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At the door of the tent, Jhessail and Illistyl both nod-
110
ALL SHADOWS FLED
ded grimly. As Merith dived past them and buried his silver-bladed dagger in
the Malaugrym that was battering Belkram all around the tent, they ran to
where Itharr and Sharantyr were stabbing the other, and murmured spells as
they slapped their hands at the blades, heedless of sharp, flashing edges.
The weapons glowed blue-white as Jhessail snatched her hand back, shaking
drops of blood from it- When the glow faded, they shone silver . . . and the
wounds they made did not close. Sharantyr and Itharr set to work chopping with
frenzied speed, gasping their thanks.
Florin severed the blade-head of the other Malaugrym with a last blow and
grabbed at the gory serpent-form, trying to hurl it away from a groaning
Belkram. It grew many fanged mouths as he pounced on it, and one of them shot
forth on a long stalk to snap at Torm, who ducked his head aside. Rathan
raised his hand to cast a spell and the jaws expanded with lightning speed to
envelop it, biting down with cruel force.
The fat cleric doggedly intoned his spell, sweat running down his face and
fire from his hand burst forth within the Malaugrym, causing it to recoil with
a roar of mingled fury and pain.
Illistyl's eyes narrowed as flames gouted from the beast. She dug a hand into
her purse, snatched a silver coin, and snapped out a cantrip that crumbled the
metal to powder in her hands. Flinging the powdered silver into the flames,
she leapt back.
The explosion that followed was spectacular. The coils around Sylune1 spasmed,
flinging her free and then smashed into her body with the force of a charging
war horse, hurling her like a rag doll against the side of the tent. She
struck, tumbled, and came to rest atop Torm, who madly stabbed the Malaugrym
and sobbed with rage.
"It's dead, Torm," Sylune told him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder as
she looked over him at the gory
111
En GREENWOOD
lumps that had been the other Malaugrym. "And so's the other one."
"Gods," the thief hissed, eyes blazing, "they could have killed you!"
"Yes," Sylune agreed, "but they did not, thanks in part to you." She put up
her hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, then leaned forward and kissed him.
He stared at her for a moment, and threw his arms around her, weeping
uncontrollably.
"It's been rather a long time since any man got this angry for my sake," she
murmured into his shoulder, "but try not to get yourself killed defending me,
Torm!"
"Why not?" the thief said when he found enough control to speak. "Have you
seen what they did to your hair?"
112
8
The Ring of Skulls
Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule 17
Sharantyr shades her eyes again and is sure of it. Another flash, there . . .
and another. And then Zhents are pouring out of the woods in a hundred places,
the bright morning sun glinting on ebon armor.
There is a stir along the banks of Swords Creek, and the short bark of Kuthe's
order off to the right. The Riders of Mistledale move amid a growing thunder
of hooves, hurrying along the southern edge of the dale to meet the invaders.
Lance tips glitter as they sweep down.
Restless, the lady ranger hefts her own gleaming blade, licks her lips, and
watches Kuthe's lance lowered with menacing force. He flicks it expertly,
taking out the throat of a Zhentilar as he passes, and with bright blood still
trailing from the tip, buries it deep in the face of the first Zhent horseman
to appear out of the woods.
The man crumples as he's flung back out of his saddle. A score of crashes
follow up and down the edge of the trees as Zhent maces and spears find
shields or the Riders behind them and a horn sounds from just behind Shar,
calling the retreat.
Horses wheel and rear. Zhentilar soldiers race in to
ED GREENWOOD
gut the retreating warriors as they turn away. One Rider tarries too long, and
Shar sees him go down, hacking frantically with his blade at a dozen foes as
they drag him to ground and stab him. The riderless mount in fear lashes out
with its hooves, leaps wildly into the air, shedding broken Zhent armsmen like
rag dolls, and lands running west down the dale to where Kuthe is rallying the
Riders.
Arrows hiss past Shar's shoulder as the farmers of Mistledale, faces set in
fear and determination, strike their own first blows against the foe. Only a
few black-armored figures fall, and now they're streaming out of the trees by
the hundreds, a glittering black carpet of death that advances west with
casual confidence. More than one of the watchers along Swords Creek gasps or
retches in fear; there are thousands of Zhents!
"Gods," a man nearby mutters in despair and disbelief, "have they been
breeding armsmen like rabbits? Look at them!"
Certain death was coming for them, and they all knew it. Shar traded tight
grins with Belkram and Itharr as they heard Term's voice lifted in jaunty
song:
"Come, oh, come play with me! Bring, oh, bring your sword, and We'll be threer [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]