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smile. Then she stood up in her stirrups, whooped, drew her sword, swung it in
a wild, flashing salute to the sun overhead, and galloped off toward Swords
Creek in tearing haste, scattering astonished Riders in all directions.
Florin met Rathan's gaze. He took in the priest's eloquently raised eyebrows,
and shrugged. "We seem to have that effect on folks," he observed. "Tymora
should be happy."
"Oh, she is," Rathan told him. "Wherever we go, the entire Realms around seems
to be plunged into taking wild chances."
"I've noticed that," Florin said in dry tones. "It's not a state of affairs to
everyone's taste."
The stout priest of Tymora shrugged in his turn. "Their loss," he said
piously, "and Faerun's gain. May Tymora smile upon ye in the battle, Florin."
"And upon thee, stout heart," Florin told him. Rathan looked sharply at the
ranger's innocent smile, and found it not quite innocent enough. He snorted
and spurred away, leaving Florin alone with the Riders of Mistledale.
The ranger caught a few questioning looks from the black-armored armsmen
around him, and smiled. "Easy, lads. There's no need to rush into our graves.
The gods wait for us all."
"There're going to be gods at this battle?" one of the Riders asked fearfully.
"Now, lad, let's not get our hopes up," an older Rider said with a grin.
"You've got to save some excitement for your next battle!"
The younger Rider swallowed. "If I live to see another one," he whispered,
"I'll begin to worry about such things, Ostyn."
"That's the spirit!" the older Rider told him. "Cast your worries aside, and
ride on into battle!"
The young Rider looked at him with a very white face and said nothing.
"Keep track of kills, shall we, lad?" Ostyn proposed.
ALL SHADOWS FLED
"See which of us can slay the most Zhents?"
The younger Rider stared at him for a moment and then fainted dead away, his
eyes rolling up as he slid limply from his saddle.
Florin made a grab for the falling Rider's shoulder, caught him, and snapped,
"Get the reins, Ostyn!"
The older Rider did so, deftly, and they guided the mount to an ungainly halt.
The rearguard Riders caught them up. "One down already?" a fat, cheerful woman
asked, looking at the limp form across Florin's lap. "We'll have to ask the
Zhents to hold a thousand or so swords in reserve."
"You're volunteering to ask them?" Florin chuckled as they righted the young
Rider in his saddle and shook him gently back to his senses.
"Never volunteer," Ostyn warned her.
"Actually," she said, indicating the reviving Rider with her sword, "I was
going to nominate him."
The young Rider's eyes snapped open. He stared at her for a moment, face as
white as a priest's vestment and then, still staring, slid out of his saddle
again.
They let him fall to the ground this time, stared at each other, and sighed.
4 Softly Come the
"Hold up, there!"
One moment the road ahead was empty, but the next, a stern-looking, ragged
crone with the largest, wartiest nose Torm had ever seen was standing calmly
in front of his cantering horse, hand raised, bidding him halt.
Startled, the thief hauled hard on the reins. The war horse under him skidded
in the dust as it reared, bugling, and came to a halt, lashing out with
steel-shod hooves.
The woman regarded it calmly. "An excitable animal and you must be the
illustrious Torm that the ladies of Twilight Hall have told me so much about."
She turned away, hands on hips, and then turned back to him and asked
curiously, "Did you really get a certain part of your anatomy caught in a
closet door in Zhentil Keep, or was that just a fireside tale?"
Torm sputtered. He'd just noticed that the woman, in her kerchief and ragged
dress, was standing in midair, her muddy, ill-fitting boots a good three feet
off the ground. A merry gale of laughter came from Sharantyr, Belkram, and
Sylune as they reined their mounts in around him. Itharr merely shook his head
in smiling silence.
"Well met, Margrueth," Sylune said, eyes dancing in welcome. The old woman
looked her up and down.
"Got yerself a new body, have you? Hmmph. No one
ALL SHADOWS FLED
offers me a new body to replace this old, aching barrel! I could get used to
yours, really I could. Silver hair and all."
"You wouldn't want to go through what I have," Sylune told her softly.
"Really, you wouldn't."
"Gods, girl I know that!" Margrueth told her. "I'm old and ugly, not witless!
Just envious, that's all."
"If you're a sorceress," Torm asked her curiously, "why don't you choose any
looks you want?"
Margrueth glared at him sourly. "That would work for snaring a man for a night
of pleasure if, like some folk here, stolen nights of pleasure were what I
wanted!"
She let the rebuke hang in the air between them, but Torm merely shrugged, so
the old Harper went on. "Sooner or later, though with my luck, sooner the one
I was with'd see the real me. I'd not hide it, mind; the real me is the one
I'm proud of. Some of us value honesty over deceit." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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