Without warning, a man loomed up out of the mist no more than two steps away, strode past her with the wet grass whispering around his boots, and was gone, walking back the way she had come. He held a strung bow and a shaft ready in one hand, and wore a long knife at his belt, but no armor. He looked young and bleakly confident. After a moment, another archer followed, and then four more, passing farther away. Shandril gasped in horror. The archers were going back to slay the company!
In her mind she could see arrows leaping one by one from the mists to bring down Delg, Burlane, Rymel, Thail-one by one, convulsed and writhing in the grass, their slayers quickly gone. Any chase would run straight into a storm of arrows.
How to warn the company? Shandril doubted she could get around the archers without being killed. There was only one thing to do, she realized with a sick, sinking feeling. Fun, she reminded herself wryly as she rose out of the grass and turned, drawing Lynxal's blade-her sword now-and went off to war.
She hurried forward as quietly as she could, picturing the faces of her companions as she strolled up to them with dripping blade and tossed two heads at their feet. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she stared down at the blade, cold and heavy in her hands, with real revulsion.
She looked around in the mist, feeling suddenly lost and helpless. A sharp blade is little comfort when you know you can't use it on anyone. Even less comfort once the anyone realizes that. She stopped for a moment to lean against a gaunt and bare tree. Sheathing her sword carefully, she looked over the tree. The wood was dead but damp; it broke with a dull sound, not the sharp crack she had feared. She held a curved, surprisingly heavy, twisted limb. Shandril hefted it a few times and then stalked on through the mist.
She came upon him quite suddenly. The archer who had passed close to her was now standing alone, bow ready, listening intently. He heard her and half turned. As his eyes met hers and his mouth opened in surprise, Shandril leaped forward, heart pounding, and brought the tree limb down as hard as she could across his throat.
The force of the blow numbed her hands and knocked her off balance. She slipped in the wet grass and slid right beneath him, getting tangled in his legs. He made a horrible gurgling noise, and his knee hit her forehead hard. Dazed, Shandril lay staring up at the mist for a moment, the breath knocked from her hings, her back and bottom aching. Then she heard thudding footsteps.
'Bitch!' a man's voice snarled close by. Shandril rolled to one side and looked up. The other archer was charging at her, a long, gleaming knife drawn up to strike.
Shandril screamed in helpless terror as the knife leaped at her throat, so bright and so quick. She threw up her hands-the tree limb gone, her sword too slow to draw-and tried to jump aside.
Too late. The archer's grasping hand caught her left shoulder as she shifted to the right. The cruel force of his fingers drove her back and spun her sideways. His biting blade stabbed again and again at her shoulder and back. Shandril screamed again at the burning, slicing pain, as they fell together on top of the sprawled body of the first archer. Her shoulder felt wet and cold as the knife slid across it.
The man's angry face was inches from her own. Shandril struggled furiously to avoid his clutching hands and block the knife, clawing, biting, and driving her knees viciously into him. Somehow, she got both hands on his wrist and forced the knife past her, but he was stronger and he pulled it slowly around at her again.
Then the snarling face inches from her own gasped. The eyes darkened, and blood dribbled from the lips. Shandril felt his strength ebb away, and then strong hands lifted the man's weight from her. Through bleary eyes she saw the bright and terrible tip of a blade growing out of a dark, spreading stain on the archer's chest. His head lolled as he was lifted aside.
Anxious faces looked down upon her. Shandril smiled weakly as she met Rymel's eyes, and saw Delg, Thail, and Burlane behind him. She caught a shuddering breath, steadied her shaking hands, and said, 'My thanks. I… think these two were… sent back… to slay you all with their arrows… I… had to stop them.'
She winced as gentle hands touched her shoulder to raise her. Burlane murmured something comforting as Thail's fingers probed cautiously. The wizard took a flask from his belt with crimson, dripping fingers and said simply, 'Drink.'
