by Ed Greenwood
"They're not much," Semoor said, "but they should at least blunt a spell or two. One from Clumsum and one from me. You're as ready as we can make you. Go wizard hunting."
"My thanks," Florin replied. Clapping both of the priests on theit shoulders, he rose and sought the night, Pennae at his side.
"I'm going after them," Semoor said. "Just down there, into that stand of trees, to keep watch. Any passing beast can't help but see us up here on this ledge. 'Tis like being on display in a Suzail shop window."
"Heh," Dauntless said, "now you know how lawkeepers feel when we go on patrol into the alleys of Marsember on foggy nights. Or the Stonelands, any time."
"Hey, what're you doing?" Doust asked. "What's that?"
"Very strong healing," the ornrion said, holding up the little steel vial he'd drawn from his belt. "Given to me by Laspeera, to treat any Knight who needed it." He waved the vial at Jhessail, slumped on the ledge beside him. "Like this one."
Doust looked at Semoor, who nodded reassurance, then looked back at Dauntless.
The ornrion had politely awaited their approval. He thrust two fingers onto the sides of Jhessail's face, opening her jaw-and upended the unstoppered vial into it.
Her tiny form spasmed under his knees, she coughed, and her eyes snapped open.
"What-whooo! What was that?" she asked, trying to slide out from under him. A large, hairy ornrion's hand was prompdy planted on her bosom with a flat disregard for proprieties, pinning her down.
"Hoy, Orn-Dauntless'." she said. "Let me up!" "To do what?"
"Go to wherever the fighting is, and-" "No."
"My spells are needed, and-" "No."
"Doust! Semoor! Anyone? Get him off me!"
Jhessail struggled, kicking and squirming and elbowing, but the ornrion had her overmatched in size, strength, weight, and position. He easily held her down.
Jhessail cursed, hurling words that would have astonished someone who was judging her by her size and looks.
"If you set out to be a hero, lass," Dauntless said through her profane fury, "you're setting out to die. Heroes are something bards create out of real folk who've struggled just to get through some danger or other. Anyone who stops in the heart of peril to think how he'll be regarded is stlarning likely to die a fool's death, right then and there. Now, the line between fool and hero is sometimes hard to see-so sane folk waste no time looking for it. They just do what they have to do or die trying."
"Ornrion," Jhessail spat at him, "your words are very interesting, and I both value them and await with pleasure an opportunity-if we both happen to live so long-to debate them with you, perhaps over goblets of something suitably delicious. But right now, my friends are in peril. So let me up, or so help you, I'll maim you with magic!"
"Fine thanks, that, for healing you," Dauntless told her sadly, as her vain attempts to jerk free dragged him this way and that along the ledge.
One of her frantic movements turned her enough to catch sight of a familiar face.
"Doust!" she called despairingly-and the priest of Tymora sighed, took hold of one of the ornrion's boots, and twisted, flipping Dauntless over.
In a flash Jhessail jerked free and was gone into the night in a tangle of tossed red hair and a last snarled curse. Dauntless glared at Doust.
The priest had carefully positioned himself so as to block the ornrion's way off the ledge to pursue Jhessail. He smiled, folded his hands in prayer, and offered, "May the Lady of Luck be with you."
"You may need her more," the ornrion glowered, drawing back his fist to punch Doust in the face.
At that moment, a passable imitation of his own voice bellowed-out of the night: "Ho, Knights of Myth Drannor! 'Tis Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul of the Purple Dragons, Dauntless to most, come to render you all aid in your time of need. Aye, I'm your friend now! Orders have changed!"
Doust, looking at Dauntless, lifted his eyebrows in a silent question.
Staring back at Doust, Dauntless snarled, "Caztul! Blood of the Lady! Arntarmar and Alavaerthus! Some tluining wizard or sneak-thief is pretending to be me! Gelkor! Talandor! Obey Vangerdahast for one hrasted breath, get plunged into a naeding murdering battle, and some motherless, harcrimmiting teskyre-head is witlessing-well using my name! We'll tluining well see about that! Let me at the bastard! Harcrimmitor!"
Doust grinned. "You want me to do all of that? At once? Shouldn't you be talking to Semoor?"
