Another Rider spoke then. "I can even things just a trifle more."
Jhessail turned her head to see who'd spoken; the voice had sounded surprisingly old. The Rider guiding his mount toward her wore worn armor that had been recently burnished at the joints to quell creeping rust. The armor was of an older, bulkier design than what Kuthe wore, though most of it matched the ebon gloss of the other Riders' harnesses. The Rider doffed his helm-and Jhessail stared into the lined face of a very old man.
"Lead us if you will, Baergil," Kuthe said quietly.
"Nay, lad," the old Rider told him. "My commanding days are done. I know daily just how good I was-I order my cabbages about in the garden, and they heed me not a whit."
"Ho, Baergil," Merith said with a smile, and the old man matched it as his cloudy blue eyes met the elf's steady gaze. "I remember you."
"And I you, Sir Elf," Baergil replied. "Though it's been thirty years gone since then."
"Baergil led the Riders that many summers ago," Kuthe told Jhessail, "when I was but a lad. Then he turned to the worship of Tempus, Lord of Battles, and left our ranks."
"They're all dead," Illistyl told them bleakly; she had never stopped watching the Zhents die. "I guess we'll not need your spells, priest of the war god."
Baergil smiled. "Nay, lass; their deaths're what I was waiting for. There's a spell that raises the fallen…"
"To do-what?" Jhessail asked quietly.
"In the hours before dawn," Baergil said, "if they ride as hard as I'll bid them, sixty skeletal reavers will ride into Essembra, striking at anyone with drawn weapons-or who hurls spells at them. Those who offer them peace they'll leave be, but Zhents being Zhents…"
There was a roar of hard laughter. "Do it!" Illistyl told him delightedly, and the warrior priest nodded, watching Orold and his men return.
Then he turned back to them. "That should buy us the time we need," Baergil said with a certain satisfaction, "to make Galath's Roost ready to properly welcome Zhent butchers." The Riders around him laughed again-a chorus of low, quiet sounds that held no humor.
Jhessail shivered despite herself, and caught Illistyl's eye. The two of them shared a comforting look as the priest turned away.
As Merith moved up beside his wife and stretched out a long arm to embrace her, Jhessail felt a pat on her knee-and looked up to see Kuthe wheeling away from her.
"Well done, Knight," he said gruffly. "See you at the Roost!" He urged his mount into a canter, and all around Riders spurred their horses after him, heading for the distant trail into the trees that would take them to the Roost… to turn the ruined keep into a deathtrap for Zhentilar blackhelms.
Merith and Jhessail's arms were around each other, and their kiss went on until Illistyl looked up at the sky and remarked brightly, "Beautiful weather we're having, isn't it?"
The sky seemed to know this already, though the two Knights beside her didn't seem to notice-or care. Illistyl sighed and rode away. In the distance, she saw dead men and horses rising in a stiff ring around the black-armored priest. She shivered, shook her head, and rode after the Riders.
See the Realms and taste true adventure, they'd said. Well, here we go chasing it again-and flashing swords to that!
3
Battledale, early hours of Flamerule 16
Gostar yawned and backed into another circular walk, keeping his eyes and attention always on the night to the north. As if his shifting had been a signal, his companions did the same. Those who fell asleep on guard duty or were judged careless often swallowed sword blades on the spot, but the long, cold hours made feet ache and limbs stiffen. It was best to keep moving in the last stretch before dawn, when the mists clouded bright armor and played tricks on eye and ear.
Now, for instance. A low rumble-Gostar could feel it in his jaw more than he could hear it-was rising from the ever-shifting mists ahead. A helmed head down the line inclined to listen; the others had heard it, too.
The noise was growing louder, becoming a continuous soft thunder, swirling over and around them with the scudding mists… and seeming familiar. He'd heard this sound before. In his saddle, on the rolling plains near Thentia…
Then he knew what it was, and ice clawed at his heart and throat.
Gostar shook himself, swallowed, and shouted, "Rorst! Run back to rouse the camp!"
"And why'd I risk a flogging to do that, now?" Rorst asked in his usual, careless, I've-seen-it-all tone.
"Can't you hear it?" Gostar waved one gauntleted hand at the mists before them, where the sound had become a continuous choppy thunder. "Those're horses, man-half a hundred or more, at full gallop!"
Helmed heads were looking at him all along the line, now-and in the eyes, their whites flashing in the gloom, Gostar saw the grim realization that he was right. Swords gleamed and sang as they were drawn. Rorst took a few lazily shambling steps away from the line just to show that he didn't take orders from a fellow ranker, and feared nothing besides. Then he broke into a trot.
A line of fast-plunging horses leapt out of the north mists, like arrows seeking targets. Atop them rode black-armored warriors, drawn swords in hand.
Gostar yelled in fear and defiance and raised his own sword, whirling it around his head to get the speed he'd need to cleave armor and unhorse a foe. He sprang deftly aside as a charger galloped right at him, then leaned in to strike his blow. It wasn't until he looked up into eyes that were dead and dark that Gostar knew something was wrong, horribly wrong.
The face above his was Estard's… and Estard was up in Mistledale this night, with sixty fellow Zhentilar blades, carving out a claim there for the Sword of the South. Who, then, was this…?
Bright pain burst through Gostar as Estard's sweeping blade cut through the light mail under Gostar's left arm and into the ribs and chest beyond-and the wounded man hung for a long, burning moment on that cruel edge of steel. The world grew dark around him as he flew free, the ground so hard and close and… more hooves struck him as he fell, crushing him into the turf, but Gostar felt them not. Nor anything else, ever again.
A raw scream split the night. Swordlord Amglar came awake, its echo ringing painfully between his ears. He'd been dreaming of gentler, softer, and more welcoming sounds, by far.
"What befalls, by the gods?" he growled at the darkness, feeling for his sword hilt. Horses were thundering through the camp, and the clash and ring of arms rose around him, mingled with shouts-voices he knew.
They were under attack by a large mounted force!
Amglar cursed, snatched up sword and shield, and stamped feet into his boots, but wasted no time on clothes. His sword squire was snoring like a contented whale at the far end of the tent, with all their armor racked beyond him. It might as well be a realm away.
Boots secure, Amglar spat a heartfelt curse and ran for the back of the tent, where the din was less. The attack was from the north… Hillsfar? Who else could muster enough mounted swords to get through the road guard? Elves never fought from the saddle… and even if every farmer in Mistledale could find a horse, scarce more than a handful'd be able to stay on it while swinging a blade!
Then he was out into the night, and war was all around him-Zhent blackhelm fighting Zhent blackhelm! Amglar stared around for a moment at running, half-naked men, horses plunging and trotting stiffly among them, stiff black-armored riders-stiff? The swordlord's eyes narrowed.