“Aye—he said he wanted to be done before you were ready to bathe in the same water.” Narm grinned—and then ducked aside to get his spellbook out of the way of her friendly fists.
She pummeled him playfully, until he caught her wrists. They rolled over, chuckling and straining to slap and tickle each other—until their struggles took them over the sill of the window, to a hard and graceless landing on the turf below.
Delg stumped toward them in dripping triumph, gleaming fish gasping and flapping in both hands. He raised an eloquent eyebrow.
Shandril met his gaze, blushed, and said, “It’s not what you think.”
“Oh, no,” Mirt said in jolly derision, from behind the dwarf. “Of course not …”
Shandril scrambled to her feet. “Well, it’s not,” she said indignantly and marched back to where she’d lain. She turned, a dangerous look in her eye, and stood with hands on hips to glare at them all. “What have you done with my tunic?”
Then she met Mirt’s appraising eyes, blushed, and covered herself with her arms. Delg kept his eyes carefully on hers, and said, “It’s drying, on the rocks yonder. It took me awhile to find the right plants to scrub your smell out of it with.”
“My smell?” Shandril sighed; she just didn’t have any more energy left to be indignant. She turned to snatch up Narm’s cloak—but stopped, staring.
“Look,” she said in tones of wonder, then reached out a hand.
“Don’t!” Delg flung his fish down and shoved her roughly aside. “In strange places, girl, don’t reach for things barehanded.”
Fast as the dwarf was, Mirt was faster. The fat merchant strode around them both, boots flapping, and plucked up what had caught Shandril’s eye. It had lain among the stones beside where her head had been the night through. They all saw it then—a teardrop-shaped gem, smooth and hard and iridescent, like the still-wet scales of the fish Delg had dropped in his haste to stop Shandril. It winked and sparkled in Mirt’s hand.
As he turned it, the colors in the heart of the gem mirrored the rainbow and seemed to flash and swirl like liquid in a glass goblet. “My, but it’s a beautiful thing,” the fat man said softly. “The gods must have left it here for ye to find, lass.”
He held it out toward her; Delg gave a hoarse exclamation and grabbed it from him. “Look!” One stubby finger pointed at a tiny, exquisite engraving on the curving flank of the stone: a harp between the points of a crescent moon, with four stars spaced around. “The sign of the Harpers!”
Shandril reached for it, and he laid it gently in her cupped hands.
“Aye, keep it, lass—it cannot be a bad thing.” The dwarf turned to rake Mirt with a keen look. “D’you know what sort of gem it is?”
The fat man nodded. “Aye. A rogue stone.”
The dwarf nodded, eyeing him suspiciously. “I wonder how it came to be here?” he asked.
Mirt shrugged, smiled slightly, and looked up at the sky. “The gods work in strange ways, their wisdom hidden from us ’til after they’re done,” he quoted, in the manner of a pompous priest.
Narm thought Delg would bristle at that hoary old saying, but the dwarf only smiled and said, “Keep that stone safe, lass—and not worn openly, for all to see. You’d best leave it with your lad while you wash—if you go down with him now, we’ll have these fish ready when you’re done.”
Shandril smiled happily and did as she was bid.
The fire crackled, dying to hot red-glowing coals. Delg poked at it, and then went to his pack, which lay among the rocks. Well back from the coals, Narm sat beside a small candle-lamp, intent on his spellbook. Mirt stood watch somewhere off in the darkness.
Shandril, comfortable for the first time in what seemed like days, lay at ease in the warmth of the fire. No spellfire roiled or tingled within her; she was at peace with the world. She looked up as Delg bent over her—and sighed at his intent expression. She could hardly believe she’d once been hungry for adventure; now it seemed as if it would never let her alone.
“Lass,” the dwarf said in low tones, unwrapping dark cloth from something he’d dredged out of his pack. “We need you to have spellfire. Touch this.”
Wondering, Shandril peered at what he held. It was long, massive, and black—a dwarven war hammer. It looked ancient, made for brutal killing. From the deep cracks running across it and the bands of beaten metal that held it together, it looked to have seen use in some mighty battles. Awed, Shandril laid a finger on it to trace a curving crack—and felt the tingling of magic.
She looked up at Delg. “Oh, no. Delg, I couldn’t.” He looked back at her, his intent expression unchanged. “It must be old, and precious to you,” Shandril added softly. “I’ve never seen it, not in all the days since you first came to the inn with the company.”
“It’s a lump of forged metal, lass—my friends are far more precious to me than things I can make, and make again.”
“You made this?”
“No—’tis ancient, lass; a war hammer of the Ironstar clan. It’s about the only magic I have left.”
Shandril looked at him, shocked. “I can’t, Delg! Not your only magic—it must have cost you dearly.”
Delg put a hand on hers. “Do you … are you my friend, Shan?” He seemed to find the words difficult.
Shandril reached out a hand to stroke his bearded jaw. “Of course, Delg. You know that.” Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed his grizzled cheek.
The dwarf harrumphed and shifted on his haunches. “Then, please, Shan—take the magic out o’ this old thing … I’ve a bad feeling that we’ll all be needing it, right soon now. Please?”
Reluctantly, staring into his beseeching eyes, Shandril grasped the cold, heavy head of the war hammer and pulled at its magic with her will, feeling the tingling flow begin.
At that moment, a twig snapped in the woods, not far away. Narm’s head jerked up, and he threw down his spellbook to peer into the trees.
Delg closed Shandril’s hands firmly around the war hammer and told her, “Keep on at it, lass!” Then he rose, took two rapid, gliding steps to where his axe was propped against a rock, and swung it up to the ready.
The attackers came in a rush once they saw the camp alert: a score or so of Zhentilar warriors, nets and clubs in their hands.
Delg looked around and cursed bitterly. Their fat, wheezing host was nowhere to be seen.
“So I let my guard drop for once. Just once!” he snarled as the Zhents rushed down upon them. “Get your back against a rock, lad! Over here, where my axe can guard you!”
Narm had no time to rush across to him, even if he’d wanted to; a Zhent swung a club at his face in the next instant. The young mage ducked coolly, and two pulses of light burst from his hand into the face of the Zhent, who staggered, roared, and clutched at unseeing eyes. An instant later, Narm’s dagger was in his throat.
As the Zhent toppled, Narm sprang away—right into the folds of a weighted net, backed up by a flurry of clubs. He went down without a sound.
Delg had time for no more than a glance at the young mage. His axe flashed as fast as his strong shoulders could swing it, but height made it hard for him to cut the nets—nets that were settling over him from above by twos and threes. He was soon entangled. Then the net-hurlers drew the net ropes taut with their own great weight and reach. The dwarf was dragged down.
Shandril dropped the crumbling war hammer—it had been old, its enchantments all that still held it together—and rose from behind where Delg was struggling. Flames leapt and raged in her eyes.
The men who hauled on the nets that held Delg down were only two paces away. Without a word she flung herself into them, letting spellfire rage from her hands and mouth. She crashed bruisingly against armor, heard men snarl and then shriek amid the rising, roaring flames—and then they fell silent.