by Ed Greenwood
They had nearly slain her when she had appeared with their missing gear, which she had slipped away and stolen while the ladies Storm and Sharantyr were facing down the company in the taproom. After their rage had subsided (under Rymel's laughter), only Delg had protested against her joining, but the fighter-with the same avid look in his eyes that Korvan got-was enthusiastic. So far, however, Ferostil had not bothered her.
Shandril had slipped out of the inn that same night to wait for the company in the trees on the edge of Deepingdale, leaving only a hastily scribbled note for Gorstag. She had spent anxious hours in the dark with small forest creatures rustling and scuttling unseen around her, afraid that the company would change their minds and ride off without her. Shandril's heart had leaped when they had come into view through the dawn mists, leading Lynxal's empty horse for her. She had trembled so with excitement that she could hardly speak, but she had gotten into the saddle somehow, though she had never before ridden a horse. She was relieved to discover the dead thief's weapons and gear strapped securely to the saddle, though she had no idea how to use them either. She would just have to learn… and fast!
She'd taken nothing from the inn but the clothes she wore, and the single nice gown that had been made for her. Robbing Gorstag seemed a poor way to repay him for his kindness, and Shandril was not a thief at heart.
She wondered that night if she'd be any good at thievery, with the company's eyes on her in judgment. Her arms shrieked stiffly from gripping at reins and saddlehorn. Her legs ached even worse. Places on her thighs had been rubbed raw, and when it rained and cold, lashing winds blew at the same time, Shandril wondered why she'd ever left the safe, warm household of The Rising Moon.
The next morning, her heart light and free, she knew why she'd left. All around her lay the green gloom of deep woods, where men said only elves had walked scant summers ago. Everywhere she looked she saw new, wondrous things. When Burlane had changed their course after a discussion in which Rymel and Thail spoke most, Shandril had been thrilled at the simple freedom of choice.
There was another reason she'd left to start a new life. For the first time in her life, she had friends around her. Oh, Gorstag and Lureene had been her friends, but they were always busy, always rushing off to do something that did not involve her. But now she had friends who rode with her and would fight with her and were there all the time. Hunger for freedom and friendship had pushed her to take that extra step, to steal up to the long room and knock on the door to face the Company of the Bright Spear. Even in the taproom, when it might have meant gruff old Ghondarrath's death and they had been loud and mocking, even then it had thrilled her: the belonging, the trust.
One of their number had been endangered. As one, they sprang to aid him, daring all, heedless of rules or cost. Above all in the world they were companions, and each one raised his blade to defend the others, no matter how weak. That's what she was, the weakest of the company, the one with the least experience and with no magical weapons or magery to boast of. She was not even truly a thief. The weakest of the company, indeed.
But she was of the company, a full and proper member who darned her socks with the rest of them by the fire the next night in wild country and washed herself, fully clad, in an icy stream, as they did in the gray, misty morn that followed. Shandril had given up on her snarled, greasy hair, pulling it back into a simple tail with a broken strap of Delg's. Even if she was the only female and jests were often hurled her way as she scrambled, red-faced, out of the deep brush after relieving herself, she belonged. They were her companions, her family, and she would die for them.
The company had left Deepingdale and promptly turned north into the woods, heading for Lake Sember. From old records in Suzail, the wizard Thail had learned that the elves had lived on the shores of the Sember in great numbers for two thousand years or more. Even if nothing of value had been left behind, Lake Sember lay along their path to Myth Drannor, and scouting it would serve them as practice for when they reached the ruined city. The company had come upon good trails in the woods, and for days they had ridden steadily north. Game was plentiful. The forest was never quiet around them, but neither did they see men or other large, dangerous creatures. At last the trees thinned ahead, and they looked out over Lake Sember.
The waters of Lake Sember were deep blue and very still. Clouds scudding overhead were mirrored in the lake at their feet; by the shore, the water seemed as clear as crystal. Beneath it they could see the bottom of the lake falling away, a drowned tree's limbs long, dark, and silent, and the scuttling of a tiny crayfish bound for deeper waters.