There it was again. A small, stealthy sound in the bushes very close by. To the right.
Drathar turned and blasted.
The momentary flare of his strike showed him he'd torn apart defenseless bushes-and the reason why. The thief-wench of the Knights was leaning out from behind a tree with a palm-sized stone in her hand. She'd obviously made those sounds by tossing stones into the bushes and was just as obviously intending to hurl the next one at him.
She was giving him a malicious gtin tight now and drawing back her arm for a throw.
As the glow died away, Drathar flung himself a few steps to the right and crouched down to avoid being hit. His next spell blasted the tree she'd been sheltering behind.
There was a brief crashing sound, as of thornbushes being crushed, nearby on his left, but he ignored it. She'd obviously thrown her stone there to divert him, rather than hurling it at him. What of it?
The riven shards of the tree burned fitfully in the wake of his spell. Drathar stood watching them, smirking in satisfaction. Anger a wizard, and die.
An old, old saying, but perhaps thieves were too busy pilfering things to learn the wise lessons that kept most folk in Faerun alive.
Bushes rustled again, very near, on his left. Drathat whirled, cursing, to hurl a swift battlestrike.
Florin's thrown sword took him in the face, and Florin was right behind ir, punching hard and brutally, battering the breath right out of Drathar Haeromel's lungs even before Drathar hit the littered forest floor.
The Zhentarim took a hard punch in his throat and had no means left even to scream as the ranger's dagger plunged into his breast once, twice, and thrice.
Drathar had time to think that he was dying and to see a few stars through his welling teats.
Then the dagger came down again, and it all ended.
"So you sent my champion-my champion, Vangerdahast, one man out of an army of thousands you could have chosen from, to say nothing of all the Wizards of War under your personal command, who would seem to be far more useful in aiding the Knights against foes who are hurling spells at them! And now he bids fair to get slain while we watch, I helpless because I can do nothing to aid him but scream at you, and you’re helpless because you stlarning you well want you be!"
Vangerdahast glowered at her, tight-lipped, but he made no reply.
"Well?" Alusair pressed him. "Are you going to do nothing? While we all watch? Very well, I order you to protect Ornrion Taltar Dahauntul of the Purple Dragons-to say nothing of my mother Queen FilfaeriPs personal Knights! Do something! Work some magic! Or shall I just order all of these loyal, upstanding noble sirs to draw their swords and reward your treason fittingly?"
"Thereby dooming them all," the Royal Magician said. "I am not without defenses of my own, Highness. Pray think before you speak so rashly."
"Think before I speak? Think before I speak?" Alusair's voice rose like a trumpet. "I have seen barely more than a dozen winters, sirrah. I am a willful, spoiled brat-by your own description, don't think I haven't heard it-and I am an Obarskyr! Being born royal was not my choice, nor have I been much of a credit to my blood thus far, but I do know that one thing royalty do not have to do is think before they speak! They have Royal Magicians to do that for them-and speak for them behind their backs, all too often, too!"
Silence fell as Alusair panted to draw breath for the test of her tirade. Into the gap burst a small, explosive sound that froze everyone in the chamber.
Laspeera, the demure and motherly second-most-powerful Wizard of War in the realm, was snorting in suppressed mirth.
"Hand me your sword," Pennae said. "It'll take me forever to saw his head off with this little dagger."
Florin winced. "You're going to decapitate him?"
"Just to make sure. He doesn't seem to have had any of those blast-the-countryside contingencies tied to his death, but perhaps he has a slow healing and will come after us after he's lain here long enough."
Florin winced again. "Someday soon I'll be wanting to hear more about when and where you heard of such things."
"Someday soon," she agreed. "If you tie me to the bed, you may even get some answers."
Florin was too busy blushing to reply as she rose, patted him on the arm, thrust his sword into his hand, and said, "Let's get back to the others. The Watching Gods alone know what trouble they'll have gotten into."
As they came out into the trampled and burned area in front of the cliff, Pennae said, "Well, well. Seems the gods guide my tongue."
Dauntless was charging across the corpse-strewn ground at… himself. Or rather, at someone else who wore the face of Dauntless and a ragged, dirty peasant's dress. Roaring, waving his sword wildly, Dauntless lumbered closer and closer to his foe.
