shook himself as a dog shakes off water when climbing out of a pond, and went on down the road.
Mirt rolled his eyes and shook his head but said nothing.
Narm and Shandril exchanged glances. 'I have a bad feeling about that,' Shandril said softly. “When Delg senses something amiss, he's usually all too right-something goes amiss before the clay is out. So please, Narm… be careful; watch always for danger.'
Narin nodded wryly. 'What else do I ever watch for since we first met?' He wrapped an arm about her to show he meant no complaint, and added, 'I fear you're right, though. I'll keep wary eyes, as best I can.'
'If you two can find the will to leave off cuddling for a breath or two,' Delg said sourly from ahead, “your mouths — and brains to guide them, too-are needed in a little dispute.'
Mirt stood at the roadside. He was looking down at the dwarf rather like a bull wearily regards a small, loud dog. as something not yet worth kicking, but that may soon become so if it continues to annoy. 'We leave the road here,' he said patiently, 'and go across the fields. Trust me: I know this land well.'
'As do I,' the dwarf replied, unmoved. 'The more northerly we tend, the closer we get to the Zhentarim and the lawlessness of the Stonelands where for all we know this Dragon Cult rides freely, too. Short of turning back into the teeth that follow us, this is the worst way we could tread.'
Mirt sighed. 'Aye, so it may seem. But look ye. Sir Dwarf, and heed-in Suzail, or any port on the Inner Sea, the Zhents and the Cult could have a dozen's dozen of agents waiting, an' we'd never know until their blades were in us. More than that; they've hired eyes aplenty watching for the walking source of spellfire, and those known to guard her, in all those places. Moreover they expect Shandril to come that way, and by the roads. These be all good reasons, by my blade, to turn aside and seek the secret way I know.'
Delg snorted. 'The Stonelands are bandit country, and worse-they hold fearsome beasts and Zhent evil. Enough of both, even you must admit, that the Purple Dragons have never been able to hold Azoun's word as law north of the road that links Arabel with High Horn, let alone to Desert's Edge, where earlier kings of Cormyr always claimed to rule. A land of outlaws, breakneck gullies, little hidden cliff's and thornbushes; it crawls with monsters by night and creeps with them by day. Do you think us a band of sword-swinging heroes, bedecked with magic blades and fancy armor? Or have you such a band up your sleeve-or hidden in that capacious belly of yours?'
Mirt sighed again and spoke with exaggerated gentleness. 'I have no quarrel with thy glowing description of the land, nor do I have any swordarms to protect us-save the two that come visibly attached to this belly ye're so impressed with. Yet, look ye, I know of a way not known to those who chase at our heels. A way to save Shandril nearly a season of travel-time on her long way to the North, a way to avoid the roads and inns of Cormyr-and the trackless wastes of the Backlands on the western edge of Anauroch, too, where every second merchant could well be a Zhent agent, or someone else who'd just as soon stick a dagger between yer shoulder blades the moment ye turn yer back.'
'So what is this magical way, that I've never heard of it?' the dwarf asked suspiciously, brows bristling. 'That's it precisely,' Mirt said, lowering his voice. 'Magic. That's all I prefer to say.'
Delg snorted. 'Trust me, then, you're telling us: trust me to lead you into a land of death because I've left some handy, oh-so-reliable magic there, which’ll whisk us away from all danger and leave all our foes and cares behind.'
Mirt smiled thinly. 'I couldn't have put it much better than that-are ye sure ye don't do a rich trade in dealing horses somewhere in Faerun?' Then he sighed and looked to Narm and Shandril. 'Ye've heard Delg, and my words too, about the paths before us. Choose then, whether ye'll follow me. I will say only two things more: first, that the way through Cormyr's roads and cities is almost certain death, where my way offers death not so sure by a long measure; second, that whate'er yet choice, it must be made speedily, for if we stand here debating in the open all day, death will come up behind us and lay claws on our shoulders while yet we speak.'
Shandril stared at him and at Delg, and then looked to Narm, who said, 'The decision must be yours, love.' They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, and then Shandril turned back and said very quietly, 'I'm sorry, Delg. Storm and Elminster and the Knights told me some things about gates, and this sounds like one-am I right, Lord Mirt?'
