Startled, the Shark ducked. Her foot slipped from thesnow-slicked perch, and she dropped toward the upturned stone javelins below.She did not cry out, merely grunted when her death plummet was abruptly cutshort. A spear wielded by a bugbear had snagged her cloak. Her throat wasbruised from the sudden tug, but she was alive.
The Shark hung, dangling, swinging slightly back andforth. Her mind raced, and she cursed herself. She'd prepared no spells forsuch an eventuality-no floating, flying, or transformational magic. Gruntingwith the effort, she reached up, trying to grab the stone spear that held hersuspended. She could not reach it. She then stretched to the right as far asshe could in hopes of seizing the ugly, porcine face of an orc beating down ahapless stone hero. She grasped only empty air.
More frightened than she had been in decades, theShark craned her neck to look upward.
The blooder was a silhouette against the star-filled skyas he bent to look at her. Then, slowly, he moved. One arm reached down.
Crying incoherently, the Shark twisted away. Her cloaktore a little, and she dropped four inches. At least the vampire was too farabove her to reach her-but, ah gods, he could crawl….
"Give me your hand."
For a moment, she couldn't comprehend the words, sounexpected were they. Jander stretched his hand farther.
"Give me your hand! I can't quite reachyou."
The cloak ripped again. The Shark stared down at thenext tier of battling warriors and their pointed stone weapons. It was at leasta twenty-foot drop.
"I'm coming, Shakira. Hold on."
And indeed, the golden vampire began to climb, headfirst,down to reach her.
She suddenly knew, knew with a deep, inner certainty,that Jander Sunstar was not coming to kill her. He was coming to save her life,to pull her back to safety. She, the Shark, the woman who had spent her lifeperfecting the art of murder, had finally failed to kill. And having failed,she would owe her life to the creature she had sought to destroy. If hisforgiving hands closed on her, she would never be able to lift a weapon again.She would cease to be the Shark.
She didn't even have to think. Reaching up, she twinedboth hands in the cloak.
"The Shark sends you to the Nine Hells," shesaid aloud, but the words were intended for her own ears.
As the vampire's fingers reached out to her, the Sharksmiled like the predator she was, spat at his despairing, beautiful face, andtore the cloak free.
SIX OF SWORDS
William W. Connors
I
Moonlight on a silver blade was the last thing Jaybelever saw.
Fifteen years ago, when he and his closest friends hadbeen adventuring throughout the Western Heartlands, he might have expected sucha demise. In those days, he had made his living as an expert picking locks,disarming traps, and unobtrusively eliminating enemies-tasks known forshort-lived practitioners. Indeed, on more than one occasion, he'd beensnatched from death's dark abyss only by the mystical healing power of theacolyte Gwynn.
In the years since, however, Jaybel had given up therogue's life. Following the tragedy of his company's last quest, when they hadbeen forced to leave the dwarf Shandt to the so-called mercy of a hobgoblintribe, the glamour had gone out of that life. Indeed, so terrible had thatordeal been that every member of the Six of Swords had secondthoughts about his career.
"I've made my fortune," Jaybel told hiscomrades. "Now I plan to relax and enjoy it."
With his next breath, he asked Gwynn to marry him, andshe hadn't even paused before accepting. The company parted, and he and Gwynntook up residence in the great city of Waterdeep.
With the treasures they had gathered from countlessforgotten tunnels and valiant quests, Jaybel and Gwynn had built themselves amodestly elegant home. It included a chapel where she could teach her faith,and a locksmith's shop where he could keep his fingers nimble and his eyessharp.
For nearly a decade and a half, he and Gwynn had beenhappy. They had put tragedy behind them and started a new life together. WhenJaybel had looked back on those wild days, he always said, "It's a wonderI'm not dead."
Now he was.
II
The metallic ringing of steel on steel fell upon earsso long past ignoring it that they may as well have been deaf. With eachimpact, sparks filled the night air, streaking upward like startled fireflies,becoming brief ruddy stars, and finishing their fleeting lives with meteoricfalls to the stone floor. Thus it went as the sun set and night cloaked thecity of Raven's Bluff. Time and time again, Orlando repeated the ritual of hiscraft. Hammer fell, sparks flew, and the wedge of a plow gradually took shape.
When the farmer's blade was finally completed, thenoise ended and the smoldering coals of the forge were left to cool. Thebrawny, dark-skinned Orlando set about returning his tools to their places,taking no notice of the ebony shape that appeared in the open doorway of hisshop.
For a fraction of a second, the shadow filled the doorway,blocking out the stars and crescent moon that hung beyond it. Then, with thegrace of a hunting cat, it slipped through the portal and into the swelteringheat of the blacksmith's shop. In the absence of the ringing hammer, the shadowdrifted in supernatural silence.
Without prelude, a sepulchral voice wafted from thedarkness. Though a whisper, the intonation and clarity of the words made themas audible as any crier's shout.
Jaybel and Gwynn are dead.
Orlando froze, hishand still clutching the great hammer, half-suspended from an iron hook. The voicesent a chill down his spine, raising goosebumps across his body just as it hadwhen he'd last heard it years ago. Orlando turned slowly, keeping the hammer inhis hand and trying to spot the source of the voice. As had always been thecase when she desired it, Lelanda was one with the darkness.
Relax, Orlando, said the night. I didn't do it.
"Then show yourself," said the blacksmith,knowing she wouldn't.
It had been years since Orlando had taken up a weaponaside from a tankard in a tavern brawl. Still, even the passing of the yearsdidn't prevent the well-honed reflexes of his adventuring days from surgingback to life. If the witch tried anything, his life wouldn't command a smallprice. Still, he knew who would walk away from the battle. He doubted Lelandahad given up magic. She was probably even more powerful. So, Orlando's rustyreflexes would provide her only brief entertainment.
To Orlando's surprise, the darkness before him parted.Lelanda's face, crowned with hair the color of smoldering coals and set withemerald eyes that reminded him all too well of a cat's, appeared no more than ayard away from his own. As always, he was stunned by the shocking contrastbetween her external beauty and her malevolent soul within.
If he struck just then, there was no way the witchcould save herself. The muscles in his arm tensed, but he could not bringhimself to strike first. He had to hear her out.
"Satisfied?" she asked.
Her voice, no longer distorted by the magical shroudof shadows, seemed gentle and alluring. Orlando knew that, like her beauty, hervoice was a deadly illusion. Black widows were beautiful as well. Even knowingthe truth, his pulse quickened.
The retired warrior put aside the distraction andasked the only question that made sense: "What happened to them?"
"It wasn't an accident," she said, her eyeslowering to the hammer still in Orlando's hand. He grinned halfheartedly andtossed it toward the nearby workbench. She returned his smile and went on."Someone killed them."