After a shout of "I am the real Dauntless! Knights of Myth Drannor, strike down this impostor! Stop him!" the Dauntless in the dress seemed to realize his deception was hopeless. He raised his arms and started to cast a spell.
"Hrast, that's a stlarning srrong war spell!" Pennae said as she and Florin sprinted forward. "Dauntless is doomed-or we are!"
The wizard wearing the face of Dauntless raised his voice to end his incantation-and noticed the running pair for the first time.
"Naed!" Pennae gasped, swerving to take herself wide and away from Florin.
The wizard hastened to finish the spell, eyes fixed on her.
Light bloomed around him as Doust cast the only thing he could think of to distract the foe.
Dauntless, running hard and fast, stumbled.
Florin ran faster, drawing back his sword for a desperate throw.
A long, slender sword raced out of the night, into the light, and plunged righr rhrough the wizard.
Black fire burst from the man's chest, some magic of the sword melting its way right through his body. Arms flung wide, incantation lost in an agonized scream, Onsler Ruldroun toppled, dying.
White fire boiled up from his limbs, setting afire something black and amorphous that had sprung off his face. Blazing, it fell beside Pennae, and she turned to pursue it, dagger out.
Fire raced out from rhe mage's boots, in a brush-crackling expanding ring that sent saplings sagging down and Florin swerving to snatch up Dauntless and haul him back and away. Just behind them, a running Jhessail was hurled back by a wind only she could feel.
The ground rumbled and shook, flinging everyone off their feet and sending the flying sword cartwheeling away through the night sky, trailing little flickering flames. Dousr's modest little sphere of light expanded into a huge dome as bright as day, and at the heart of it the wizard's body, arms flung wide, hung motionless in the air, frozen in the instant before he would have struck the ground. The dead wizard burned.
"Now these,"Pennae shouted, "are contingency spells!"
"Fury of Tempus!" Dauntless cried, his face gone from purple to pale. "Let's get out of here!"
"Oh?" Semoor shouted back. "How? Axe we supposed to fly?"
Dauntless stared at him, then turned and pointed back at the cliff. "Everyone!" he bellowed as the ground shook again under them and the burning body of Ruldroun grew too bright to see, "Over there! Muster to me! Laspeera and Vangerdahast gave me magic!"
They all gathered around Dauntless.
He looked around at all of them, smiled tightly, held up what looked like a rune-covered tile shaped like a flat bar-and broke it. The world quivered.
The cliff, burning wizard, and all the strewn bodies and scorched trees vanished.
They stood in an open area where stars aplenty glimmered through high, tattered gray clouds above them, and a narrower, more rutted road than the Moonsea Ride was under their boots. On either side of the road was deep forest, stretching as far as they could see.
A little way east, along the way-east if they'd judged the stars right-a mound of rocks rose up on the north side of the road, bare of trees. Otherwise, there was nothing that could be called a landmark anywhere in sight.
Semoor peered in every direction, straining to see as far as he could in the night gloom, then asked, "Where by the Morninglord's rosy behind are we now? And what fell wizards, monsters, and stlarning magic flying swords are sneaking up on us this time?"
Vangerdahast smiled upon the simmering Princess Alusair. He gestured airily.
"See? Just as we planned," he said, strolling over to stand on the far side of the scrying sphere that had just shown Dauntless and the Knights vanishing from the battle-ravaged forest.
He frowned and let disapproval creep into his voice. "If you're going to give orders, Highness, be very certain you know what's happening, what's been planned, and what you're blundering into the midst of. I always do."
Whereupon Cadeln Hawklin snarled, "So you walked in on me, when I was seducing Marissra Brassfeather, on purpose? You dung-eating snake!"
"Compliments, compliments," Laspeera said soothingly, her hand around Cadeln's sword wrist. Though the slender, ceremonial, Hawklin courtsaber was half out of its scabbatd, that's where it stayed, no matter how furiously he glared and sttained. Her grip was surprisingly strong.
"Now say nothing but pleasantries," the motherly Wizard of War added. "You'll only goad him into worse things. A lot of being a successful noble is something that's the same for succeeding as a commoner or a Wizard of War."