Mirt nodded. 'The gate, aye; but not this talk of 'Lord’; ye're no subject to me.'
Shandril waved away his words. 'I would walk where Mirt leads us now, Delg. Will you come with us? Please?' Delg growled, looked away, and then spat into the dust slowly and carefully. 'Of course I’ll come. It's wrong. I can feel it. It'll bring death, but someone's got to be along to see that it isn't yours, Lady. I'll come.'
Silence hung heavily around them for what seemed a long time, and then Shandril whispered, ''Thank you, Delg. Thank you.' Her voice trembled on the last word, and Narm looked to her in alarm; she was close to tears.
His slim lady stood looking at the dwarf, who squinted warily back up at her a moment more, and then smiled, clapped his hands together, and said briskly, 'Let's be walking, then! The sun rolls on, and I grow older with it.'
Amid a general murmur of agreement, they set off after Mirt The old merchant's rolling gait was surprisingly fast. He strode purposefully across the field, heading for a distant stile over the rubble fence that separated this field from the next.
Delg, as was his wont, fell back to guard the rear, his ready axe glittering in his hands. He muttered as he walked, words meant for no ears but his own. 'Never hurry to your doom, lass. It will come for you soon enough. Too many of my folk have gone looking for their doom and sure enough, it found them: ' His knuckles were white where he gripped his axe, and the corded veins in his hairy wrists and forearms stood out darkly as his hands shook.
It is never easy to see your own death close ahead, know there is no escape, and go calmly to meet it.
'They were here, in this village?' The Zhentarim s voice was cold. 'And no one knows which way they went?'
'No, Lord Mage,' the swordmaster said a little uncertainly. 'We've asked everyone.'
'Not forcefully enough, I'd say. Start chopping off villagers' fingers until someone remembers something.' 'Aye, Lord.' The warriors voice was not happy. Needless butchery was never wise. These folk were terrified of the Brotherhood already. Turning that fear to desperate, fighting hatred would be all too easy. The Zhents had to sleep somewhere tonight, whether or not this maniac of a wizard burned the inn to the ground.
'I've just remembered something,' a voice rumbled from a roof close overhead.
The swordmaster looked up. 'Eh?'
'It's Zhent-killing fime!' Rathan Thentraver announced gleefully as he launched himself off the edge of the roof. His not inconsiderable bulk crashed down atop the swordmaster, who crumpled to the ground under the knight and did not move again. 'Truly, the loads some of us bear in life are heavier than others.' Rathan smiled up at the startled Zhentarim wizard as he paraphrased the old maxim.
The wizard, looking at the stout priest in surprise and anger. never saw the slim thief lean down over the edge of the roof, Rathan's borrowed mace in his hand.
'Magusta, dear?' Torm asked interestedly as he clubbed the wizard on the side of the head. Blood flew, and the man fell without a sound. 'No,' Torm said, watching the mage bounce and sprawl on the ground, arms twitching. 'I guess not' He sighed theatrically and slid down from the roof. 'When shall I ever catch up with that maiden? My lips ache for her kisses!'
'Not half so much as yon wizard's head aches for another hit o' my mace, I'm thinking,' Rathan rumbled, taking it from his fellow knight and bending forward to finish the task.
There was a startled shout from a nearby window, and two Zhents ran around the corner of the Wyvern's front wall, swords drawn.
While Rathan finished the mage, Torm snatched up the sword of the sprawled swordmaster, hefted it critically, and then threw it hard. It flashed end over end through the air and cut a crimson line across one Zhent's face. Torm leapt after it, drawing his own sword with a smile. 'This is more like it!' he called back as steel rang and he turned aside the first warriors blade. 'Chop and hack merrily, work up an appetite, get a lot of good fresh air…'
'Did ye have to mention food? My belly feels like it's been lying starving in a dungeon for a month-and here I am going into battle.' Rathan's snort of disgust was matched by a low, ominous rumble from his abdomen. Torm hooted with laughter and killed a Zhent.
Rathan lumbered along the front of the inn as the man fell, calling plaintively, 'Wait for me, will ye?' At full
