In the lamplight, a dark green liquid gleamed on the needle-slim steel. Something-perhaps a momentary flash of reflection-alerted the wizard, and he whirled about to face Belurastra.
'I regret,' she said firmly as she plunged the poisoned blade into his right eye, 'that I cannot accept the position of envoy to any Zhentarim wizard!'
As she jerked the blade free, the swordlord leapt at her. Ignoring Ondeler's crumpling body, he caught her wrist in steely fingers before she could turn the blade on herself.
The deadly poniard hung bloodily just above her bare breast for a perilous moment as they strained against each other-and then the Zhentilar twisted and yanked. Belurastra sobbed in helpless pain, and the blade spun to the floor. It struck the floorboards and stood quivering there.
'Poisoned, Lady?' Amglar asked in low tones. 'Bravely done-but to throw your life after his would be a waste… a foolish waste.' He released her wrist, and the nude woman took a smooth step back.
'You'll not slay me?' she asked, rubbing her wrist.
The Zhentilar officer shook his head. 'Nay, Lady, if you agree not to bury that little fang in me-though you'll forgive me if I neglect to mention your name or heroic deed in my reports. Best hide that blade after we're gone, somewhere that doesn't tie it to you. And neither of us speaks of this, or remembers it, for the rest of our days.'
The lady escort's eyes widened in sudden hope.
Amglar regarded her gravely. 'Well? Have we agreement?'
'We do,' Belurastra said, eyes bright with unshed, grateful tears.
He smiled. The heels of his boots clicked together. 'As to your query: slay you? Nay; I salute you. You've done something none of us dared to… and freed us of his idiocies just when we could no longer afford them.'
A smile flickered across her face. Amglar realized it was because of his elaborate dignity-the boots he'd clicked together were all he wore. He grinned back at her, and said, 'If you're so adverse to wearing breeches an' all, I'll see if they'll fit me.'
Myarvuk came bustling in a few breaths later and looked sharply down at the body sprawled facedown on the floor, blood pooled about its head.
Amglar, resplendent in too short breeches, said briefly, 'Spell went wrong. You're spellmaster of this sword now.'
Myarvuk brightened. Then his eyes narrowed and he took a quick pace back, out of the swordlord's reach. 'How can I be sure your next report to the steward won't contain a note of how I treacherously slew my master? I think I must know where we both stand… or if I must ensure that I'm very soon the only one still standing.' He raised one hand threateningly, wriggling his fingers in a pantomime of spellcasting.
Amglar shrugged. 'Save your spells for the foe, boy. Even if I did report that you killed Ondeler, 'twould not paint you ill in their eyes. You know that. Rest assured my reports won't say you had any part of it, unless you want me to write thus. Now stop prancing about trying to impress me, an' see what you can salvage of this carrion's'-he nudged the dead wizard with his foot-'magic, for your own use.'
Myarvuk bent to his task eagerly, but stiffened a few breaths later when Amglar growled, 'Just one other matter, Spellmaster. You don't need an envoy, an' Battledale doesn't need its best lady escort slain. If we are to have a deal, she stays here, unhurt-your witness, if you ever need one, that you weren't anywhere near when Ondeler so unfortunately left us.'
Myarvuk nodded and shrugged. 'No argument here, Lord.' He bent gingerly to the body. 'I don't suppose you-?'
'Nay, boy. Loot your own bodies… an' don't be all day about it. The Sword of the South rides out of Essembra as soon as it's light enough to see full quarrel range ahead. There'll be no scouting and creeping about, either. We ride looking for battle. Someone in Mistledale seems to want death, and I mean to bring it to him!' Ashabenford, Mistledale, Flamerule 16
'Clever battle strategies?' Florin asked, wrinkling his brow. 'What clever battle strategies, Torm, do you think a force of seventy-twenty of whom are untrained farmers-can essay on the field? Against seven thousand?'
