Section 11
snatch up
Narm’s cloak-but stopped, staring.
“Look,” she said in tones of wonder, then reached out a hand.
“Don’t!” Delg flung his fish down and shoved her roughly aside. “In strange places, girl, don’t reach for
things barehanded.”
Fast as the dwarf was, Mirt was faster. The fat merchant strode around them both, boots flapping, and
plucked up what had caught Shandril’s eye. It had lain among the stones beside where her head had
been the night through. They all saw it then-a teardrop-shaped gem, smooth and hard and iridescent,
like the still-wet scales of the fish Delg had dropped in his haste to stop Shandril. It winked and
sparkled in Mirt’s hand.
As he turned it, the colors in the heart of the gem mirrored the rainbow and seemed to flash and swirl
like liquid in a glass goblet. “My, but it’s a beautiful thing,” the fat man said softly. The gods must have
left it here for ye to find, lass.”
He held it out toward her; Delg gave a hoarse exclamation and grabbed it from him. “Look!” One
stubby finger pointed at a tiny, exquisite engraving on the curving flank of the stone: a harp between
the points of a crescent moon, with four stars spaced around. “The sign of the Harpers!”
Shandril reached for it, and he laid it gently in her cupped hands.
“Aye, keep it, lass-it cannot be a bad thing.” The dwarf turned to rake Mirt with a keen look. “D’you
know what sort of gem it is?”
The fat man nodded. Aye. A rogue stone.”
The dwarf nodded, eyeing him suspiciously. “I wonder how it came to be here?” he asked.
Mirt shrugged, smiled slightly, and looked up at the sky. “The gods work in strange ways, their wisdom
hidden from us ‘til after they’re done,” he quoted, in the manner of a pompous priest.
Narm thought Delg would bristle at that hoary old saying, but the dwarf only smiled and said, “Keep
that stone safe, lass-and not worn openly, for all to see. You’d best leave it with your lad while you
wash-if you go down with him now, we’ll have these fish ready when you’re done.”
Shandril smiled happily and did as she was bid.
The fire crackled, dying to hot red-glowing coals. Delg poked at it, and then went to his pack, which
lay among the rocks. Well back from the coals, Narm sat beside a small candle-lamp, intent on his
spellbook. Mirt stood watch somewhere off in the darkness.
Shandril, comfortable for the first time in what seemed like days, lay at ease ?in the warmth of the fire.
No spellfire roiled or tingled within her, she was at peace with the world. She looked up as Delg bent
over her-and sighed at his intent expression. She could hardly believe she’d once been hungry for
adventure, now it seemed as if it would never let her alone.
“Lass,” the dwarf said in low tones, unwrapping dark cloth from something he’d dredged out of his
pack. “We need you to have spellfire. Touch this.”
Wondering, Shandril peered at what he held. It was long, massive, and black-a dwarven war hammer. It
looked ancient, made for brutal killing. From the deep cracks running across it and the bands of beaten
metal that held it together, it looked to have seen use in some mighty battles. Awed, Shandril laid a
finger on it to trace a curving crack-and felt the tingling of magic.
She looked up at Delg. “Oh, no. Delg, I couldn’t.” He
looked back at her, his intent expression unchanged. “It must be old, and precious to you,” Shandril
added softly. “I’ve never seen it, not in all the days since you first came to the inn with the company.”
“It’s a lump of forged metal, lass-my friends are far more precious to me than things 1 can make, and
make again.” “You made this?”
“No-‘tis ancient, lass; a war hammer of the Ironstar clan. It’s about the only magic I have left.”
Shandril looked at him, shocked. “I can’t, Delg! Not your only magic-it must have cost you dearly.”
Delg put a hand on hers. “Do you … are you my friend, Shan?” He seemed to find the words difficult.
Shandril reached out a hand to stroke his bearded jaw. “Of course, Delg. You know that.” Impulsively,
she leaned forward and kissed his grizzled cheek.
The dwarf harrumphed and shifted on his haunches. ‘Then, please, Shan-take the magic out o’ this old
thing … I’ve a bad feeling that we’ll all be needing it, right soon now. Please?”