The liquid was thick and clear and slightly sweet. It soothed and refreshed, and a delicious warmth spread from Shandril's stomach. 'Thanks.'
Her eyes sought Burlane. 'I followed them,' she said. 'They went west… the land rises. Two hills away the rearguard split. Four swordsmen followed up the mules, and these two came back this way to slay any who pursued.' She realized with sudden vigor that the pain had subsided, and with it her sick, dizzy feeling. 'What was in that vial?'
'A potion,' Thail said gently. 'Can you walk?' He raised her gently to her feet.
Delg patted her hip and said, 'Well done, ladymaid.' Shandril looked around at the others: Ferostil, looking relieved as his eyes met hers and saw they were no longer misted in pain, and Rymel, who wordlessly held out to her the knives of the two archers.
'Can you use a bow?' Burlane asked her quietly.
Shandril shook her head, but took the knives and slid one down either boot. Rymel nodded approvingly.
Burlane laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. 'Let us go,' he said. 'I would have this treasure we've bled for.'
There was a general rumble of agreement, and the Company of the Bright Spear strode forward. Shandril looked once over her shoulder at the twisted bodies of the archers before the mist swallowed them. She had killed a man. It had been so quick, frighteningly easy. She stumbled on a clump of grass despite Burlane's arm-and paused in shock. 'Shandril?' Burlane asked quietly. 'Are you well?'
'I-ah, yes. Yes. Better now.' Shandril strode on, trying not to look down at the tunic that clung to her damply. It was dark and glistening with the blood of the man who had nearly slain her. Her skin crawled. She hoped it would not begin to smell too soon.
Far to the east the mist was thinner. Wisps of it curled about Marimmar as the Mage Most Magnificent led his apprentice through old, thickly grown trees. 'This way, boy! Just ahead, and you'll lay eyes on what few have seen unless they be elvish for four lifetimes of men, and more! Myth Drannor itself! Who knows what art may wait there for you and me? We could wield magics unseen in these lands for many a long year, boy! What say you?' The pudgy mage fairly trembled with anticipation.
'Ah, Master…' Narm began, looking ahead.
'Aye?'
'Well met, lord of the elves,' Narm said hastily, 'and lady most fair. I am Narm, apprentice to this Mage Most Magnificent, Marimmar. We seek Myth Drannor.'
Marimmar blinked in surprise and beheld a tall, dark-haired male elf who bore both wands and sword at his belt. The elven warrior stood beside a human lady of almost elfin beauty-dark eyes, a gentle mouth, and a slim, exquisite figure-who wore plain dark robes. They stood together in the middle of the old, overgrown trail Marimmar had been following and showed no signs of moving aside, though both wore polite expressions and had nodded courteously at Narm's salutation.
Marimmar cleared his throat noisily. 'Ah-well met, as my boy has said. Know you the way to the City of Beauty, good sir?…' The elf smiled thinly.
'Yes, I do, Mage Most Magnificent.' His voice, low and musical, was faintly sarcastic. His eyes were very clear.
Narm stared in wonder. This seemed an elven lord like the old tale spoke of.
'However,' the elf continued, gently and severely, 'I stand here to bar your way to it. Myth Drannor is not a treasure-house. It is today a sacred place to my people, even now that most of my kin have gone from these fair trees. It is also a very dangerous place. Devils have been summoned to the ruined city by evil men. They patrol the forest even now, not far beyond where we stand.'
'I am not a babe to be frightened by words, good sir,' Marimmar snapped. 'We have come far to reach Myth Drannor before it is plundered, its precious magic lost! Stand aside, for I have no quarrel with you, and would not harm you!' Marimmar urged his pony forward.
'Back your mount, mage,' the lady said calmly, 'for we have no quarrel with it.' She stepped forward. 'I am Jhessail Silvertree of Shadowdale. This is my husband, Merith Strongbow. We are Knights of Myth Drannor. This is our city, and we bid you politely begone. We have the art to drive you back, Marimmar. Make us wield it at your peril.'