The company fell silent as they looked upon Lake Sember. They all knew now why it had been so special to the elves. Far away down the long lake, a great gray heron rose from the near shore and winged silently across the lake. They watched in silence. The heron vanished into the trees.
The air had grown cooler, and Shandril shivered. Tall Burlane looked up abruptly and said, "We must move east. I hope to make camp where the Semberflow leaves the lake tonight. Let us go."
The company turned east along the shore, weaving in and out around the trees, but keeping the water always in view. It would not do to get lost and stray south again now. Mist began to gather in white curls along the water's edge as the air grew colder. Wisps drifted in under the trees, and the sky fell to silver-gray. Burlane hurried them on. Shandril found a cloak in the saddlebags and thankfully drew it on over her chilled arms and shoulders.
Somewhere ahead, a bird called amid the trees. The call did not echo, but faded away. Glancing around in the gathering darkness, Shandril noticed that Ferostil had quietly drawn his sword. The trees grew dense and the footing uneven, so they continued on foot.
"Sharp watch," Burlane commanded quietly. Blades were drawn all around him. Shandril drew her own slim long-sword and clutched it firmly. Made for her predecessor, Lynxal, it was just a trifle too heavy. She felt no safer. The mist closed in around them.
Suddenly there came a high, weird, unearthly call, as if from a great distance. The horses snuffled and shifted uneasily. Looking at her companions, Shandril could see that they were puzzled by the sound as well. She was not the only frightened one, either.
By unspoken agreement, the Company of the Bright Spear waited in tense silence, but the call was not repeated. Shandril breathed a silent prayer for the kindness of Tymora, Goddess of Good Fortune. Finally Burlane ordered the advance again with a silent jerk of his head. Glad to be moving, they all shifted damp grips on weapons and reins and led the horses on through the thick white wall of mist.
"We should tarry until this mist passes," Rymel said, his bard's voice and gray eyes serious for the first time in Shandril's memory. Tiny droplets of mist hung in the curls of his short beard.
"Aye," Ferostil replied, his voice low and wary. "And yet-that cry we heard. If we wait, who knows what might hunt us? Surround and entrap us, and we not able to even see them until too late?"
His words left a deafening silence. Shandril met Burlane's eyes, trying to look calm. A trace of a smile crossed his lips as they traded glances, but his calmness was an act too. Shandril felt grateful, and suddenly she was less afraid.
Delg the dwarf spoke. "I second that. I cannot abide waiting a whole night through in this damp, doing nothing. I say push on, and we'll be the sooner out of it!" The light was growing dim. One of the horses snorted and shifted again, and Delg went to it and spoke soothingly.
"What say you, Thail?" Burlane asked quietly.
"It would be more prudent to stop and wait for morning and the lifting of this mist," the wizard replied calmly. "But I, too, would hate such waiting."
"Shandril?" Burlane asked in the same voice, and Shandril looked up in surprise, thrilled to be considered an equal.
"I'd rather risk stumbling into danger than waiting the night," she answered as calmly and steadily as she could. She heard several vigorous murmurs of agreement.
Burlane said simply, "We go on.
Better to be all awake and expecting the worst than to be all asleep but two."
Suddenly, they heard a soft slithering sound, then a loud "plop," as something entered the lake nearby. Shandril's skin crawled. But the company could see nothing. Cautious minutes later they moved on, and soon they came to a place where the long grass was flattened in a wide swath as if by the passage of some great bulk, and flecked with trails of green-white slime. The horses shied from the area and had to be pulled across, snorting and rolling their eyes and lifting their feet as though surrounded by coiling snakes. The company hastened on as quickly and quietly as possible. Later they heard something scuttle away from their path, but again met no creature. They went on as night drew down.
At length, the sounds of wide waters moving before them could be heard, and Thail, probing with his staff, barred their way. "Open water," he said in a low voice.
"Either we have turned about and headed into the lake," said Rymel, "or the shore has doubled back before us, or-and this seems most likely-we have reached the Semberflow, where you intended to camp," he said to Burlane. In the twilit gloom they heard their leader reply, "Aye, it is likely. I will look."