"Oh?" Lharak Huntcrown was unable to resist asking. "What's that?"
"Knowing when to keep your mouth shut and await a better time to settle scores," Laspeera replied.
"Every fell wizard, monster, and stlarning flying sword you just woke up, dolt of Lathander," Dauntless growled at Semoor. "Witless idiot."
"No, no, he has wits," Pennae said. "That's what's so tragic. Instead of using them, he carries them around in a bucker and hurls them at the rest of us."
"As is the way of holynoses," Semoor said with dignity, "despite the pointed lack of appreciation that-"
"Shut up, Semoor," Islif said. "Dauntless, have you any idea where we are?"
"Certainly," the Purple Dragon said. "In the Dalelands, past Tilverton and the Shadow Gap. This, under our boots, is the Northtide. The road to Daggerdale joins it a half day's fast ride back that way, and yon rise is Bellowhar's Horn, a waymark where a drinkable spring rises. Caravans sometimes camped here, back before the goblinkin got so bad."
"Ah," Doust said. " 'Got so bad,' eh? That's reassuring."
"Keeping 'em down'U be your duty now, I'm thinking," Dauntless said. "Them and the Zhents. There's caravans as appears on this road, seemingly out of nowhere; they head for Cormyr but never come through Shadowdale. Or so our spies swear."
"Spies?"
"Spies. Shadowdale's an easy walk past the Horn. Fare you well, heroes."
The ornrion raised one hand in a salute as he stepped back.
"Huh," Semoor replied, "you didn'r have to be sarcasric."
Dauntless stared right at him. "I'm not. If ever we meet again, be aware that I consider you friends. And good Knights of Cormyr. And true heroes rhat the bards'll sing about when they find out about you."
"Oh," Pennae said. "That changes something." She held out her hand to him.
There was something small, leather, and bulging in it.
The ornrion peered at it, blinked, and decided it was time for his eyes to bulge almost as much.
"My purse!" He stared at her. "Why, you srlarning little minx of a-" Then he chuckled, husky mirth that swiftly built into a loud guffaw.
Pennae strolled forward and dropped her purloined burden into his hand, ft clinked when it landed.
"One doesn't steal from frie
nds," she said. "Much."
And she leaned forward and kissed him. Very thoroughly.
The Sword That Nevet Sleeps scudded through the night, sharing the chill sky with a few tattets of cloud. Zhentil Keep wasn't far ahead, now.
Whom to collect?
Old Ghost pondered. Just because the sword that now held him could also hold a'dozen or so others didn't mean he should make it do so.
He needed sentiences who knew useful things, who didn't raise his ire from mere contact, and whom he could control. Or did he?
There was no need to rush into this. Anyone the sword slew, whom he commanded its magics to subsume, would be drawn into the blade. Not their bodies but all else that made them who they were.
Bodies, they could regain later, if he helped them conquer the minds of beings wounded by Armaukran. They could shatter those minds and take over the bodies.
He could do that, too, and in the space of a few breaths become a king. Or a queen. Or even an adventurer. Preferably one less bumbling than, say, a Knight of Myth Drannor.
Old Ghost chuckled and flew on into the night.
Epilogue
Morning touched chilled skin and slowly brought cold, stiff Knights awake from wherever atop the boulder-strewn Horn they'd slumped to sleep the night before.
They yawned, stretched, scratched at itches, and winced at aching feet in worn boots, saying little to each other. The water in the spring was so cold that it numbed their mouths.
Before them, the road awaited, rising as it ran on through the trees. Around that little bend and over that hill, or the next one, was Shadowdale.
Florin peered around, collecting silent nods of readiness.
No one wanted to tarry over a roadside morningfeast of greens and ditchwater tea when there was an inn somewhere ahead. Semoor's stomach growled that message almost loudly enough to echo off the nearby trees. He winced amid a chorus of kindly, sympathizing chuckles.
Pennae strode to the fore, clapped Florin on the arm, and gave him her emphatic nod.
He nodded back, a slow smile stealing onto his face, and she set off at a steady pace, not hurrying. The Knights fell into line behind her.