Reluctantly, staring into his beseeching eyes, Shandril grasped the cold, heavy head of the war hammer
and pulled at its magic with her will, feeling the tingling flow begin.
At that moment, a twig snapped in the woods, not far away. Narm’s head jerked up, and he threw down
his spellbook to peer into the trees.
Deig closed Shandril’s hands firmly around the war hammer and told her, “Keep on at it, lass!” Then he
rose, took two rapid, gliding steps to where his axe was propped against a rock, and swung it up to the
ready.
The attackers came in a rush once they saw the camp alert: a score or so of Zhentilar warriors, nets and
clubs in their hands.
Delg looked around and cursed bitterly. Their fat,
wheezing host was nowhere to be seen.
“So I let my guard drop for once. Just once!” he snarled as the Zhents rushed down upon them. “Get
your back against a rock, lad! Over here, where my axe can guard your back”
Narm had no time to rush across to him. even if he’d wanted to; a Zhent swung a club at his face in the
next instant. The young mage ducked coolly, and two pulses of light burst from his hand into the face
of the Zhent, who staggered, roared, and clutched at unseeing eyes. An instant later, Narm’s dagger was
in his throat.
As the Zhent toppled, Narm sprang away-right into the folds of a weighted net, backed up by a flurry of
clubs. He went down without a sound.
Delg had time for no more than a glance at the young mage. His axe flashed as fast as his strong
shoulders could swing it, but height made it hard for him to cut the nets-nets that were settling over him
from above by . twos and threes. He was soon entangled. Then the nethurlers drew the net ropes taut
with their own great weight and reach. The dwarf was dragged down.
Shandril dropped the crumbling war hammer-it had been old, its enchantments all that still held it
togetherand rose from behind where Delg was struggling. Flames leapt and raged in her eyes.
The men who hauled on the nets that held Delg down were only two paces away. Without a word she
flung herself into them, letting spellfire rage from her hands and mouth. She crashed bruisingly against
armor, heard men snarl and then shriek amid the rising, roaring flames and then they fell silent.
Shandril drew the flames back into herself, and looked down at the blackened, smoking corpses. Beside
her, Delg was fighting his way free of the scorched remnants of webbing as the next wave of Zhentilar
rushed at them.
Shandril hurled spellfire again-ragged and faltering fire. She swallowed grimly and threw out one hand.
Fire streaked from it to lash the Zhents bending over Narm. They staggered and fell, shouting hoarsely
amid raging flames. Shandril raised her other hand to burn the warriors charging at her from the edge
of the clearing. A moment later, however, they laughed in triumph as her spellfire rushed outward, then
sputtered and died away in their faces.
She saw the cause: it came out of the night in front of the warriors, a band of utter darkness like a fence
or an impossibly wide shield-a black band floating before them as they came. Just behind the warriors
trotted a man in robes-a Zhentarim wizard!-with triumph shining in his dark eyes.
Shandril snarled and lashed out at their feet with spellfire, aiming below the dark band. The wizard
hastily lowered his creation-but he was too slow to save the feet of one running Zhentilar. Spellfire
blasted, and the man’s boots vanished. With a shriek of agony, the charging warrior toppled forward
into the darkness and was gone, his cry cut off suddenly. As the wall of darkness advanced, Shandril
could see the remains of the man, twitching on the ground-two trunkless, footless legs.
Shandril gasped in horror-and then let her hands fall to her sides as the band of darkness came to a halt
an arm’s stretch away, right above the still-struggling form of Delg.
“On your knees, wench-or he dies!” The Zhentarim’s voice was coldly triumphant.
Shandril looked both ways along the band. It fenced her in against the rocky remnant of an ancient
wall, and from only feet away, a dozen or more Zhentilar warriors grinned at her, clubs raised.
She sank down, bitter despair flooding her mouth. The wizard snapped his fingers, and hurled clubs
were suddenly crashing in on her from all sides, even before the magical darkness winked out and was
gone …