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.
He looked out as the shattering pain rose to choke him, and he saw Shandril's eyes blazing with grief and shock as she screamed his name. She was running toward him through the fray. Dying, Delg of the dwarves of Mintarn Mountain, Harper, and Shield-Son of Clan Ironstar, wondered if the young lass he'd come to love so much would reach him in time.
Eleven
TOO LITTLE TIME, TOO MUCH DEATH
Splendid, heroic deaths? Only in tales, ballads, and books, kitten. Death in battle is always brutal, painful. and messy-and there's never time enough then for those heroic scenes legends tell of. Too little time, loo much death. There's never time enough in life for any splendid or heroic things, kitten. Remember that-and make time before you must die. Ifyou do that, you wil1 have forged a better life than most.
Laeral of Waterdeep
quoted in Words to an Apprentice Ithryn Halast
Year of the Weeping Moon
"Delg! Delg!" Shandril's eyes spilled over as she ran, heedless, across the trampled grass.
The battle raged around her, Mirt grunting with effort amid the crashes of steel on steel. Unheeding, Shandril wept tears of fire and fell on her knees beside the dwarf.
Delg was reaching a trembling, clenched hand to her, eyes glittering in agony. "Sh-Shan…" he gasped faintly, blood on his lips. "For…" His eyes were still beseeching her a breath later, when they went dark.
In his ears, Delg heard the soft crackling of flames. The Lady Sharindlar had come for him, and his time in Faerun was done. Tears blurred his last sight of the human lass he'd given his life for, and he couldn't even tell her of the love he'd come to feel for her… Raging against the Zhentarim who had brought him death, Delg Ironstar went down into the everlasting darkness, waving his axe.
"No!" Shandril threw her arms around the hairy, sweatsoaked body, but the dwarf's eyes stared past her, dull and unmoving. She knew they'd never see her-or anything else-again, and she clutched Delg tightly, her face pressed against his hard, strong-smelling chain mail. And she cried.
In the rocks high above, Mairara curled her lip in the darkness and gestured with both hands. The crippled gargoyle turned on broken wings to swoop down on the unguarded, weeping maiden.
Shandril cried uncontrollably, body shaking.
Mirt roared out as he ran for her. The Old Wolf finally reached her, shook her, and bellowed, "Shan! Shan! We need yer spellfire, now!"
Shandril stared up through a rain of tears that would not stop falling, and saw the gargoyle veer off for another pass.
Mirt shook her roughly. "No time, lass! We've-"
A spell raked them from the rocks above, bolts of crackling lightning that made Mirt grunt and bite his lip as they jolted him. Shuddering, his hand reached out and tightly grasped the haft of Delg's axe.
Shandril was oblivious, her face buried in the old dwarf's sweat-soaked leathers. She wept silently.
"Gods aid me now!" Mirt cursed. He hurled the sobbing girl away and spun around.
Just in time. A Zhentilar blade was already cutting the air toward his neck. Mirt raised his left hand. Delg's notched axe in it, and blocked the attacking sword. The impact shook both men, and the old merchant's own curving long saber was in the mans throat and out again while they were both still shaking.
Another Zhent was hurrying at Mirt. The warrior held his blade low and deadly as he charged in, but was still steps away when flame rained down from above, cooking him and sending the old merchant staggering back, eyebrows smoldering.
Thank Tymora and Mystra both for that carelessly hurled spell, the Old Wolf thought, wondering just how many Zhent wizards were waiting in the darkness up there. He'd led his friends right into a waiting trap this time… all because he'd been foolish enough to think the wizards wouldn't know about the gate here. He quickly retreated to Shandril, glancing back to make sure no new dangers threatened. Only then did he discover where that last gargoyle had gotten to.
There! High above in the night, the dark form of the gargoyle flapped in a tight turn, head leering down, preparing to dive…
"Shandril!" Mirt growled, backhanding the weeping maid. "Aid me!"
The sobs broke off just as the gargoyle plummeted out ad the night. With a curse, Mirt cast Delg's axe at it and grabbed the magical dagger at his belt. Another Zhentilar warrior was trotting out of the darkness, shield and sword saved. the Old Wolf knew he couldn't escape their blades forever.
Then the air beside him exploded with a roar. Mirt cried turning his head away from the bright flash. He didn't the gargoyle burst into dust and flying stones, or the Zhentilar vanish into ashes and shifting smoke.
Shandril looked around at the ruin she had wrought. Smoke rose in wisps from the blackened turf. A man was crawling slowly through the scorched grass toward her; she raised a hand to destroy him. Then she recognized Narm's head. A cold shiver ran through her as she realized just how close she'd come to slaying him. It could have been done in a moment; he would have been dead forever. It was all too frighteningly easy…
"Now! Hit her now-before it's too late!"
Without taking time to look, she hurled spellfire up at that shrill voice and was answered by more despairing screams-followed by a sharp cracking sound as rock shattered and began to slide.
The ground shook. Smoldering figures in dark armor bounced and rolled amid tumbling stones. The ledge above the meadow where the Zhents had been broke off and slid down toward her. One slim figure floated in the air for a moment, rising above the cascading stones, and then flew to another rocky height, robes rippling.
A Zhentarim! Shandril bared her teeth and hurled a gout of spellflame, blasting the rock where the dark-robed mage stood. Her foe rose above the shattered stone and hung in the air, mockingly. Arms raised, the Zhent began the gestures of spellcasting.
With a shriek of fury, Shandril dashed her hands towards the ground, hurling spellfire downward. A moment later, she rose on columns of spellfire that pummeled the rock and turf beneath her, and she raced through the air toward the Zhent. A startled face gaped at her. The Zhent was a woman!
Shandril charged right at her, eyes blazing fire. Gathlarue knew real fear for the first time in a long, long while. It hurt even to meet the maid's gaze-raw, burning pain that would have torn her apart if she'll not twisted free. Gathtarue turned in the air and fled, flying as fast as she could.
Spellfire tore the night apart above her.
Gathtarue found herself falling. Rocks rushed up to meet her. Her mind snatched desperately at spell phrases; she magically steadied her descent and came: to rest on smoking grass. Her hands trembled as she wove a shieldshaped wall of magical force before her, curving it to meet the cliff at her back.