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The dead man fell to the road dust like a grainsack, windlasses whirred madly in the forest-and Florin changed his mind about running to Delbossan, and swerved to leap a fallen guard and race up the far bank of the hollow, shouting something incoherent.

“Back!” cried the second rider to the third, hauling on his reins so hard that his mount reared, bugling in fear.

Crossbows cracked in unison, a quarrel snatched the sword he was frantically drawing right out of his hand, blood spraying-and a second quarrel laid open his ear and spun him right out of his saddle with a shout.

The third rider-a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man-was already out of his saddle and racing up the slope into the trees that held the crossbowmen, gleaming sword in hand.

Narantha cowered away from the wildly dancing, riderless horse of the man with the horn, ducking away as deadly hooves lashed out in all directions. Maddened with pain, it raced off south, bucking and twisting. Gods above, Narantha thought, losing her footing again and clawing at bushes and weeds to try to keep her balance, what next?

A moment later, she found herself thinking: What superb horses! Who are these men?

The rider with the wounded hand and copiously bleeding ear had drawn his dagger and was staggering up the slope whence the deadly quarrels had come. White-faced and reeling, Delbossan staggered after him.

There were shouts in the trees, and violently dancing branches. Steel rang on steel, someone shouted, and someone else burst out of the trees and flung a crossbow full in the face of the man with the bleeding ear. The wounded rider fell over, losing his dagger, and was promptly pounced upon and stabbed. Delbossan lifted his sword awkwardly, in his off-hand-then retreated, cursing weakly, as a second man joined the first, followed by a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth.

Then Florin sprang out of the trees in an explosion of leaves, sword first, and slammed into the rearmost two, sending them all tumbling down the slope and taking the legs out from under the other “outlaws.”

Someone screamed hoarsely, back in the trees, and the third rider loped out of them, blood all over his sword and a ruthless smile on his face, and came leaping down to join the fray.

Florin rose up out of the tangle hacking like a madman, and Delbossan lurched forward to chop whoever he could reach. Bouncing ribbons of slashed leather revealed more bright mail as the crossbowmen struggled to their feet, cursing and shouting. The moment they saw the bearded third rider, they ignored Florin and Delbossan, crowding forward to slash and stab at this new target.

Who had both sword and dagger, and wielded them with deadly skill, crafting a wall of ringing steel that brought death to the first two who tried to wade through it. Fighting furiously, Florin took down a third, and in the frantic swordplay that followed Narantha saw Delbossan grunt and grapple a man from behind. They struggled together, snarling, and beyond them one outlaw sprang forward to bear down the bearded rider’s sword arm, the last outlaw lunged, thrusting hard over it at the man’s face-and Florin slashed that thrust aside, wielding his steel in wild and frantic parries that took him reeling aside entangled with one outlaw. The bearded man’s superb blade lashed out so flickering-fast that the second outlaw was going down, head wobbling atop his slit throat, before he truly realized he was dying.

“No! Not supposed to-” he said plaintively, blood bubbling forth at his every word, and he fell on his face.

The bearded man reached over him to slice the throat of the crossbowman struggling in the horsemaster’s grip, turning to snap at Florin as he did so: “Take him alive! It makes the questioning easier!”

Somewhere behind them all, Narantha gasped.

Florin, however, was gasping too, doubled over and clutching his ribs with bloody fingers as if he could stop the welling blood. The slash was deep; he was touching one of his own ribs through the slippery stickiness…

The last “outlaw” spun away from the faltering forester, grinning savagely, and flung his blade full in the bearded man’s face.

The parry was swift and hard, but sent the bright blade clanging out of its wielders hands, and the grinning outlaw sprang forward, drawing a needle-blade dagger that glinted bright purple in the sunlight.

“Poison!” Delbossan shouted hoarsely, as the bearded man reached for his own dagger, the “outlaw” leaped, and Florin flung his sword, sobbing in pain. End over wobbling end it flashed, to bite deep into the hand that held the poisoned dagger, and snatch it away, trailing a finger.

The “outlaw” shrieked in pain, and the bearded man brought his empty hand up in a roundhouse blow that lifted the man off his feet, scream ending in a clattering of teeth clashing together, and let him crash limply to the ground, senseless.

“Well fought!” the bearded man boomed, striding forward to ease Florin to the ground. “What’s your name, lad, and where hail you from?”

“F-Florin,” Florin managed to gasp, shuddering. He barely saw a gleaming steel vial being unstoppered under his nose, but it flooded down his throat cool and soothing, and the pain ebbed instantly. “Florin Falconhand,” he gasped, “of Espar. What’s yours?”

He was still too pain-dazed to lift his head and look around, and so did not know that Delbossan and the Lady Narantha were already kneeling in the road, but he did hear Narantha gasp at his blunt asking.

“Azoun,” the bearded man said with a smile-a smile that broadened as a stunned Florin gaped at him. “Azoun Obarskyr, of all Cormyr.”

If the glare that Lord Crownsilver leveled at the war wizard whose hands cradled and gave life to the speaking-stone sizzled with searing fire, the look with which Lady Crownsilver favored that same mage held deadly ice.

He met both dooms with an urbane smile and the words, “I’m not listening, lord and lady; you may continue to speak freely, in utmost confidence.”

Narantha’s father glanced mistrustfully around the chamber, deep in the Royal Court of Suzail-and her mother snapped, “Piffle! You’re hearing every word, varlet!”

“True,” the War Wizard replied solemnly, “but I’m not listening to them.”

Narantha’s tinkling laughter rose out of the speaking stone at that, causing the Lady Jalassa to wail, “My baby! ” once more, which turned Narantha’s laughter into a despairing, embarrassed, “Moth-er!”

“Well, you’re safe,” Lord Crownsilver said gruffly, “and so’s the king. And you played some small part in foiling the mysterious assassins. We’re proud of you, lass. Now you just sit tight, right where you are-never stepping out of sight of Lord Hezom or his chatelaine for an instant, do you hear? — until we see you again. Whoever sent those slayers will be furious, and will try for you next, so no more gallivanting around the woods with young commoners! I absolutely forbid such conduct! Do you hear me well, daughter?”

“Daddy!” Narantha protested. “ ’Twas not like that at all! We did no ‘gallivanting,’ if that’s your clumsy euphemism for rutting, and whatever his birth, he’s a fine and loyal subject of the king!”

“I’m sure,” Lord Crownsilver said curtly. “Just remember what I said-if you’re a true Crownsilver, and would like to remain so in our eyes.”

He wagged an imperious finger at the war wizard, and added, “This converse is at an end.”

The two Crownsilvers rose together, ignoring both the nodding war wizard and Narantha’s faint and fading farewells as the speaking-stone lost its glow of operancy, and strode into the innermost chamber, closing the door firmly.

The war wizard (they had not troubled to remember his name) had earlier assured them it was shielded to ensure utmost privacy-from war wizards and great archmages half Faerun away, not merely lurking servants-but Lord Crownsilver trusted no wizard. He tapped the great crystal that topped his cane and murmured a word over it, saying nothing more until its kindling glow became a steady radiance. Then he held it out horizontally, and his wife sat herself with deft dignity in one of the waiting chairs and took hold of the other end of it.