not merely hair and dirt. 'Welcome to the High Dale.'
'The honor is mine, High Constable,' she replied calmly, saluting him with her bloodied blade. 'Shall we stand together awhile?'
Irreph smiled and indicated the fray before them with an offering hand. She laughed and ran forward.
The next Wolf was already beset by four dalefolk wielding pitchforks and clubs. Sharantyr ran her sword point into the back of his knee, and he fell from his saddle in pain. His attackers did not give him time to moan very long.
They ran on, Irreph bearing to the left around the main press of horses and struggling men. 'The castle!' he yelled. 'We must get at the wizards. Without them, these Blackhelms are just so many swordsmen.'
Sharantyr nodded, and they ran at another Wolf in their way. Irreph's chains smashed the man from his saddle without pause. Beyond, they saw the Zhentarim wizard who'd hurled fire and lightning standing at the end of the castle road, in obvious pain.
Sharantyr plucked a dagger from her boot and threw it, all in one smooth motion.
Had they been closer, she might have struck the man down. As it was, he saw death flashing through the air toward him and stepped aside. They both saw him shake his head, look around, and back away. His hands moved and he was gone, vanished as if he had never been there.
'The castle!' Irreph snarled again, and Sharantyr nodded. To their right, the two Harpers were hacking and thrusting like men possessed, leading the men of the dale against the Wolves. Pitchforks and daggers held by grim and trembling dale farmers were sending horses down in rolling agony or goading them to bolt, dumping their riders as they fled.
Irreph determinedly smote another Wolf from his saddle with a sweep of his heavy chains. The high constable grabbed the reins of the terrified horse, hauled himself into the saddle by brute strength, and forced the animal's head around toward the castle.
The horse snorted and bucked, plunging and twisting. Irreph hung on, his chains flailing the air. Sharantyr used her blade and voice to turn another horse aside. She ran along beside Irreph as the high constable's borrowed horse suddenly burst into a gallop toward the castle gates.
There were Wolves in the way, those who'd fallen back to hold their line of retreat. Only one was mounted, and his horse reared and gave way. Irreph drove through the gap, flailing with his chains at the Wolves around him. On his right, Sharantyr's glittering blade leapt and cut like a shuttle on the loom of some mad weaver.
A last shouting Wolf fell under the wild hooves of Irreph's borrowed horse, and they were through. By main strength the high constable kept his mount aimed up the road to the castle. Sharantyr sprinted along behind him and to his right, sword out.
Quarrels hissed around them, falling like rain, as they drew nearer to the towering stone walls. Ahead, the gates stood open for the Wolves' return. Irreph leaned low over the neck of the horse and spurred it on.
His mount stiffened under him. A crossbow bolt had struck its flank. It started to rear and spasmed again as another quarrel struck its neck just in front of Irreph's face. The world reared and rocked, then the high constable felt himself dragged from the saddle, back and to the right. He fell heavily on the cobbles in a rattling of chains, beside Sharantyr.
She was clutching the chain she'd hauled him down by, and breathing hard. 'Come!' she gasped, as a fresh shower of quarrels sought their lives hungrily.
The twisting, rolling horse was struck again, but its agonized bulk shielded them from a bolt or two. Sharantyr led their charge up to the gates. Grim-faced Wolves were waiting for them, blades and shields raised.
As Stormcloak cast his spell, he could see the naked, wild-eyed high constable and that woman heading directly for him. All around, men were yelling or screaming or dying. In an instant they were gone as the teleport whirled him away.
Stormcloak was suddenly somewhere quieter. The castle, yes, but-gods! He was falling, only empty air under his boots! Where-?
He didn't have time for any more thought before he slammed hard into something that collapsed under him with a human shriek and a crumpling, metallic sound.
Stormcloak lay still, fighting for air. Under him, an unfortunate guard lay unmoving. His magic had gone awry, dropping him from at least three man-heights in the air. He shook his head and struggled grimly to his feet. Another spell gone wrong, and this day was not over, not for a long time yet.
Wolves watched openmouthed as Angruin Stormcloak rose stiffly from atop the crumpled body of the guard. His brow glistened with sweat and his face was white. He did not look back at the man who'd been beneath him.
A simple light spell had gone crazily wrong this morn. Then a fireball had failed in the marketplace, and now this. What was happening?
Angruin Myrvult strode toward his nearest spellbook. Seeing his face, Wolves scrambled aside to keep out of his way.
An old serving man with a battle-axe in his hands stood leaning against a wall and panting. He was covered with blood, some of it his own, and his leg hurt abominably where some Wolf had slashed it before dying. His head hurt, and his chest tightened in stabbing agony from time to time.
He'd never before felt such pain in his life as this rending hurt within him, but he leaned on the wall, holding the comfortable heaviness of the axe in his hands, and was very happy.
Out in the open space in front of him, Wolves were dying; many lay dead already. His friends were driving the Zhentilar warriors out! A few old men and two handfuls of untutored goodwives, lads, and farmhands were beating Zhent Blackhelms! Even in his proud days, he and his brothers-in-arms had fled from Zhents, or kept civil and quiet and as far away as possible in taverns and inns. And now he was beating them, he and his friends! The axe in his hands had bitten short the lives of eight Wolves already today, and if the wizards stayed away, the men of the dale would win the day yet.
His eyes were suddenly wet, and he set his lips and looked around the marketplace in pride, seeing old friends and others he knew groaning on the ground or sprawled still and silent. The blood price had been high and the day was not won yet, but by Tempus, the folk of the High Dale had stood proud this day!
He growled as the pain took him again, then turned the sound into a shout. 'For the Dale!' he roared, as he had heard those two brave Harper lads cry earlier. 'For freedom!'
He swung the axe around his head and started to run, lurching and staggering as he wrestled with the hammering pain in his chest. There were Wolves still standing in his sight, still work to be done. 'For the dale!' he cried again, wildly, as his running feet brought him to the Zhents. He took a sword blow on his raised axe and blundered on into the Wolf who'd swung at him, knocking the armsman down. A farmer who'd been fencing with that Wolf, scythe against blade, grinned at him for an instant and stabbed down with the scythe. The Wolf's scream turned wet and bubbly before it died away.
The old man raised his axe, roared again, and went on to the next Wolf. The men of the High Dale were earning a victory, blow by bloody blow, and he meant to see that they got it.
'Not too old yet for such games, are ye?' Elminster asked himself as he sprang out of alley shadows to the empty saddle of a wandering, riderless horse.
The beast snorted and neighed in alarm, bucking and twisting its head around. Elminster hauled himself up into the saddle with grim, iron-hard fingers and answered himself, 'Nay… see? Look ye!'
The horse bugled. Elminster let it dance under him as battle raged in the marketplace ahead. Few horses were left now. From the castle came the sound of horns blowing the same call he'd heard earlier: the retreat and rally.
He'd have to move quickly or they'd all be in his way. Elminster crouched low in the saddle, grinned at the thought of how long it had been since he'd last done this, and set the horse into a gallop.
It hurled itself forward, putting all its fear into flight, and burst through the running, milling mob with only a few shouts and a near miss or two. Then he was charging up the road to the castle gates, beard streaming behind him, a few crossbow bolts whistling past.
