With a wild cry, Sharantyr charged in among them, whirling and leaping, her blade dancing and singing around her. She was no equal to Storm, or even Florin or Dove of the Knights, but they were not here and she was, and there were evil men to be struck down so that a dale might live again, and Elminster find a peaceful refuge for a day or three, and-It suddenly seemed to Sharantyr that she'd been fighting for a very long time, perhaps years, without a break, and that the blood spattering her now would never wash off. She began to cry as she fought.
They say in Zhentil Keep that women who weep with swords in their hands are widows of the slain. If a Zhentilar rides into a place where the hand of Zhentil Keep's armies has been felt before, and women weep and run for swords at the sight of the black-helmed warriors, he will take special care to slay those women, for they will not rest, it is said, until they have avenged their husbands or died trying, to join them in the Realm of the Fallen.
Wolves drew back from her in horror as old tales they'd heard as boys, scoffed at as youths, and forgotten as men came alive before their eyes. They stumbled back, faces white, as the woman in slashed and tattered leathers leapt and darted among them, dealing swift, endless darkness with a battered blade.
'Die, damn you!' she wept, and gave them death.
'How did she get in?' one man raged, parrying with all his might.
'What boots it?' another yelled back. 'Run! Run, if you would live! Ru-uuughh!' Sharantyr's long blade found his throat from behind, and his run ended there in a dying plunge to the stone floor.
In the end they all broke and ran, those who could move at all, leaving her panting and blood-drenched, alone with the dead. Sharantyr cried and cried, kneeling among death, until she could cry no more.
She rose, white-faced in the torchlight, and thought of Stormcloak. He was the real foe, he and his mages. He must die.
18
As Sharantyr's sobs died away, Lord Angruin Stormcloak, striding importantly from his chambers to the great hall, heard their last echoes and frowned. What was a woman doing in this part of the castle? Had one of the men-? He sighed and had drawn breath to curse their waywardness when his eyes fell on men running toward him, terrified, blades drawn.
'Hold!' he roared, reaching for a wand. Was this some sort of treachery? 'Stand, all of you! Answer me. Why are you running?'
They came to a clattering halt before his fury. Men shifted and would not look at him.
'L–Lord,' one armsman said, fear full in his voice, 'there's a woman-a dragon she is, with a sword! I saw her kill ten of us or more, and-'
'And so you fled, all of you,' Stormcloak said with contempt. He looked coldly around at them all, eyeing men now clearing throats and exchanging glances and looking very uneasy indeed. 'Are you warriors?'
Silence answered him. 'Are you men?'
Nods, and more silence.
Stormcloak took a step forward. 'Are you Zhentilar?'
'Aye, Lord.'
'Yes, Lord.'
Stormcloak nodded wolfishly. 'Good,' he said with deep sarcasm. 'I had begun to wonder about that.' Then his voice changed again. 'And what do Zhentilar warriors do?'
'Obey, Lord.'
' 'Obey when told to slay,' isn't that how the song goes?' Stormcloak corrected.
Nods answered him again. Stormcloak looked around at them all.
'Obey whom?'
A man swallowed. 'Z-Zhentarim mages, Lord.'
Stormcloak gave him a brittle smile. 'And why do you obey mages, all of you?' He looked around at them all again. In the end, to break the heavy silence, he answered his own question. 'You obey mages-myself, for instance-because if you don't, we'll unleash magic on you more terrible than any blade, more painful than any wound!'
He looked at them as the passage rang with those last shouted words, and let the echoes die away before continuing.
'Warriors who run one way can face one woman-with a sword,' he added with a sneer. 'Warriors who run the other way will face me,' he said, raising his wand with slow menace and a silky smile.
In silence, the men called Wolves by the folk of the High Dale turned sullenly, raised their swords, and went back down the passage. Slowly.
Sharantyr stalked forward on silent feet, like a hunting cat. Many had fled down this passage. If she knew Zhents, they'd soon be back this way, a mage in their midst ready to use a spell or a wand to smite her down and impress all the warriors who watched.
So another way would be better. Were there no side passages in this place? She glanced this way and that as she went, and in the end chose a stair going up. If she could not go around, she must go over. She had only one life to lose and could not afford to fight fairly, or to face large groups of thirsty swords or a mage in a large open space.
'Well, then, Stormcloak,' she said aloud, 'let us see if one Knight with a sword can bring you down. It's been done to Zhentarim before.'
'Who's that? Maerelee?' a voice asked from the head of the stair.
'No,' Sharantyr replied truthfully, coming steadily on up the stairs. 'It's me.'
Then she was level with the man: a Wolf in armor, frowning warily, sword out. The weapon swept up as he saw her. 'Who are you?' he challenged. 'I've not seen you before, here or in the dale.'
'I am your bane,' she said calmly, walking toward him. Her expressionless face did not change as he tried to bat the sword out of her hand with his own. Nor did it change when, at her sudden lunge, he found himself two fingers away from death. Nor after, as he parried frantically, countered and found himself forced to parry even faster. He turned to run and she sprang after him, landing hard on his running legs.
He fell heavily, and her blade stabbed down as she landed atop him.
When she rolled back up to her feet, he lay still on the stones, facedown. Sharantyr looked down at him for a moment, sighed, and went on. Just how many Zhents were crawling about this castle?
'It only takes one to kill thee,' she heard Elminster's long-ago voice tell her, and smiled wryly. Thanks, Old Mage. Well said. On with it, then.
She found the next one just inside the first room her passage entered, heading east. He was sharpening his sword and reacted with commendable speed, grinning as he whipped his blade at her stomach.
This Wolf obviously considered himself a matchless swordsman. Sharantyr parried two lightning-fast thrusts, leaned close to spit into his eyes, stamped on his toes, ducked her blade under his parry-he was good at attacking but not so good at holding off attacks-and ran him through.
She left him twisting in agony and snarling curses at her, waving his blade weakly and ineffectually at her from the floor. Mielikki forgive me for what I've had to become, she prayed silently. I've made myself a worse butcher than any Zhentilar soldier!
Shuddering, she opened the door at the end of the short passage she was traversing, found herself in a bunk room with four startled Zhents, sighed, and started slaying again. Just how long had she been killing? There were some days of her life that she'd very much like to forget forever, and couldn't in her darkest dreams. This was definitely turning into one of those days.
'This is fast becoming one of those days,' Itharr said wearily as the Harpers battered their way through another door, stolen shields held high to ward off crossbow bolts or thrown spears from the Wolves waiting beyond. None came, so they flung the shields down and charged.
