One looked up too late. Long brown hair swirled as a leather-clad figure raced through the trees, sword held high. The staring brigand raised his dagger too slowly. He spun to a blood-spattered fall, throat cut open, as the swordswoman stormed into their midst.
Then her silvery blade was leaping everywhere, like a many-headed striking snake. Storm Silverhand had taught her things with a sword, and she was almost as fast as the famous Bard of the Blade.
Balrik Daershun was also counted fast and able with a blade. He'd ridden in the forefront of Lashan's troops, not so long ago, when they'd cut down full-armored Sembian lancers on the road south of Essembra. He'd killed four that day, leaping from his mount to carry the last lancer out of his saddle, his dagger finding the visor-slit even before the antagonists struck the ground together. Men had spoken of Balrik's fighting with awe and praise, and he'd been toasted with much wine.
Toasts had been fewer since, but Balrik's blade still served him. In the final rout of Lashan's leaderless host, Balrik and a dozen comrades had carved their way through a well-armed Cormyrean horse patrol to escape.
Outlaws led a hard life. Since that battle, Balrik had learned to fear arrows and quarrels from afar. He had only three companions left now, but two of them were nearly as good with a blade as he was, and he feared no man who came at him with a sword.
After that first whirl and flurry of steel, Balrik began to think he'd not be given time enough to learn to fear women who swung swords.
Elminster twisted free of the tall, hook-nosed man who held him, and dove for the ground to avoid the sword slash he knew would come. The expected blade flashed past overhead, then the man was turning at the leader's shout to face the new threat.
Elminster's rings and the wand he wore at his belt had saved his life. The brigands been so intent on grabbing and breaking fingers and snatching away the smooth stick of wood to stay any magic he might hurl, that they'd not put a dagger in his throat.
He began crawling away from the trampled ground where they'd struggled, looking back all the while to avoid being taken from the rear. If he could get away-
Then he saw the newcomer and struggled to his feet. This was no rival brigand come to settle scores or win a share of the loot. This was Sharantyr of the Knights. As he straightened, she spared time to flash a smile at him through her dance of striking steel. The three brigands were all around her now, tripping and stumbling over the body of the fourth. Her blade slid in and out, not daring to lunge full out in a killing thrust and thereby give another foe an opening to buy her death.
These were experienced warriors, not mere hungry hackers and stabbers. They would not fall easily, for all that they still gaped at her in wonder.
A woman-and so pretty, too, though her eyes held cold death for them, and her blade hissed like a striking serpent in her hand. She wore good leathers, but save for a gorget, she bore no metal plate to turn sword tip aside. And already she was panting, winded. Aye, for all her blade flashed so, they could take this one.
Abruptly she gasped and bent double. Grinning, Gaerth Wolfarm stepped in, drawing back his blade for a killing thrust.
"No!" Balrik roared from behind him. " 'Tis a trick, Gaer-"
His words died in his throat, too late by far, as Sharantyr straightened with a smile that chilled his blood, slashed open Gaerth's throat with a sweep of her sword, and shoved his body backward into Balrik's.
Cursing, Balrik stumbled aside, blade flailing in a desperate defense. But she was not coming for him. She'd turned, that beautiful long hair swirling, to slay Albeir.
Albeir o' the Axe. Albeir the veteran of half a hundred mercenary skirmishes on the Westgate caravan roads and in the Vilhon. Albeir the steadfast, who abruptly turned, white-faced, and sprinted away. Sharantyr took two running steps in pursuit, saw how he held his sword and that he was running toward Elminster, and snatched a dagger from her hip.
Balrik saw the blade spin to catch Albeir's ear in a gout of blood. He saw Albeir stagger, catch himself, and bear down on the wizard. The brigand grabbed the old man by the throat, swinging him around with brutal haste to serve as a shield.
Sharantyr halted and cast a look back at Balrik. He came on toward her, beginning to grin. Then he saw Albeir's grim face suddenly twist in pain. The old warrior's eyes went wide and he took a half step toward something unseen. Still staring, he crashed to the ground. Elminster looked down with evident sadness at the bloody dagger he held.
Balrik knew cold fear. The lady in leathers was turning back to him, blade low and deadly. It had seemed so easy, four on one, and an old man, too. Tymora spits on us from time to time, that minstrel had said back in Scardale. And look, 'twas the cold truth.
Then that blade came leaping at him again, and Balrik had no time for thought. Steel rang on steel inches from his nose as he parried desperately in the last instant before death would have found him. Then he had to do it again, gasping for air. Gods, this woman was not human! Where in the name of Tempus had she learned to wield a bla-there! Balrik saw an opening. His thrust, delivered with all he could put behind it, ran down her arm and laid open the leathers in a smooth, sliding strike. Her sword arm.
The silvery blade flew free, as he'd known it would, but she did not scream or fall back. She stepped into him, hard, and smiled into his face. "Good fight, carrion," she said calmly, eyes not a hand length from his own, and Balrik felt a sudden cold wetness in his gut.
She shoved him away and ducked aside from his last desperate slash. Balrik's fingers found the dagger-gods, hilt deep! — and his lips found time for what he had to say before blood welled up to choke him. "I am… a dead man. Lady, I am Balrik Daershun. Who are you?"
"I am Sharantyr of the Knights of Myth Drannor," she answered as the man fell heavily to his knees. His eyes had gone dark before her words were all out, and she never knew if he'd heard them. The brigand toppled from his knees, falling on his side with a rattling groan, and lay silent.
Sharantyr looked down at the flapping tatters of her forearm leathers, watched the bright blood dripping from her elbow, and shook her head. She must be getting old.
Elminster stood up slowly and brushed leaves from the chest of his robes with hands that shook only a little. Then he looked at the lady in leathers, the beginning of a smile at the corners of his lips. In his hand was his purse, plucked up from where it had fallen when the brigands had cut it away. From it he'd taken a vial of clear liquid that he held out to her, nodding at her arm.
"I wondered, for a time, if life was still worth the living. It is, and I thank you for saving mine to run awhile longer." Elminster looked around at the trees and added quietly, "How much longer, I wonder?" He shrugged.
"Old Mage," Sharantyr asked, as he knew she would, "why did you not use your magic? I've seen you lay low Zhent soldiers by the armful. Zhentarim who hurled spells against you, even! What befell?"
Elminster looked away for a long moment. Then his eyes met hers calmly and he said levelly, "My magic is lost to me. All of it-gone."
Silence hung between them for a moment as they stood in the leaves looking at each other. Without taking her eyes off his, Sharantyr uncorked and drained the vial. Then she asked, "If you will tell me, what will you do now?"
Elminster looked far off for a moment. Then he sighed and said softly, "I've a lot of neglected reading to be about. Perhaps in the palace library in Silverymoon, and in the Heralds' Holdfast, to start with. And then… I used to harp, once."
"Long ago?" Sharantyr asked lightly, using the toe of her boot to roll over the body of one she'd slain and bending smoothly to salvage a dagger.
"Aye, under the skilled teaching of a fair lady," the Old Mage replied.