyes narrowed again an instant later as he too turned to look at the horizon. His face changed, and he shouted, 'Down! Ware arrows!'
A hail of shafts answered him, thudding into the turf many paces short of them. Up over the nearest hill bobbed many darkarmored heads, rising and falling at a gallop. The Zhentilar, riding hard and with arrows to waste, had come. Faces paled and jaws dropped. Then the men who wore the Purple Dragon were scrambling for crossbows and cover. As the minstrels of the Dales say, they scarce had time for last wistful wishes before death swept down on them.
Shandril heard a faint yell, then another. Somehow she found strength and was on her feet, her head swimming. The world rocked and swayed. There was nothing in her but sick, helpless emptiness. Sweat glistened on her hands with the effort. She swayed and caught at the back of the wizard's chair for support.
Astonished and irritated, the mage looked up into her face. She pushed past, leaned on the table for support, and reached out with weak, trembling fingers. The blade was cold but tingling as she touched it; trembling with weakness and relief, she felt the magic it bore begin to flow into her.'What're you — that's magic, lass — no — don't!' the wizard blurted. Then he stared in surprise; the blade flashed with sudden light and seemed to waken. Pulses of radiance ran down it and up the arms of the young girl, who grasped its hilt in both hands and gasped. She closed her eyes and shuddered as small arcs of lightning leapt from the blade and spiraled around her.
From outside came sudden tumult: thudding hooves, screams and yells, and then, very near, a horrible, gurgling moan.The wizard tore his gaze from Shandril just long enough to roll his eyes and snarl, 'What now? Oh, Mystra aid me!' Snatching a wand from his belt, he strode out of the room. What in the name of all the gods was going on? The sudden reek of something burning came to him as he flung wide the oaken door of the guardhouse — and stopped in astonishment, again.
Across the threshold, he saw Guardcaptain Ruldel's face twist in pain as he sagged back into the arms of a young man in mage robes. Many arrows stood out of the dragons on the warrior's surcoat and shield, and already his armor was dark with blood. Above him stood a dwarf, face grim, bloody axe in hand. The war wizard goggled at them all from the doorway, frozen in disbelief. As the commander sank into the boy's arms, he groaned, struggled to speak for a moment, and looked up at the dwarf.
The words came in a rough hiss. 'Tell Azoun, I… we were togeth…'The rest was lost forever in a last rush of blood.
Delg shook his head as he tugged the shield out of the man's lifeless hand; the fool had not even had time to get it properly on his arm. Now he was past needing it. Delg crouched, holding the shield-it was as tall as he was-up to protect Narm. The young mage was drenched with sweat, exhausted from deflecting far too many arrows with a feeble, invisible magic meant for hanging cloaks on pegs or fetching small things from across a room. The spell had failed in the end, and Narm barely clung to wakefulness.
Arrows hissed and hummed past them, reaching hungrily through the air close by… toward the open door of the guardhouse. The war wizard stood there, still looking astonished as the shafts tore into him. Irritation joined puzzlement on his face before he gurgled and toppled slowly sideways, an arrow through his throat. Errant shafts cracked off the stone wall beside him. There was a barked command from whence the arrows had come. Through the sudden stillness that followed, one man came riding, trotting up to confront the young man and the dwarf. The frightened faces of villagers peered from windows. All around the Zhentilar, the soldiers of Cormyr lay sprawled in blood, pinned down by many arrows. One warrior hung limply out the open window of a cottage that was already crackling into rising flames.
As he reined up in front of Delg, the dark-armored Zhentilar swung a drawn long sword lazily through the air, trailing drops of fresh blood. He looked down at the grim dwarf, over at the sprawled wizard in the guardhouse doorway, and then around at the frightened, watching faces, and his cruel face brightened in satisfaction. He rose in his saddle with insolent grace and brandished his bloody sword again. 'Come out, wench!' he bellowed at the open guardhouse door. 'Come out, or well burn this village, and you with it'.
A murmur of fear went up. The bewildered folk of Thundarlun could not believe so many strong, capable Purple Dragons — a soldier for every three villagers could be slain so quickly and easily. In numb silence, they looked down again at the still forms and the blood. Had the gods forsaken Thundarlun?
The Zhentilar beckoned impatiently without looking behind him; one of his men obediently rode up with a blazing torch in hand. With a cold smile, the Zhent swordmaster looked around at the stunned, fearful faces of the watching villagers. Slowly and deliberately, he wiped his blade on the flank of his horse-it snorted and shifted under him-and he sheathed it. Then he reached out, took the torch, and brandished it like a blade, trailing rippling flames through the air. His horse rolled its eyes in fear, the Zhent pulled back sharply on the reins to prevent it from bolting and swung his new weapon in arcs of flame. 'Come out!' he snarled, or taste fire!'
Silence fell… and lengthened, hanging heavy on the smoky air. Villagers murmured in fear as the wait continued, and the swordmaster's face grew stony. He raised the torch and sat his saddle like a statue of impending doom. The silence stretched. The fire he held on high spat and crackled. The dwarf stood watching it, eyes narrow and shield raised over the kneeling form of Narm, who had grown pale and seemed to be having trouble swallowing. And then a slim girl in dusty travel leathers stood in the doorway. Yellow-white fire seemed to dance around her eyes and hands, blazing like the torch in the swordmaster's hand.
'You called for me, Zhentilar?' The words were calm and cool, but flames flickered from her lips as she spoke. At the sight, Zhents and villagers alike murmured and fell back. Then the girl shuddered, and her face creased in pain. It cleared again. She straightened almost defiantly, looking up at the Zhent swordmaster, her hands going to her hips. An arrow sang toward her. The swordmaster's furious order was too late to halt its flight but Shandril looked at it calmly, not moving. Under her gaze it caught fire, blazed like a tiny, leaping star, and was gone in drifting sparks and smoke. The moan of awe and fear from the watching villagers was louder than the startled oaths some of the Zhentilar uttered.
'You called me out,' Shandril said in a terrible, hoarse whisper. Her eyes, blazing with fire, fixed on the Zhentilar swordmaster. As she glared, flames roiled around her face — and then lanced out.
The Zhentilar's face paled as hissing flames leapt at him. He flung up an armored arm to shield his face. The flames swelled to a sudden, savage roar. Then the swordmaster cried out in sudden pain, twisting in his saddle. Smoke rose from the half-cloak about his shoulders. His mount reared under him, neighing, and the torch fell from his smoldering hands. Shandril raised one blazing hand, and in her eyes he saw his death. 'By all the gods,' she said in fury, flames rising around her hair in a leaping crown of fire, 'you'll wish you hadn't.'
One
