strode on, his old, worn boots flopping.
A serpent raised a fanged head in warning on the vast, moss-cloaked trunk of a fallen tree ahead, and the Old Wolf gave it a growl worthy of his namesake. What good are enchanted rings that quell all nonvocal sounds one makes, and allow one to slip through ward-spells unnoticed, if one still lumbers about like a bull in a mud-wallow. . and the ring-spells do nothing about the confounded heat?
Mirt wiped sweat out of his eyes with a swipe of his sleeve as he watched the snake glide away in search of a more secluded spot to curl up in. He was wheezing again. Gods curse this heat-wasn't deep forest shade supposed to be cool?
A rattlewings started up in alarm under his boots, whirring away through the gloom in a squawking welter of wings. Mirt sourly watched it go, threw up his hands-so much for stealth-and plunged on through the damp leaf mold, spiderwebs, and mushrooms.
Oh, aye-and thorn bushes. Never forget the thorn bushes. They had their own abrupt and painful ways of making sure of that. The fat merchant growled again as he tore free of a barbed, biting tangle-not his first this day- leaving some of his blood behind, and stumped on through the endless forest. Why by all the gods had a Chosen of Mystra-who could have any shy;thing she damned well wanted-sought out such a far and hidden place, anyway?
Because she wants-needs-to be alone, he thought, and I am come to shatter the peace that must be so pre shy;cious to her.
Mirt growled again at the thought, and waved a hand in anger. Sweat was dripping off his nose again, running down his face like a brook, more salty sticki shy;ness than water.
Mirt found himself spitting out a moth that had darted into his mouth amidst his wheezing. Now he was eating insects. Grand, indeed.
Sweating and stumbling, the only fat merchant for miles-or so he hoped-lumbered on up a slippery slope of mosses and little leaf-filled hollows, gained the top of a ridge. . and stopped abruptly, catching at a tree for support as he stared down at what lay ahead.
His jaw dropped open. Oh, he'd known there'd be a dell in the trees somewhere hereabouts, warded and hidden, with Dove Falconhand in it. And here 'twas, without the singing of shattered wards or any magic menacing him. Evidently the ring was working after all.
An eerie blue light of magic pulsed down in the dell, radiance that spun like sparkling mists around a strange dance. A woman taller than Mirt was dancing in midair, her booted feet almost his height off the ground, whirling with smooth grace in an endless flow shy;ing of limbs and swirling silver hair.
Gods, but she was beautiful! The Old Wolf growled deep in his throat, like the animal he was named for, as he watched her dance held aloft by her own magic. Her shoulders were as broad as his, their sleek rippling making light play and gleam along the shining plates of her full suit of black and silver armor. She wore nei shy;ther gauntlets nor helm, but was otherwise encased in war steel, all slender curvaceous strength and long, strong legs. Her height and deft grace made her seem smaller and more slender than she truly was-not a squat, burly swordswinger like Mirt, not even 'buxom'… but in truth, she overmatched him in size, reach, and probably strength. Her unbound silver hair flowed with her, licking and dancing about her shoulders. Her dark brows arched in concentration as she watched her deadly, moaning partners.
Dove of the Seven Sisters was not dancing alone. Singing in the air around her were a dozen scabbardless swords, their bared blades cutting the air in whirling dances of their own. Mirt saw runes ripple down their shining flanks, and at least two of them were moaning-one high-pitched, one lower-as they spun through air that crackled with power. In the heart of their deadly ballet, Dove Falconhand was singing, low and word shy;lessly, her voice quickening and growing louder.
A darting sword point struck sudden sparks from Dove's armor then whirled away. Mirt was still watch shy;ing its tumbling flight in wonder when two blades slashed at the dancing woman, their steel shrieking in protest along the curves of her armor. Without thinking, the Old Wolf pushed away from his tree and stumbled forward, almost pitching onto his face as he caught one boot heel in a tree root, Dove's song was insistent now, almost hungry. The swords were circling her and darting in, striking like sharks tearing at a stricken fish. Screams of metal raking metal rose to drown out her keening as Mirt sprinted down the leaf-slick dellside, snatching out his own sword with the vague notion of smashing down the flying blades from the air. Was she caught in some sort of magical trap? A spell that turned her own powers against her to bring her swift death?
