Shandril was a little unsteady on her feet, and the morning—even here, in the dappled shade of the trees—seemed very bright. Delg was glaring up at her, his hand on her arm.
“Can you walk?” he demanded gruffly. “Speak, lass! I need to know you’ve still got all your wits after last night.”
“I—I think so,” she managed before Narm approached.
Her husband bowed, reached a hand toward her as a lord grandly leads his lady into a dance—and in his empty palm a dozen roses appeared.
Shandril gasped in surprise, and he put them in her arms with an air of triumph. Their sweet fragrance swirled around her, and she smiled as she felt the magic that formed them surging into her, making spellfire waken and flow. The roses glowed for a moment—and then, with the sound of many tiny bells, faded away and were gone.
Shandril stared at her empty arms a little sadly. “My only regret, love, is that they’re gone if I drain them,” she said, eyes brimming.
Narm shrugged. “I guess I’ll just have to go on studying that spell until I get it right.”
“Get it right?” Delg’s voice was rough with derision. “Gods, but now I know how wizards get all the lasses ….” he muttered in a low aside that could be heard at least a hundred trees away.
“Yes,” Narm replied with a smile. “I managed the ‘no thorns’ bit, but the color …”
The dwarf squinted at him. “They were red!”
Narm smiled. “I was trying for blue.” Shandril laughed delightedly, and drew his face down to hers. His arms were strong and eager, his mouth sweet—and as they embraced, Shandril heard a loud, hawking sound. Delg, standing just behind them, spat far off into the trees in disgust, startling something small into scuttling flight through the fallen forest leaves.
“There’ll be time enough for that sort o’ thing later, when we’re well away from here,” the dwarf growled. “One Zhent band found us, and others may know we’re here now, but they’re all sure to find us if we stay here, right at the end of the trail we left crashing through things in the dark last night—while the two of you cuddle and kiss and whisper sweet secrets. Come on!”
Narm lifted his head. “Sorry, Delg. We’re—we’re with you.” And they stepped out amid ferns and tree roots to begin another long march through the dim depths of the endless wood.
“We’ve got to move far today,” the dwarf said, “and not be found by anyone or anything. With no spellfire and your best spells gone, lad, we can’t risk any fights. Since your lady’s got such a dainty stomach of mornings, I suggest we do without eating until around highsun … but drink deep at this stream and fill all our skins while I keep watch.”
Narm and Shandril drank, washed, filled their skins, and went off into the bushes. The dwarf meanwhile kept alert, axe in hand as he trotted around, peering suspiciously into the trees.
Shandril took off the spare robe Narm had lent her last night. A few blackened scraps—all that was left of her own clothes—still clung to her here and there. She brushed them off, sighing, and rummaged in her ever-lighter pack.
When she swung the pack onto her shoulder, she was wearing her last intact clothes, inherited when she joined the Company of the Bright Spear—the much-patched homespun tunic and breeches of a down-on-his-luck thief. That bold first step into adventure seemed a long time ago now.
“Why so tense?” Narm asked, coming up beside Delg. “I haven’t seen any Zhents about—and I’ve looked as far off as I can, too.”
“Eyes, lad,” the dwarf growled up at him. “I can feel them, every moment. We’re being watched, again.”
“Should I tell Shan?” Narm asked quietly.
“Not just after she’s been off in the bushes, lad,” the dwarf said, looking critically at the blemishes along the edge of his axe-blade. That Zhent idiot had certainly managed to bring it down on a lot of stones last night. “But soon; I don’t want her walking carefree.”
Shandril ran despairing fingers through her hair as she came toward them. “Oh, for a bath! I stink!”
“We all do, lass,” the dwarf told her gravely. “All the easier for dogs to find us, if they’ve got any more with them.”
“Gods,” Shandril said, face paling, “don’t remind me.”
“No, no,” Narm said, with feeling. “Don’t remind me. I can still feel those teeth.”
Shandril remembered all too vividly, retched, and turned hastily away. They watched her shoulders shake for a moment, and Narm turned to Delg with a sigh.
“Now look what you’ve done,” he said.
“Nay, lad—yon’s your handiwork. Grab her, now, and let’s be on our way. We haven’t time for foolishness.”
“Foolishness?” Shandril’s voice was weak but indignant, her face the color of old bone as she rose from her knees.
The dwarf glared at her. “Aye, foolishness. You’ve several days’ march of woods to be sick in—you don’t have to stop each time you feel ill. On!”
She glared back at him, took a deep breath, wiped her mouth clean, and went on.
“What was that?”
“The sound of your own big feet, Othrogh,” the Zhent swordmaster muttered. “Quiet, now—the maid could be the other side of that next tree.”
The half-orc sniffed the air, then shook his head with an emphatic grunt. “No. I’d smell her.”
Around him, the other members of the patrol rolled their eyes, made various faces, and sighed. Swordmaster Cleuvus looked at Othrogh sourly and said, “Just keep your lips shut for awhile, hey? They gave us all the same orders—and you heard ’em as well as I did.” He looked up. “The rest of you,” he added shortly, “spread out—now! She hurls fire, remember? If you all crowd together under the same tree like that, how could she miss?”
There were various grumbles and dark looks; he knew they’d only gathered to hear him berate Othrogh—and they knew he knew. Cleuvus grinned. Ah, well, swordmasters were never loved. Except when they went to town with coins enough to hire—
He was still thinking such vivid, pleasant thoughts when the tree beside him grew a stout arm with a mace at the end of it and rudely crushed the back of his head in. Cleuvus fell on his face like a thrown stone, thinking of love forever.
“Skulk through the forest, would ye? Wear dark armor that offends mine eyes, would ye? Oh, the crimes! The crimes!” The voice rose in mock anguish amongst the startled gasps of the Zhents, and its owner lumbered into their midst—and bowed.
“Rathan Thentraver, Knight of Myth Drannor, at thy service. Looking for little girls in the forest, are we? Well, if ye find any, be so good as t—”
“Get him!” The eldest Zhent snarled, and swords flashed in a sudden rush of dark armor.
A man dropped heavily, cursed—and then gurgled and fell silent. The object he’d tripped over rose, dusted himself off, and then calmly glided forward to bury his bloodied dagger in the back,of another warrior.
Torm of the Knights grinned at his comrade Rathan across the tumult of clashing weapons, then said, “Now is that nice? You could’ve waited for me to get some blood. You could have let Torm—much thinner, handsomer, and younger than a certain priest of Tymora—strike first! You could have busied yourself at some ritual or other; the one where you wear ladies’ underthings and pretend to be a paladin, perhaps—but oh, no! The clarion call of battle was too strong. The—”
He broke off to duck frantically aside as two Zhent blades crossed in the space where the knight’s face had been a moment earlier.
Puffing, Rathan smashed his way through another Zhent’s guard, shattering the sword raised against him. As the man fell, spraying blood from his crushed face all over the knight’s knees, Rathan said, “Oh, aye—let ye strike first and grab all the glory. Betray the commandments of Lady Luck to dare all and leave my life to chance. Let a clever-tongued thief go ahead of a respected, dignified—nay, even rotund—pillar of whatever community I’m currently passing through. Not by the Lady’s laughter! When the bards sing ballads of this day, when two knights went up against almost a dozen Zhent sword-swingers in the forest, ’tis Rathan whose deeds will awe. Rathan who’ll get the beauteous maiden as his reward. Rathan who’ll—”