faster than any of these lumbering men, and one of them stumbled as he tried to turn too swiftly and almost pitched over on his side. Cursing and hopping on a turned ankle, he was far behind her, and she'd timed her move perfectly.
A blade reached for her, slid past her shoulder as she leaned gracefully away from it. She passed the right-most of the two straight-ahead chargers and made her own leap to the left. She landed, spun, and leaped again, turning more quickly than any runner could, and found herself right behind the leader. He was whirling- straight into her blade as it swung through his throat. He hadn't even time for a shout as he choked, looked startled, and toppled, still swinging himself hard around.
Sharantyr took the man who'd been running beside him next, the man she'd outflanked. He was still turning to follow her runs and leaps, with his back to her, and slaughtering him was hideously easy. Throat again, from behind as he turned into it, then a leap away to face the nearest surviving brigand, the flanker who hadn't hurt his ankle.
His sneering smile was gone, replaced by anger and rising fear, as the lady ranger of the Knights of Myth Drannor-a title given her by folk of Shadowdale to distinguish her from Florin, who was the closest thing the Knights had to a leader; gods how she missed his easy smile and swift blade beside her now! — ran right at him, charging hard to stay ahead of the last, hobbling brigand.
Their blades met, and she had to duck away and leap straight up to quell her momentum, so as to cross blades with him when she was properly balanced. This man was good. There'd be no fooling him with swift turns. She cast a glance at the other brigand-Mielikki damn him, he was close! — and came down charging at another foe. Best swing around him to put the stumbler between her and his blade-master fellow, and They were both fast. She caught the stumbler's blade on her own, but the other blade thrust hard into her from behind. It passed through her as if through smoke, of course, but blue fire arced from sword to sword-and the tip of one of them was protruding from her own belly, thrust through from behind.
The pain was like being plunged into a fire. Or rather, like having a fire burst from nothingness into instant full roaring inside her, blazing up through her ribs to choke her and leave her sobbing and trembling helplessly.
Through her whimpering agony Sharantyr heard both men swear in astonishment at her lack of blood and solidity-and swing their swords again, that damned blue fire arcing and sizzling between the blades in hungry lines of blue sparks.
'Die, she-wolf!' one of the brigands snarled, as she circled desperately away from them. He lunged at her.
Good, that kept them both facing her, so she couldn't get caught between them and pinned or grappled. Which meant… if she could somehow stand more of this pain…
Yes! Sharantyr refrained from parrying the blade coming at her. Instead, she embraced it and ran along it, until his knuckles struck her belly. The agony of blue fire raging in her was almost too much to bear, but she kept hold of her blade somehow and slashed it across his face. He fell away with a snarl, his blade clawing numbingly down her legs to clang on the road stones beneath her boots. She kicked the wound she'd made, hard, as she sprang over him and into a whirling parry against the last brigand.
The swordmaster who was so swift and so good. Their blades met and sang, whirled, and sang again, and at every strike blue fire arced from his steel to the fallen blades of his fellows. She saw his intent in her foe's face even before he tried it. He wanted to snatch up the blade of the man she'd just blinded and catch her between the two blades, knowing the magic would hurt her where steel could not. She'd no time to sort through Lhaeo's bag for particular gems, or any other aid at all, and she lacked the strength and speed to stop this stratagem now.
So Sharantyr let him snatch up that second blade, by backing away and slashing out the throat of the one she'd wounded. 'Three down,' she panted aloud, trying to enrage or unsettle him, but the last brigand only smiled.
'So I'll have you all to myself,' he said lightly, as he stepped forward with a sword in each hand and blue fire snarling silently between them, 'to teach you true pain.'
Sharantyr stepped away from him, taking care not to trip over any of the bodies. No, let him try to stalk her over them. 'My,' she replied more calmly than she felt, 'that should be fun.'
'Oh, yes,' he purred. 'You'll find I'm a very good teacher. I ran my own school of the sword in Athkatla for twelve seasons.'
'Until they caught you at something, I've no doubt,' Sharantyr replied coolly, circling away from him again. His smile broadened. They both knew who was better with a blade and who was swifter and stronger-and it wasn't the lady ranger. Flamewind stamped and made a small sound of fear and irritation well behind the man, but he never so much as let his eyes flicker. Carefully he advanced, blades out and ready.
Something burned Sharantyr's foot, and she looked down and saw another brigand's blade, alight with blue fire. The swordmaster rushed at her, but she managed to snatch up the fallen blade before his swords could quite touch her, and flung it right at his face.
Gods, but he was fast! The Athkatlan's swords caught the spinning steel and struck it aside, so it only sliced a lock of hair from him as it whirled away-but blue fire burns brigands, too, and he cried out, blinded for a moment.
A moment was all Sharantyr needed. She took the sickening, searing pain of his blade through her breast and left side for the gasped breath that she needed to lean in and hack the side of his neck. He crumpled, clutching at the wound as blood flew, letting go his second sword and leaving bare his remaining swordhand all at once. Sharantyr chopped his blade out of his fingers, leaving him staggering back and staring at her in pain and dawning despair. 'You teach well,' she murmured. 'Behold: true pain, as promised.'
His hand darted down from his neck to where she'd known it would go, to snatch and throw a dagger. One of three, if her eyes had served her as they should…
No, she was in no mood to taste three or even one dagger, just now. She threw her sword into his face and sent him reeling, dagger falling away harmlessly. She was on him like a hunting cat pouncing, her stonemaiden out and around his throat before his body had finished bouncing. He struggled, but she stomped on both of his hands and then sat down hard on his head… and it was too late.
His face was purple and his eyes were staring their last when Sharantyr murmured almost gently, 'Yes. 'Twould have been fun. Go now to Tempus, or whoever among the gods runs a better sword-school.'
When the swordmaster's last breath had rattled out and his stare was frozen, she retrieved her weapons, wincing, and went back for Flamewind. The horse snorted at the smell of blood on her and pawed the road but did not run- for which Sharantyr was heartily grateful. She was too tired and too ravaged by pain to chase a horse through the Blackrocks just now.
Something bayed in the hills to the east, not far off. The lady ranger collected three glowing blades without peering to see what might be howling and caught up Flamewind's dangling reins. The ranger and the horse left the bodies behind without another glance and walked together down the road to Face Crag.
Sleek, shaggy things with long fangs snarled and slunk away from the wrack she found there, leaving gnawed bones in their wake. Fresh, bloody skulls lay shattered underfoot amid ruined wagons, dark bloodstains, and broken lances. There were rustlings in the trees on both sides of her as Sharantyr peered this way and that, seeking any sign of a certain young mage or his lady… and thankfully finding none.
Flamewind snorted at those sounds and danced restlessly at the end of his reins. She held him firmly, plucked up two fallen skins of water to lash at his saddle, then strode on along the road, day drawing down or not.
As they went, the rustling sounds kept them company. Sharantyr smiled mirthlessly and walked on, seeking death or spellfire.
A popular quest it seemed, these days.
Mere Memories of Mages