He wasted no breath in roaring a warning-in case someone who might be directing the blades would thereby be warned-but Dove soon saw him. Her head turned, mouth opening in surprise, just as a blade slid under the edge of a plate, bit through an unseen strap, and sent the black and silver plate spinning away. Three swords plunged into the gap where the plate had been and Dove stiffened, clawing the air in obvious pain.
Her gasp was almost a sob. It rang in Mirt's ears as the wheezing merchant raced forward, waving his sword. Three blades drew back from the dancing woman, trailing flames of blindingly bright silver, and one of them rang high and clear, like a struck bell. It sounded almost triumphant.
'Blazing. . gods. . above!' Mirt panted, swinging his sword at one of the flying blades so hard that when he missed he found himself staggering forward help shy;lessly, about to kiss the ground again. 'Dove! Hold you them- I'm coming!'
He fell hard, skidding in soft mud and wet leaves, and his next shout was lost in a mouthful of moss. It tasted terrible.
The swords were racing through the air now, strik shy;ing sparks from Dove Falconhand's armor when they missed the plume of silvery smoke that marked her wound. She was dancing again, arching her body to the world instead of clasping her hands to where she hurt. Through the sweat that stung his eyes as he wallowed in the forest mold, Mirt saw her wave at him to stay back. She resumed her dance, seeming almost to welcome and beckon the blades rather than strike them aside. He thought she must be spell-thralled.
Mirt reeled to his feet just as another sword slid into Dove, sinking so deeply it must have gone most of the way through her. He saw it draw back dark and wet, silver smoke boiling away along its length as the danc shy;ing woman reeled in midair. He wasn't going to reach her in time.
There was real pain on Dove's face as she met his eyes again and shook her head, waving at him to begone. Mirt stared in horror at a blade racing right at her face. He used one of the precious spells that slumbered in the other ring he wore; a magic to quench magics.
The sword plunged obediently to the ground, bounc shy;ing lifelessly to rest-just as two other blades thrust themselves into the silver-haired woman, their quillons clanging against each other as one slid past the other.
Dove gasped, shuddering in the air as her body bent involuntarily around the transfixing steel. Mirt was only a few running strides away now, almost close enough to snatch at those quivering hilts. He had his own sword, two gnarled old hands, and-a dose of irony-the only spells left in his ring were a flight magic, and one that conjured up scores of whirling swords. He'd have to do this the hard way.
A blade slashed at his ear as he lumbered forward to lay his hands on the hilts of the two swords buried in Dove. He'd have to leap up to reach them.
Gods, he was getting too old to jump about like a stag. With a grunt and a gasp, the Old Wolf launched himself into the air, battered old fingers reaching. .
He was in the air before he saw it. A sword curving up and around from behind the drifting silver smoke, soaring toward him like a hungry needle.
Mirt could do nothing to evade its bright point, and the old, supple leathers he wore would be as butter beneath its keen strike.
'Must I die like this?' he growled in despair as his leap carried him helplessly on, his fingers still shy of reaching two vibrating pommels.
A wave of magic-obeying a slender, bloodied hand-hurled him back. Mirt saw the dark blade speed between them, its bright edge winking at him, as he locked gazes with Dove again.
There was calm reproach in her eyes, and yet a hint of lurking mirth, too … an instant before her face changed, alarm rising in her eyes again. Something struck him behind and above his ear, hard enough to spin him around and down into an echoing red void, a world that darkened as he tumbled through it, on the slow roll down to death.
Rapture awakened him, greater shuddering pleasure than he'd ever felt before. The low sound he'd been