The thief shrugged. 'The mighty battle mastery of gallant Florin Falconhand is a legend from the Dragon Reach to the Storm Horns, and shiny-eyed maidens await, breathless, for whatever Florin may have up his-'
'Don't push it, Torm,' Florin said dryly, and snapped his visor down. His next words boomed hollowly from inside his fearsome great helm. 'Armed with my reputation, I'm sure we can take the field with sixty-nine rather than seventy.'
As the Knights around them chuckled, the ranger stood tall in his stirrups and waved his blade. 'Ride out!'
The cry was echoed by the captain of the Riders, and all the horses surged forward eagerly. They were so few that the road took them easily.
More than one watching villager shook his head in disbelief at the calm manner of Mistledale's defenders. One of the riders-the woman with silver hair, who'd sat asleep and nearly naked in the window of the Six Shields several nights running-even laughed merrily at something the thief said to her. The three rangers riding easily behind her exchanged glances and smiles, and spurred their horses to pass her by, giving the watching folk of Ashabenford cheerful waves.
The villagers were not heartened.
One spat into the dust of the road and rumbled, 'A handful against thousands! We'd best be packing the night through and try for Cormyr, I guess…'
'There's no safe place to ride to,' the woman standing beside him said quietly. 'I'll be staying on. They'll cut me down in my own fields, to be sure, but at least I'll die at home, on my own land, an' I'll not have run from anyone.'
'Don't be daft! You want to die screaming, with half a dozen Zhent blackhelms laughing over you?'
'Nay, but the gods don't seem to care what I want-an' I don't even know the road to Cormyr. This is as good a place to die as any.'
'A thousand warriors, and a thousand more, and many more besides, that merchant said,' another villager said softly. 'The Riders'll all be slain, sure. Yet hear them laugh!'
'Fools,' the first villager grunted. 'I'm off to pack. Who's with me?'
'I'll ride to Cormyr with you,' said another. 'Even if the gods themselves took the field with our Riders an' these Knights of Myth Drannor, there's no hope they'll win against so many.'
There were many silent nods at these words, and the villagers sighed and turned away from the road. In the distance, the riders were little more than tiny moving dots now.
The war band left Ashabenford behind in a few breaths, riding easily east down the dale. The morning was chilly but clear, and as Florin looked around at his battle companions and the tranquil, sun-splashed farms on either side, he was happy. Much blood lay ahead-perhaps the ending of all their bright days-and yet he was doing what needed to be done, and folk needed him to do it. What more can anyone ask than to be needed and wanted and free to answer the call?
The captain was guiding her mount closer to his; Florin sidestepped his charger to meet her. 'Aye, Lady?'
Captain Nelyssa's gray-green eyes met his, and her thin lips relaxed into a rueful smile. 'I fret still, Florin. I know what we must do, and yet, to ride away and leave Ashabenford with not a sword to defend it… What if a dozen of them-nay, three of them, with ready blades-sneak past us through the woods? Who will defend the old men and maids then?'
'Harpers, Lady of Chauntea,' Florin told her gravely. 'Almost twenty of them, come to us from Twilight Hall in Berdusk with all the magic Lady Cylyria can spare. They will fight to hold Ashabenford even if we fall-and they carry the means to farspeak Twilight Hall and call on swift spell aid.'
'Aye.' The lady paladin looked troubled. 'And spells themselves have become chancy things of late.'
'Not all spells,' Sylune put in as she rode on Florin's other side, 'else I'd not be here now.'
'And you are very much here,' Torm purred from the saddle beside her.
'Stow it, clever tongue,' growled the fat priest Rathan, who rode on the thief's other side, saddle creaking under his weight. 'Ye're worse than a boar in heat!'
Torm favored his best friend with a complicated gesture that had nothing to do with casting spells.
'Tymora forgive ye,' the priest said heavily, crossing his arms disapprovingly across his ample girth, 'but I do
