it off a mountain, in the midst of all, and sent it flying like a bird across most of Sembia to drop from above.' He shook his head again, smiling. 'I don't suppose he's here now, is he?'
Itharr spread his hands. Belkram squinted up into the sky.
'No,' he said slowly. 'No flying rocks.'
The old man sighed. 'I guess not. Ah, well. I'd hoped to see just one more good spellfight, to tell folks about, before I die.' His eyes suddenly narrowed as he looked at one Harper and then at the other. 'You don't know any magic, do you?'
The two Harpers sighed, looked at each other, half grinned, and sighed again.
'If we did,' Belkram said ruefully, raising his still-bloody blade, 'we wouldn't have to get this close to those who would kill us.'
The old man looked at them both for a while, shaking his head slowly. 'Well,' he said at last, 'without magic, how in the name of all the gods do you expect to stay alive long enough to reach the castle, let alone muster the dale against Longspear? He's got six wizards or more to back him up, Zhent Blackcloaks if I can still tell anything at all about folk I meet!'
'Well,' Belkram said slowly. 'We usually try to set things going-like we did here-then just get our swords out and run with what befalls.'
'You wouldn't be Harpers, would you?' the old man asked quietly. He watched them exchange glances and said, 'I thought so. That explains it, then. Some like to roll dice for coins, or trade goods, or even horses. Harpers and adventurers are the only folk who like to do it with their own lives.'
Belkram chuckled as he wiped his steel on the sleeve of a fallen Wolf. The sound was meant to sound unconcerned and casual, but came out a trifle rueful.
Daera sighed and sucked her bleeding finger for perhaps the three hundredth time. Sewing flour sacks was something the gods just hadn't meant her to do.
She looked out the gap between two old, silvery wooden boards at the frowning mountain wall not so far away. It was probably about the three hundredth time she'd done that, too. Bright sunlight dazzled her; it was always dark in the mill.
Somewhere far below, Father was pushing a lever endlessly around and around, driving the grindstones. It was sheer cruelty. There was water enough-and mules or oxen, too-to do the task. No, Father was there as a reminder to the folk of the dale, as she was, set to work here as a drudge, cooking, cleaning, and sewing these bloody sacks.
Literally bloody, she thought grimly, pinching her smarting hands between her knees as she knelt on the coarse sacking. The dark spots of her spilled blood had traveled out of the dale on many a sack already. They'd seen a lot more of the Realms than ever she had, or was likely to.
Every morning, the jailers in their magical mantles of darkness came for her. They tied her hands behind her and crammed dirty cloth into her mouth, binding it there to keep her silent. Then they led her, helpless in their cloaking darkness, down the creaking stairs and uneven floors of the mill, down to the wheel where her father howled or gibbered in his chains.
That was her reminder. They untied her hands and led her outside in her soiled rags to load heavy flour sacks onto waiting carts, gasping and panting through her gag as hard-faced men in black armor stood guard around a group of silent folk of the dale-folk who had obviously been dragged from their doings and brought here to watch. If any tried to help or comfort her, they were clubbed senseless. It had been a long time since any of them had tried.
She was their reminder.
'Ylyndaera Mulmar,' she told herself formally, 'stop feeling sorry for yourself and get to work.' On days when she didn't do what the jailers or mill maids thought was enough, her meal-leftovers from the evenfeast platters of the others at the mill, always cold-was smaller. Once, when she'd been too weak from sickness to work, she'd been given nothing at all to eat.
Daera sighed and picked up the needle again. She was alone here in the drafty mill loft-and cold, and bleeding all over her work again-but her father had it much worse, chained like a bull in the cellar below.
Time and again she'd prayed to the unheeding gods to deliver him, if not from his chains and the backbreaking work then at least from whatever magic they'd laid on his mind. His eyes were always cloudy. Even when she'd been able to make some noise-she always paid for that with brief but savage blows and whippings-and he'd looked up, he never saw her… or anything else. His moods swung between stupid placidity and snarling rages. They'd turned him into a lame-witted, crazed beast.
Daera finished a line of running stitch and bit off the thread. She was too young and weak to fight the Wolves herself. A maid had called her 'a young colt-all long, gangly limbs and knobbly wrists and ankles.' She must think of some way of getting aid, of calling on King Azoun or someone to rescue her father.
Most of all, Ylyndaera dreamed of the day when Irreph Mulmar would be himself again and rise to drive 'Lord' Longspear and his Wolves from the dale, to reclaim his title of high constable. She was seeing that day now in her mind as she settled herself with another sack. Then the crashing and screaming began below.
She was cautious at first, fearing a beating if she wandered. Then she saw shrieking mill maids scurrying along the hall below her loft. She had to see whatever could make them run so frantically. There'd been no war trumpets or clash of arms-her first leaping hope, that the dale was under attack from Cormyr or Sembia, had died already-but something was amiss down below.
Where Father was.
'This is the place?' Itharr asked, squinting up at the mill. The old man nodded.
'Our thanks,' Belkram said. As he turned, the tip of his sword lifted a little as if it were eager for battle. 'Wait here,' he added over his shoulder and stepped toward the stout, closed wooden doors before them. Itharr moved with him.
'Oh, no,' the old man said emphatically. 'I'm done with waiting and doing nothing. I'm going with you.'
Itharr turned and flashed him a smile. 'Be welcome, then,' he said, 'but follow our lead.' He nodded at Belkram, who was courteously knocking on the door.
It opened, and a man with a ratlike face looked out, squinting in the bright light of day. 'Yes?' he asked, though it was more of a challenge than a question.
Belkram flashed his brightest smile. 'Good day, sirrah! We're with the Zhentil Keep Grain Inspectors Guild and have come at the express request of High Lord Manshoon to see what a fine establishment you're running here.' He'd been pressing forward as he spoke. His audience stepped back, gulped, and taking the word 'running' as a cue, sprinted off into the dimness as if a band of horse lancers were galloping after him.
'Thank you,' Belkram told his retreating back. He turned to his companions, indicating the mill interior. 'Shall we?'
'Indubitably,' Itharr agreed, stepping past him with a half bow, blade raised.
The old man gave them both looks and snorted. 'Young jack-fools,' he growled, stumping after them.
Inside, the mill was a dim forest of stout pillars, stacked crates, spilled flour, sturdy barrels, and piles of sacks. The two Harpers strolled unconcernedly down a cluttered aisle that opened into a large threshing floor. There, darkness awaited them.
Four pillars of darkness, in fact, with the man they'd spoken to at the door busy beyond, struggling to get a crossbow ready.
'We're here,' Belkram said briskly, 'to see the former high constable.' As he strode forward, he made a gesture only Itharr saw. The shorter Harper obeyed it, moving to one side.
The pillars of darkness were already advancing. Itharr casually tossed a dagger at the nearest. It struck something within the magical gloom and clattered to the floor. There was no play of lightnings, and the pillar shifted slightly; men walked within the darkness. The two Harpers sprang forward, converging on one dark column.
It stepped aside, drawing close to another darkness-shrouded guard so as not to be outflanked. Behind the two Harpers, the old man sighed and flung his axe. It flashed end over end across the room and caught the doorman in the shoulder. He shrieked, dropped his half-wound bow and windlass, and collapsed to the floor, moaning. Then the old innkeeper grabbed at the nearest barrel, toppled it, and with a few practiced heaves sent it rolling at the gathered columns of darkness. They scrambled to get clear and the Harpers darted in, blades flashing.
