Behind Mirt, the other gargoyle was diving in savage haste. Shandril stepped forward, trembling with sudden anger and—could it be—pleasure? She shuddered at the thought, but poured out spellfire in a huge ball of destroying flame. Small stony bits flew in all directions, clattering wetly off the stones around it.
Mirt rose from the sagging form of the gargoyle. Dark wetness smoked all down the blade of his glowing dagger. He looked irritated. “Gods,” he snarled, “give me something to fight!”
The gods seemed to have heard. A breath later, the beleaguered travelers saw dark, armored forms charging out of the night. Dark forms armed with swords.
Mirt’s face twisted into a savage smile, and he gave a satisfied hiss as his blades swept up to meet the foremost Zhentilar.
The rumble that came from Delg as he bounded past Narm and Shandril also sounded satisfied. “Watch behind us, lad!” he called back, as he rolled under the blade of a Zhentilar, and felled the man with a smashing blow to the side of his knee.
Something small and dark spun out of the night at Narm, and Shandril blasted it into flying dust with a little shriek of anger. The flash of her spellfire showed her the dark helms of half a dozen or more warriors approaching across the meadow. Lips tightening, she hurled a handful of destroying spellfire. If she wasn’t quick, the next dart or arrow or stone might get to her beloved.
Narm gave her a quiet smile of thanks before he turned and pointed into the night beyond Delg. Green fire crackled from his hand, and Shandril saw three men in dark armor convulsed in the grip of Narm’s magic before it faded. Their screams faded a little more slowly.
“Gods above, Mistress!” Tespril was frightened, her eyes large and dark. “They’ve destroyed the gargoyles already. Shouldn’t we throw spells now, before our soldiers are gone, too?”
Gathlarue was kneeling, nursing fingers that still smoked from where the rings she’d worn had flared and burned away. She looked up and hissed in anger and pain, “Do you command here, Miss?”
Tespril shook her head frantically. “No, no, Mistress,” she said, almost pleading in anxious haste. “Yet look! Our best chance slips away.”
Leaning over the edge of the rocky height where they crouched, she pointed at the trampled grass below. The meadow was lit up as spellfire lashed out again, and more Zhentilar died.
Gathlarue reached out and caught hold of Tespril’s arm and breast with cruel fingers, digging them in bruisingly deep. Tespril hissed in pain, but the sorceress clawed her way up her younger apprentice until she stood upright again. Swaying slightly, Gathlarue stared down at the ruin of her force.
Freed, Tespril sobbed in pain and shrank away. Then Mairara felt the cold eyes of her mistress turn on her.
“The mistake is mine,” Gathlarue said in a soft voice. “I was too impatient to get my hands on spellfire.” She turned to look at the battle below once more, and spellfire flashed again. “Now, Mairara, is your chance to prove yourself. Use the power you planned to betray me with—show me how good your killing sorcery has become!”
Mairara stiffened, met the cold eyes of her mistress for a long, chilling moment, and then whispered, “I’ll make you proud of me, Lady.”
Gathlarue raised a hand. “Do nothing—yet—to draw their attention to us up here.”
Mairara had already raised her clawed hands to work a spell that would blast the fray below with lightning. At her mistress’s words, she lowered them, frowned, and then nodded suddenly in decision. Flicking hair back over her shoulder with one hand, she gestured with the other, muttering.
The sprawled form of the gargoyle Mirt had slain now moved, wriggled, slithered, and seemed to flow, unseen amid the tumult of clashing blades and lumbering Zhentilar. It rose slowly and split, twisting and flowing into sudden sharp definition—becoming the alert, deadly-looking forms of two smaller, unharmed gargoyles.
Mairara made a growling sound deep in her throat, and spread her hands. Gathlarue smiled. Somewhere in the darkness behind them, Tespril whimpered. Mairara, eyes flashing, gestured again, lips drawn back from her teeth in killing laughter.
Delg turned, bloody axe in hand. Something had moved—there! Ye gods! More gargoyles were leaping and flapping out of the night, heading for Shandril. Roaring, the dwarf bounded away from the Zhentilar who’d been cautiously approaching and ran full tilt toward the lass, swinging his axe for momentum as he went.
Narm threw something into the fallen lantern’s flames to make them blaze like a bonfire. By its leaping firelight, he spotted the gargoyles. With one hand, he caught Shandril’s arm and dragged her around to see this new danger. Small bolts of light streamed from his other hand, but the monster ignored them as it plunged toward the human maid, claws reaching out to rend and slay.
Shandril turned in time to stare into red, baleful eyes close enough to touch easily with her fingertips. Startled, she screamed—spitting spellfire into the face of the thing as it crashed into her, slashing with cruel claws. She screamed again. Spellfire suddenly exploded into a bright ball around her that made Narm stagger back—and the gargoyle disappear forever.
In the wake of her fire-burst, Shandril lay dazed, smoke drifting from her torn clothing. Where the gargoyle’s claws had slashed her, ribbons of blood glowed briefly with the same radiance as spellfire, and then faded.
On the trampled grass nearby lay Narm, groaning and clutching at his eyes. The burst of flame must have blinded him, at least for now.
Delg cursed as he ran toward them both. He saw the second gargoyle flying in for the kill, sinuous stone wings beating as it stretched out long-clawed limbs. With a last, desperate bound, Delg leapt at it. It sensed him, and slid aside with frightening speed. Delg found himself about to pitch over its moving body, but he hooked his axe around one of its wings. The shock as he was brought up hard against a stony flank a moment later told him he’d succeeded. The gargoyle had crashed to the ground.
The dwarf kicked and scrabbled against living stone for a few frantic moments, then got to where he’d hoped to be: crouched low astride the back of the gargoyle, with a firm grip on the root of one wing. He raised his axe to hack and hew.
The gargoyle charged at Shandril—and with jarring force Delg brought his axe down on the side and top of its head. Stone chips flew. Beneath him, the monster shook and screamed. It tried to stand up, stony muscles surging—and Delg hacked at it again, putting his whole shoulder behind the blow. Sparks flew from the striking edge of his axe, and the gargoyle shuddered. A good part of its shoulder broke off and fell away—and a maddened instant later, the thing and Delg were both aloft. The beast whirled, buffeting Delg with stony wings, trying to shake him off.
At the stars overhead, Delg snarled, “For the glory of the Ironstars!” and brought his axe crashing down again. The unwilling mount of living stone he rode plunged earthward with terrifying speed.
Rocks rushed up to meet him like hungry teeth. Delg clung to the gargoyle, hacking desperately. Air roared past him in an angry wind—and at the last instant, the gargoyle twisted aside and shook itself, tearing his fingers free.
The impact of the stone, smashing through his chest and guts like a great fist, drove the breath from him, and his axe spun away like a hurled hammer. Delg scarce heard the despairing cry of the Zhentilar it happened to strike, for he himself hung impaled on stone.
Stone—always his friend, something he could work to his bidding, and trust, something solid and dependable.
As if from a great distance, Delg Ironstar heard the voice of one of the elders, telling him long ago—so long ago—From stone we come, to stone we return, in the end.