"To a vigilant guard of his homeland, yes," Jhessail said, still standing on her saddle, "but I am an adventuress. One who plays with spells. An explorer of baatezu-haunted Myth Drannor. Wedded to an elf, remember? I've done far more crazed things in my life than riding out without armor, I assure you."
"But the little lass-" Kuthe said, gesturing helplessly.
"Call me that again, ironhead," Illistyl advised him sharply, "and you'll be chasing your teeth around the inside of that great helm of yours."
There were guffaws from the Riders, but one of them cut through the chorus of mirth. "Lone rider behind!"
Heads snapped around, and Jhessail turned, smiled, and announced, "It's Lord Merith. The reinforcements Elminster promised us must have arrived."
"Reinforcements?" Kuthe rumbled, looking up at her.
"We've heard nothing of this… How many, Lady?"
"Four," she told him sweetly, and there were more guffaws. Illistyl was sure she heard an angry snort as Kuthe's helm swung away from them, but a moment later Jhessail snapped, "Ahead-at Treesedge! Look!"
The eastern end of Mistledale, where the flanking arms of the forest met to form a narrow green tunnel around the road to the Standing Stone, had always been called Treesedge. The spot was marked by a covered well and the crumbling rampart of a tiny keep-well known to Riders on patrol who'd sheltered from downpours under its remnants. It was a beautiful spot to spend a night, but a bit lonely to be a grave site.
It seemed likely, however, that men were going to be buried there now. Crossbow quarrels were humming down the road from the east, raking the rear of a hard-riding band of merchants on lathered, stumbling horses fleeing west into Mistledale.
The strength of the merchant band was dwindling steadily. The bolts found easy targets. As Jhessail watched, a fat merchant threw up his hands with a strangled wail and pitched from his saddle, choking on the quarrel that stood out of his throat. On the other side of the road, a horse's head flopped and swung-and a breath later both horse and rider crashed and rolled in the dust, collapsing into the long silence of death.
Jhessail dropped into her saddle again a scant moment before the Riders spurred ahead into a grim, silent gallop, knowing they'd not be in time. Far behind them, Merith stood up on his own saddle, saw that strife lay ahead, and reached for his bow.
Lances leveled, the Riders of Mistledale swept east. "Get out of the road!" Kuthe snarled at merchants who could not hear. "Clear the way!"
"Kuthe! Halt your men!" Jhessail shouted. "Now!"
The great helm turned her way, the face within dark with anger. "You have some sort of plan?"
"Yes," Jhessail cried, leaning close to him as their mounts thundered along side by side. "Just stop them!"
Kuthe gave her a long, slow look-and then reached for the horn at his belt.
After the horn rang out around them, the patrol became a confused mass of dust, rearing horses, and cursing men. Lances rang and rattled off armored shoulders, and Jhessail had to duck hastily to avoid being inadvertently unhorsed.
"Well, mage?" Kuthe demanded when he could be heard. His eyes were on the last merchants, dying up ahead… and at something moving on the tree-lined road beyond them. Their slayers.
The leader of the Rider patrol shot her a look. "Well?"
Jhessail's mouth was a thin, white-lipped line as she told him shortly, "Back away… Give us room side by side."
Kuthe waved one great gauntlet in heavy silence; Illistyl was already guiding her mount forward. Jhessail whispered to her, and they raised their arms together, spread as if in supplication to the sky overhead-and waited.
In tense silence as the Riders eyed them, they watched the road to the east. "Well?" Kuthe demanded. "Have you seen enough?"
"Wait until they come out," Jhessail said, her eyes on the road. "It'd be our death to ride down that firing tunnel, the gods know. Let them come out. If I'm right, they'll be the Zhents we're expecting… with orders to ride right on and take Mistledale. They probably killed those merchants just to stop them from warning us."
Kuthe nodded as the killers of the merchants rode into view: a band of mounted crossbowmen, clad in armor as dark as that of the Riders, streaming out of the road mouth and fanning across the fields of Treesedge. Around the two sorceresses, men swore at the sight of that armor.
"Zhent blackhelms, all right," Kuthe said, "and riding hard to encircle us… sixty of them, or more. What now, Lady?"
"Keep silence for a breath or two," Jhessail told him softly, "while we do what we have to. Let no man here ride forward until I give the word. When our first spell goes off, your horses may move by themselves; be ready to hold them back!"
"Whose place is it to give orders?" a Rider demanded gruffly.
Jhessail turned on him eyes that were dark and cold, and said, "It will mean death to ride forward. Disobey my suggestion freely, but leave word for your widow first."
More than one dry chuckle answered her from the men around, and Kuthe growled, "Right. We wait. Work your magic. Shields up!"
Crossbow quarrels were already hissing their way, though the range was impossibly long. Ignoring them, Jhessail spread her arms again and began the incantation, Illistyl chanting in unison.
Abruptly the air in front of the Riders was full of shadowy, moving forms-images that suddenly grew dark and solid; the gleaming black armored backs of Riders on horseback, charging away with lances lowered. More than one mount under the real Riders surged forward to join them, and had to be reined in, hard. The ground shook under the thunder of phantom hooves, and dust rose in a cloud as thirty dark horsemen raced away east.
"Gods," the Rider who'd challenged Jhessail whispered, watching the illusory Riders charge away into battle. "They certainly look real."
"Aye, but how can ghost Riders kill any Zhents?" Kuthe demanded as Merith Strongbow came up beside him, an arrow ready, and nodded in silent greeting.
"That's the next spell," the elf told him with quiet confidence. "I've seen this trick before." He thrust both bow and arrow into the startled Rider's hands. "Here-hold this."
As Kuthe gaped at him, he raised his own hands and joined in the gestures of the next spell, murmuring something the Rider couldn't quite hear.
Then he plucked bow and arrow back from the officer's hands and stared east, watching as the dust cloud behind the false Riders became a thick, swirling mass of yellow and green-and the two forces crashed together.
With startled speed, the Zhents plunged through the phantom Riders-into the thick of the yellow-green cloud. And men who rode into that cloud did not come out again.
"I hate doing that to horses," Illistyl said, her voice as thin and cold as a knife.
Merith's eyes, however, were on those who'd ridden wide. "Jhess!" he snapped urgently. As his wife peered past Kuthe, Merith drew his bowstring back to his chin, angled the ready arrow up into the sky, and loosed.
Kuthe had never been so close to a spell being cast before. He stiffened and swallowed as one slim and shapely arm brushed his breastplate in an arcane gesture, and a clear, musical voice spoke two distinct words.
She turned her head and winked at him. Kuthe blinked at her-and when he looked again at the sky, the arrow had already split into a dozen shafts, plummeting down on the hard-riding Zhents in a deadly rain.
All but two of the invaders fell in that volley. Kuthe glared at the surviving Zhents and snapped, "Orold-take them!" Six of the Riders spurred away without a word, waving their lances as they followed Orold into battle.
"It feels… unfair, killing men like that," Jhessail said quietly.
Kuthe stared at her, and then at the fading yellow cloud where only a few horses still choked and rolled.
"Lass, lass," one of the older Riders replied through his snow-white mustache, "there're still near seven thousand of them, if our scouts be right. When we face all of 'em, sweeping down on our homes, d'you think they'll turn their mounts back if we yell 'unfair' then? Aye?"