Pale light flared as he unwrapped the Bright Spear and bore it past them. The bard went with him, passing the reins of his horse wordlessly into Shandril's hands. She clung to two sets of reins in anxious silence, pleased to be so entrusted, and yet apprehensive. If something startled the horses, she knew she lacked the strength to hold them.
The two were a long time looking, and even Thail had begun to step about anxiously before the Bright Spear's radiance could be seen again in the thick violet and gray mist that enshrouded them. Burlane stepped back among them, looking pleased.
"It is the Semberflow," he announced. "We camp here. We cannot see to cross."
"A fire? Lanterns?" asked Delg. Burlane shook his head. "We dare not. Double watch the night through-Shandril and Delg, then Ferostil and Rymel, and I'll see the dawn. Make no needless noise. Don't let the horses lie down-it's too damp, and they'll take the chill."
The band quickly unburdened and fed the horses, shared cold bread and cheese, and rolled themselves in cloaks and blankets. Shandril found Delg in the darkness. "How can I keep watch if I can't see?" she whispered. Delg grunted. "We sit down in the middle of everything, ladymaid. Back to back, d'you see? We give each other a pinch or an elbow now and then to keep awake. Three such, or more, quickly, means: beware, there's danger. You look, yes, but mostly you keep still and listen. Mist does funny things to sounds-you can never trust just where and how far away something you hear is-but listen hard to us and the horses first, mind you, and get to know the sounds, and then listen for sounds that aren't us."
Shandril stared at his red, gnarled face for a moment. "All right," she said, drawing her blade. "Here?"
The dwarf, already sitting on his cloak with legs outstretched, the axe in his lap warded from the dew with a fold of his cloak, rumbled affirmatively. Shandril sat down against his rounded, hard back, feeling the cold touch of his mail, and laid her own blade across her knees. She said no more, and around them the camp settled down into steady breathing, muffled snores, and the occasional faint, heavy thud of a shifting hoof. Shandril peered into the night, blinking dry eyes.
A long while passed in silence. Shandril felt a yawn coming. She tried to stifle it, and failing, tried to yawn in utter silence, but she felt the firm pressure of Delg's axe-butt driving against her flank immediately. Grinning in the darkness, she elbowed him back and was rewarded with a gentle squeeze of her elbow.
Shandril could visualize his stubby, iron-strong fingers pressing on the point of her elbow, and was reassured by the veteran's presence. His eyesight was far better than hers in the near-darkness, she knew, and she trusted his years of calm experience. What seemed like hours later, he squeezed her elbow gently again; she extended it in firm reply, grinned again, and so they passed the night.
Suddenly Delg shifted. "Sleep now," he said into her ear. "I'll wake Rymel and Ferostil." Shandril nodded automatically. The gruff warrior clasped her shoulder and was gone. Sleep now? she thought. Just like that? What if I can't?
Shandril rolled over, pulling her cloak up, and stared into the dank darkness. Where were they? How would she know which way to walk if she awoke and her companions were all gone? Suddenly she felt lonely and very homesick. Shandril felt the sting of tears, but she bit her lip fiercely. No! This was her decision, for the first time-and it was right! She settled her head on her pack and thought of riches and fame… and if not, an inn of her own, perhaps?
A gentle hand on her shoulder shook her slowly but insistently awake. Shandril blinked blearily up at Rymel. The bard smiled a wordless greeting and was gone. Shandril sat up in the dripping grass and looked around. The world was still thick, white, and impenetrable. She could see her companions as gray, moving shadows, and a larger bulk that must be one of the horses, but little else. By all the gods, was there no end to this mist?
The patient, gray-white cloak of vapor stayed with them as the Company of the Bright Spear followed the Semberflow's banks away from the unseen lake until Thail recognized a certain moss-covered stump and directed them to cross. The wizard stepped down into the dark river confidently, the water swirling around his ankles and then rising to near his bootstops. Rymel followed, just as matter-of-factly, leading his horse. But Shandril noticed that he kept his blade ready in his other hand and looked at the waters steadily and narrowly. Ferostil followed, and then Burlane waved Shandril to go next.
The water was icy. Shandril's boots leaked at one heel, and once she stepped into a deep place hidden under the water and nearly fell. Her firm grip on the reins saved her; her horse snorted his displeasure as all her weight pulled at his head for an instant, and then she recovered herself and went on.
