"You said the dales were unprotected," the man in the yellow cloak said to Rethuld, frowning. "You said we'd be able to-"
"Silence! I am not prepared to discuss our private business dealings on the high road! We can speak of this later-if there is to be a later for you, Jasten!"
"I think," Storm said quietly, "this has gone far enough. I've no wish to see blood spilled this day, so I think we'll have a little truth here." She made a gesture.
Another crossbow bolt hummed past her, but missed, and Storm completed her spell. She looked slowly around at the row of mercenaries and the half a dozen merchants crowded behind them. There were wagons beyond, with a dozen or more additional mercenaries flanking them… and presumably a rearguard. "If there's no harmful intent in this man's replies, you'll all be free to proceed-but I will look unfavorably on men who try to slip past me, or offer violence to me, before I am done. That means you, sir, trying to stay unseen in the trees… come out where I can see you!"
A man shouldered sullenly out through the brush, astonishment on his face and a sword in his hand. "Who-what are you, Lady?" he demanded.
"I am Storm Silverhand. Do you believe nothing in Sembia of the tales of Those Who Harp, or of the Seven Sisters? Or do you dismiss them as idle fancies and turn back to the hard, grasping work of stacking coins ever higher?"
"Minstrels tell many wild tales of the barbaric backlands of Faerun," a fat merchant snapped from behind the line of mercenaries. "If we believed them all, we'd not dare leave our bedchambers for fear of flying dragons and dark elves in the streets and Red Wizards behind every tree!"
"Tell me," Storm asked, widening her eyes, "is your bedchamber tastefully furnished?"
"What?"
"If, as you say, you spend so much time there…"
There were chuckles from the men around, and the fat merchant sputtered in anger. "I-kill her!"
"Lord," one of the mercenaries replied, not turning to take his eyes off Storm, "I don't think that's possible. Not for us. Let's just hear her out, and-gods willing-we can proceed."
Storm gave him a dazzling smile. "Thank you, good-sir. It is always a pleasure to know one is in the presence of patience and good sense."
Then she turned to Rethuld, who sat silent and pale, beads of sweat suddenly thick on his forehead, and said gently, "While my spell lasts, you will be able to answer direct questions only with the truth. I ask you now: for what purpose was this band formed?"
Rethuld licked his lips, and his face contorted for an instant before he said, "To gain property in the Dalelands."
"Why?" Storm asked, "and why now?"
"Sembia grows unsafe… without watch spells, thieves and brigands are free to loot, kidnap, and slay as they like. I gathered men whose business, like mine, can be run from any locale, and we came north to find a better place to bide until the strife be over."
"How did you plan to find this 'better place'?"
Rethuld looked around helplessly, sweating, and said, "S-Search, until we came upon one to our liking."
"And what sort of place would be to your liking?"
"A stout keep or defensible manor." The words came out of Rethuld reluctantly, as if he were fighting hard not to utter them.
"Such places are seldom deserted," Storm said mildly. "I can think of only four that stand empty at present, and those are isolated ruins infested by monsters-extremely primitive and dangerous accommodations. How were you planning to take possession of a suitable place?"
"I–I…" Rethuld looked trapped, his eyes darting wildly from side to side, his lips trembling. When he spoke again, his voice was low and despairing. "Ah-seize it by force of arms."
There was a sigh of resignation from the men all around, and swords grated out, but Storm sat still in her saddle and said calmly, "I thought so. Tell me; was the idea your own?"
"Ah, no, Lady," Rethuld said, his voice rising to a sudden, desperate squeal, "'twas brought to me by another."
"And the name of-?"
Rethuld sobbed suddenly; a blade that seemed to be made of bone protruded from his chest. He shook, mouth working, looked down at the bloody point in horror, and slumped over. The bone slid out of him from behind.
"I thought so," Storm said calmly, ignoring the blades that were slashing through her. "Malaugrym."
The man behind Rethuld suddenly writhed and dwindled-and a falcon sprang into the air, leaving an empty saddle behind. The bird darted south.
The blades were passing through the Bard of Shadowdale as if her body was made of smoke. She said to the men wielding them, "Submit to the others who patrol with me, and you shall have peace," but the fearful hacking continued unabated as the stone she wore between her breasts flashed with sudden blue fire. She rose from her own saddle and flew after the falcon, still in her own form.
"Gods," Belkram said as they ranged their mounts across the road to meet the oncoming mercenaries, "how can she take so many wounds?"
"She wears a gorget that protects her with ironguard magic," Sylune replied. "Metal weapons pass through her as if she were… as insubstantial as I."
Lightnings blazed out from her, and mercenaries cried out, reeling in the shadows and dropping their weapons.
"You heard the Bard of Shadowdale," Sharantyr cried, standing up in her saddle. "Turn back to Essembra, in peace!"
As they stared at her, the ghostly head of Sylune drifted forward, its pale glow reflected back from swords and armor all around. She added briskly, "Battledale holds manors in plenty left empty by the Zhents. I'm sure their rightful owners would be happy to sell them to you. Those who are adamant in their determination to press on will, before this day is put, find themselves sharing a grave with me."
That was all the Sembian band needed to see and hear. They wheeled their mounts in hasty terror and fled from the ghostly female head that flew toward them trailing long, silvery hair. They galloped south as fast as they could, leaving their wagons behind.
Belkram laughed aloud. "That was the easiest fight I've ever been in!"
Sylune turned. "Be not so quick to laugh; your work is just beginning."
"It is?"
"These wagons must be taken up the Stone, turned around there, and driven back to their owners, wherever they may flee to. I'll fly ahead to Essembra to get us enough drovers."
"Flying around like that? They'll flee just like all these hardened warriors here did!" Itharr protested.
"Not the Harpers," Sylune replied without turning. "The wagons, gentlesirs," She flew away down the road like an arrow shot from a bow.
Belkram sighed. "Why do we always get the sweat work, eh?"
"You're Harpers," Sharantyr reminded him sweetly. "Such unpleasantness provides meaning and purpose in your lives." Itharr shot her a grin, and she added, "You should be gratefuclass="underline" many folk never find meaning or purpose in their existence."
"Huh," Belkram grunted, climbing up onto the boards of the foremost wagon. "Why can't they all come and do this for us, then?"
14
The falcon winged frantically southward, trailing feathers in reckless haste as no real falcon would dare do-and growing new ones as no real falcon could hope to do.
Storm followed in its wake. Her fly spell thrust her steadily on through the air. She kept low above the trees so she might survive her tumble to the ground when the magic failed or went wild, and to make sure the falcon could not veer off or descend suddenly without her seeing just where it went.
The falcon's flight was southeast over the forest until Essembra lay on their right. Once past the town, it heeled westward, passing south across the road to Sembia and the outlying farms of Battledale, heading for the distant silver ribbon of the fast-flowing Ashaba, where it left the Pool of Yeven. Long before it got there, the falcon turned north again, flew a little way, and dived suddenly to earth.