Spellfire flared and raced down her limbs. Her tattered leathers caught fire, flaring up in bright flames that rose around her until they licked at her sweat-soaked hair.
Armored in spellfire, Shandril Shessair stood up and roared her anger into the night, flinging her arms wide. Spellfire blasted out of her in all directions, low over the heads of her loved ones, lancing into the Zhentilar warriors. The white flash of its striking was blinding.
Trees cracked and fell, blazing. Men screamed briefly amid the roaring. Crossbow bolts flared into flying cinders. Heat-shattered armor fell from blackened skeletons, which toppled slowly after them to the smoking ground.
The spellfire died slowly and raggedly. There was a last rolling burst, and then only a slow sputtering of flames, fading to nothing.
Shandril stared wearily around at the smoldering devastation, smoke rising slowly from her hair. She moaned, her eyes went dark, and she crumpled to the ground.
Delg struggled to his feet, hurling bloody dog corpses aside. “Lass!” he bellowed, face white, “Shandril! I’m coming!”
Bloody axe in hand, the dwarf staggered across the beaten turf to where Shandril lay. A few flickering lanterns were still alight, and by their dim glow the dwarf found her. She was breathing and apparently unscathed, though very pale. Moving as stealthily as he could, he dragged Shandril to cover behind a tree. Then Delg straightened to see what foes remained.
A few Zhent warriors were still standing in the lee of two smoking trees. They seemed dazed; Delg counted seven—no, eight: a huge man in cracked and blackened plate armor rose among them, sobbing and clawing at his helm with spiked hand-gauntlets that were each as large as Delg’s own head.
Narm was moving feebly among the dogs.
“Narm!” Delg roared. “Up, lad—I’ve need of your spells! Hurl a few balls of fire at yon Zhents!”
The dwarf knew well that Narm’s Art was too feeble to work such magics, but if he read them right, the Zhentilar soldiers might run like rabbits at the thought of facing more fire. If he was wrong—well, one doom was as good as another.
He was half right. Delg heard curses, and saw men running off into the night.
“Simron, come back, you craven dog!” A swordmaster bellowed. “The curses of Bane and the Brotherhood on you!”
“Rally them!” This hoarse voice belonged to the giant with the spiked gauntlets. “Rally them, Swordmaster—and spellfire shall yet be ours! Does the priest live?”
“By the grace of Bane,” a cold and smooth voice answered him, “I do indeed. How fare you, Warcaptain?”
“My eyes, man! Cast a healing on me, by the Black Altar! I cannot see!”
As quietly as he could, Delg clambered over a tangle of grounded spears and the contorted bodies of dogs in order to reach Narm. With a grunt, the dwarf rolled a dead canine aside and dragged the still-groggy wizard to a sitting position.
“Up, lad!” he said sharply, slapping Narm’s face. “Up, and take this!” He thrust his belt dagger into Narm’s hand; startled eyes fell on it and then rose to meet his.
“Awake, lad? Good. Guard your lady; I’ve work to do.” Delg pointed out where Shandril lay, clapped Narm on the back, and set off through the smoking ruin to where the Zhents clustered.
Only five still stood there—the priest, the blinded but still-blustering Warcaptain, a swordmaster, and two warriors. The last three had swords in their hands, and the swordmaster was snapping orders at the men to gather lanterns and make ready to look for the lass.
The dwarf went forward slowly, keeping his axe low and behind him, lest its blade flash back light and warn of his approach. Smoke still drifted lazily amid the blackened trees, but it seemed Shandril was not fated to burn down Hullack Forest this night.
Good. Thank all the gods for that. Now, if they’d just spend a skybolt or two to deal with five Zhents …
Perhaps he’d not been devout enough. Or perhaps as a dwarf, he thought wryly, he was expected to act for the gods. Whatever, no bolt came from the sky. Delg grinned savagely at the thought of what spellfire must have seemed to the Zhents who’d run. Oh, there’d be tales of tanar’ri or gods making the rounds of the Moonsea North before long—unless the owlbears and wolves were thorough tonight.
Delg’s boot found a stone, painfully. With iron control, he halted and bent to feel it. Small enough. Good. Setting aside his axe, he took up the stone, leaned back almost to the ground with the rock in his raised hand, and came upright in a throw sped by all the weight of his stout body. The hurled stone sailed up into the night—and crashed down in the brush behind the Zhents.
“Who’s that? By Bane, answer!” Silence gave the warcaptain the reply he feared. “It’s one of them, getting away—swordmaster, see to it! Bring him down!”
The swordmaster looked about helplessly, caught the priest’s cold and level gaze, and reluctantly took up a lantern, tersely ordering the two warriors to his flanks.
A moment later, they waded cautiously into the brush, swords raised. Delg, axe held ready, used the noise they made to cover the sounds of his own cautious advance. He crept to the lit area where the Warcaptain was pleading with the priest to heal him, and the priest was insisting that the helm come off first.
“It won’t,” said the big man, voice approaching a sob. “I’ve tried … it feels stuck to my skin. Gods!”
Keep sniveling, the dwarf thought savagely. Just a breath or two longer, and I’ll—
The axe came up quickly as Delg rounded the last tree, but it was impossible to move silently in the bad light. The priest saw and heard—and was very fast. He shoved the Warcaptain into Delg and fled cursing into the darkness.
The fearful Zhentilar felt the impact, heard the priest’s fearful oath, and concluded something was wrong. He lashed out.
Delg had stumbled clear—but not quite far enough. One of those war-gauntlets caught him square in the ribs. He grunted and sat down with a crash. The stout dwarven mail held, but the breath had been driven out of him, leaving a searing pain behind.
The sightless man reached forward. He sensed where his foe lay. Delg dropped his axe and rolled aside, pivoting on his own knee to come in close to the Warcaptain.
Those blindly grasping gauntlets triumphantly closed on the axe handle and used its blade to flail at the ground. Delg winced as his axe struck sparks from more than one rock—and then his reaching hands found the man’s belt dagger and tore it free.
The Zhentilar turned at the tugging, and Delg climbed the arm that swept around to strike him, clambering up it to drive the short blade hilt-deep through the helm’s eye-slit and the unseen and unseeing orb beneath.
Dark, hot blood splashed him as he leapt free, to the sound of startled shouts from the swordmaster and warriors, who saw the Warcaptain topple dead with no apparent foe. Delg lay prone in the darkness and waited.
A moment later they were fleeing, crashing in headlong flight through the trees. Delg retrieved his axe and scrambled atop the warcaptain’s corpse so he could see farther.
His hunch was right. The priest had fled back into the darkness only a little way, and then stopped to watch what befell—so as to return triumphant, should his side win. He stood alone, uncertain, between two trees. Delg smiled grimly, shook his head at the man’s arrogant stupidity, and raised his axe.
Lanternlight caught the blade. It flashed once, and the startled priest half-turned to flee, peering through the darkness and trying to see what was happening.
That was time enough. Delg hurled his weapon, grunting as he threw his entire body into the attack. The blade whirled free, and Delg rolled on the ground. The spinning axe took the priest in the head, ending all his thoughts in one brief, bright moment of pain. The black-robed body crashed down into rotting leaves.