The far bank seemed no different from the one they had left-tall, drenched grass, mist as thick as ever. The company gathered wordlessly to rub the legs of their mounts dry and peer about. The mist brightened still more as the unseen sun rose higher, but it did not break or thin. Burlane strode ahead a few paces and listened intently.
Then, quite suddenly, three warriors in chain mail advanced out of the fog with weapons ready. They bore no badge or colors, and behind them a fourth man led a mule. The mule was heavily laden with small chests securely strapped to a harness. Something metallic within the chests clinked and shifted at the beast's every step.
There was an instant of surprise, and then the three strangers rushed forward with an oath, springing to attack the company without so much as a greeting. The fourth turned from the mule to flee back into the mist.
Abruptly, Burlane's glowing spear hurtled through the air to pierce the runner at the back of the neck and bear him down. "At them!" the burly leader hissed. "Look sharp!"
Ferostil pushed roughly past Shandril to take a stranger's blade on his own, shove hard to rock the man back on his heels, and then, by a rapid succession of ringing, teeth-jarring blows, batter his way past the man's blade. The two men seemed evenly matched in strength. Shandril was shocked at the savagery of their hacking blows.
Even as she watched, Delg trotted past her and calmly launched himself into the air with a grunt. At the height of his leap, he cut hard at the side of the man's helm with his axe. There was a dull crump sound as the blade bit home, and the warrior reeled, then tumbled to the ground. Delg had already reached the next warrior, a burly man who raised his voice to roar a warning into the mist as he fell back before the blades of Rymel and Ferostil.
Shandril heard Burlane grunt in pain as the third warrior's blade bit into his shoulder. The man also swung a war-hammer, but the wizard Thail caught it on his staff before their attacker could drive it through Burlane's guard.
Shandril let go the reins of her mount and ran toward the Bright Spear, which flickered and glowed in a tangle of grass near the man Burlane had hit. She heard a strangled cry behind her but dared not look as she rushed over the
uneven ground. Metal skirled and clashed again behind her. As Shandril reached the spear, she saw menacing shapes looming out of the mist. More warriors! She had no time to look down at its victim or behind her, for one of the newcomers was snarling at her, eyes glittering, a longsword reaching for her as he charged.
She saw the angry face of a second attacker before she could jerk the spear free and run, ducking low and turning, trailing the spear point down in the grass. The closest warrior's swing clove the air, and she was away, stumbling in her haste. Delg grinned at her as he rushed past to meet the newcomers. Beyond him, Shandril could see the company advancing. All of their opponents had fallen.
She looked to Burlane, raising the spear, but he shook his head, clutching his shoulder. "I cannot use it. Wield it well! More come!" Turning again, Shandril saw Ferostil and Delg closing with five warriors. Beyond, more newcomers loomed out of the mist, weapons gleaming.
The company was overmatched. Shandril hurried to Burlane's side, to guard his injured flank with the spear. It felt awkward in her hands, and he'd be close enough to shout directions for its use to her, if nothing else.
From Thail's hands burst three bolts of light, streaking through the air to strike at three foes. One stiffened and fell; another staggered but came grimly on. The third gasped and then roared a warning back into the mist, in a harsh, hissing tongue Shandril did not understand.
Then a warrior was rushing at her again. He had burst past or cut his way through the company's warriors and was closing quickly, a great sword clutched two-handed above his head. Shandril saw with sick fascination that its edge was dark with blood. It came toward her so smoothly, so quickly, swinging down, down-and then Burlane shoved her roughly from behind.
Shandril fell helplessly forward, dropping the spear as she crashed into the man's legs. He toppled and came down hard on her shoulder.
Red pain exploded in Shandril's arm as she fought for breath. She sobbed and then rolled desperately away. Her shoulder burned. The arm below felt numb. Shandril came dizzily to one knee in the grass and saw Delg calmly hew another foe down into the grass a little distance away. She turned wildly and saw Buriane regarding her gravely across the body of the warrior she had faced. He had tripped over her or gotten tangled with her and the spear long enough for Burlane to cut his throat.