waiting Wolves. Sun glinted on black helms as they turned his way.
With a sinking heart, Sharantyr sighed, slowly raised her sword, and followed.
'Hold, old man!' The Oversword of the guard spoke impatiently, scarcely looking at the old man in robes. His attention was bent on a fat Sembian merchant who was sweating with fear. The many rings gleaming on his pudgy white fingers ran through the air like a starving fisherman combs the depths of an empty net. The merchant was almost gabbling as he assured the nine stone-faced guards that his wines were the best, oh, yes, only the best, why everyone said so, just ask at the Black Stag in Selg-or, well, perhaps not-nay, speak to the merchant Lissel, of nearby Daerlun, and he'd vouch for…
At about that time, the Oversword realized the gaunt old man with the overlong white beard had not halted and was proceeding with confident, unhurried steps toward the guard hut. He spun around, reaching for his sword.
'Old man,' he barked, 'hold!'
The gaunt figure in tattered robes continued on its way, beard flapping.
The Oversword caught up in three quick strides, ignoring grins that had begun to appear on the faces of his men, and jerked the old man roughly around.
Cool blue-gray eyes regarded him. 'Yes?' a mild voice inquired, as if humoring a rude child.
The Oversword snarled and said fiercely, 'Never ignore orders in the High Dale, old man, if you would live.'
Slow eyebrows rose. 'What orders?'
'I told you to hold, whitebeard, and I meant it! I'll see to you when I'm done here, and I care nothing for your haste or importance!'
'Oh. I see,' Elminster said courteously. 'I misunderstood ye.'
The Oversword looked him up and down coldly. 'My words were quite clear,' he said slowly and dangerously. 'What was your problem?'
'Ye kept saying 'old man,'' Elminster told him. 'I assumed ye were speaking to someone else. I'm not old-not yet, by the sun, though if ye waste much more of my morning I may come to be.' He turned and continued on his way.
The Oversword snarled again and gestured. Drawn swords rose to bar Elminster's way on all sides.
Elminster turned about. 'Yes?' he asked mildly.
'Sirs!' Sharantyr's voice came urgently from behind them. 'Please forgive my fa-'
'That will be enough, girl,' Elminster told her sharply. 'How can ye learn, if ye persist in speaking out of thy place? Be ashamed. And better, be silent.'
He turned to face the Oversword. 'My daughter,' he explained apologetically. 'She's not been out of Zhentil Keep before and is overexcited.'
The Oversword's eyebrows drew together in a wary frown. 'Zhentil Keep?'
'Aye. I was speaking with a friend there, Lord Manshoon, and as I was passing this way, he asked me to look in on a certain wizard for him. To-ah, forgive me-deliver a private message.' He smiled. 'While I appreciate your diligence, Oversword, I am in some haste. I was told that the one I sought would probably be here, either in yonder hut or in the keep beyond. May I?'
Politely he turned his back, pushed aside two blades with the backs of his open hands, and went on. Without turning, he called back, 'Come, lass!'
Sharantyr bent her head and lowered her blade. 'Yes, Father,' she replied in tones of weary resignation. In wary silence the Wolves stood back to let them through.
The Oversword noted that none of his men would meet his eyes. Good. He turned savagely back to the fat Sembian and curtly ordered his men to slit open the seams of everything, including every stitch of clothing the man was wearing.
But somehow, he couldn't enjoy the fun that followed.
The fat man was making so much noise, wailing and cursing and calling on more gods than the Oversword had ever heard of, that it was a good while before they heard the disturbance from the guard hut: the sounds of shrieking and sobbing, and the frenzied cracks of a whip wielded with some strength. The guards did not react; they were clearly used to such sounds. One or two glanced casually back at the hut and saw the white-beard's daughter standing uncertainly near the curtain that hung across its open doorway. The guards shrugged and turned away.
That all changed two instants later. The white-bearded man strolled calmly back out into the sun, smiling at his daughter. He seemed as startled as the Wolves when an agonized cry rang out from inside the hut.
'Help! Cabalar! Dhondys! Aid, by Bane and Mystra both! Ohhh! She's killing me!'
The Oversword paled, jerked out his sword, and snapped, 'Sabras! Mykhalar! Stay on the road! Everyone else come with me!' He swept his arm toward the hut and charged. Six black-armored men hastened at his heels, blades flashing.
The gaunt old man with the long white beard bent down and pulled something from his boot. As he rose, he threw off his tattered over-robes and charged to meet them.
The old fellow was scrawny. The Oversword could see his ribs as he ran toward them, beard streaming back over his shoulder. He wore only dusty leather breeches, gray with age and shiny at the knees, and his boots. A wand flashed in his hand, and from it blue-white death lashed out twice to strike one of the Wolves, leaving the soldier staggering and groaning in pain.
A wizard! And the crossbows were in the hut beyond him, by Bane's black heart! The Oversword looked over his shoulder and saw that Sabras and Mykhalar were already hastening to join him. He slowed, directing them with his blade, and watched his men race to meet the old man.
The girl, too, was running now, and she had her blade out again. A trained warrior, by her looks; all trace of uncertainty and awkwardness was gone now.
The old wizard must have some trickery ready. Why else charge alone against seven men in full armor?
Abruptly, fear rising cold and ugly in his chest, the Oversword came to a stop. 'Spread out!' he roared. ' 'Ware a trap!'
As if heeding him, the whitebeard skidded to a halt. His hand ducked to his boot, replacing the wand there and coming up with a little brass scepter that ended in a spherical cluster of wrought hands.
The Oversword's heart sank. He'd confiscated that himself, early this morn, from a sharp-tongued, dark-eyed Sembian caravan guard-wizard. The scepter had fairly echoed with power in his hands. Inside the hut, Ildomyl had visibly paled and hastily set the thing aside.
What it was, exactly, the Oversword knew not, but he knew enough to fear it. For the first time the thought that he might have to flee for his life or die here on the road, as highsun stole nearer to end the morn, came to him suddenly and chillingly. The Oversword paled and looked about.
A surprising number of local folk had appeared up the road to watch. They stood silent, still as statues, gazing at the scene.
The old man held the brass scepter and spoke a certain word, clear and echoing and unfamiliar. There was a flash of golden, metallic light. The charging Wolves, who were almost upon him, staggered suddenly back. They scattered helplessly, arms and blades flailing, propelled away by magical hands that shoved and grasped and flung-hands as big as shields, each having three long fingers between two hooked thumbs.
The old man's hands were empty now as he dove nimbly forward to take the feet out from under a Wolf.
They crashed to the ground together, a magical hand spread out over the black-armored chest like some gigantic spider. The old man swarmed along the writhing warrior to snatch the sword from his hands.
The Oversword saw the stolen steel descend into the helpless throat of its former owner an instant before the constraining hand melted away into the air from whence it had come. All the other hands also quietly faded, pulsed, and vanished.
The old man stood calmly hefting the blade he'd seized. The Wolves recovered themselves, bellowed their fury, and came for him.
Heart in her throat, Sharantyr ran as she'd never run before, knowing she would not arrive in time, or do much good if she did. There was only one of her, and these warriors looked trained, strong, and fit. The one
