Belkram staggered, lowering the warrior as quietly as possible. A sudden crackling disturbance and a triumphant yell erupted nearby. Steel rang, men cursed, and there was a groan of pain.
"You fool," someone said weakly. "Can't you tell-?" The words ended in a gasp, followed by the heavy crash of a man falling heavily and helplessly through dead-wood and living tanglethorns.
Belkram slipped cautiously back toward Itharr, only to hear branches whip and crackle close behind. He spun, blade up, and was almost knocked over by someone blundering past.
The ranger thrust with his steel and felt it turn aside on armor. His onrushing target gave a surprised yell and turned. Belkram saw a momentary flash of teeth in the darkness, put his sword tip there, and drove his blade in hard. The man crumpled and fell without uttering another sound.
This time the landing was not quiet, and Belkram hastened away. This game of cat and mouse was all too apt to turn against them swiftly, if these warriors brought torches or mage-conjured light.
He couldn't answer Itharr's question; he had no idea where they were. Perhaps if he could get safely out from under the trees long enough to get a good look at the stars… Well, they were somewhere not too different in climate from Shadowdale. Somewhere with mountains. Somewhere with at least one Harper-and, he hoped, Elminster-nearby.
In front of him, he saw the flash of steel rising from the ground. He danced to a halt and hissed, "Itharr?"
"The same," came the weak reply. "Did you have to be so-agghhh! I'm bleeding all over everything."
"I've been rather busy," Belkram whispered carefully. "Use your blade as a crutch or put it away and lean on me, and with Tymora's kiss we'll get out of here!"
Itharr opted for the latter, and they hurried on together as quietly as possible. Steel still rang around them from time to time. Here and there in the night-cloaked woods, men crashed through brush and fell into unseen holes and over the trunks of fallen trees.
"A fine night out they're having," Itharr gasped, after awhile. "Could we stop for a breath or two?"
"Aye," Belkram murmured into his ear. "How d'you feel?"
"Fresh and fine," Itharr said sarcastically. "The night is young, brave sir, and all that." He sat down heavily on a tree stump, which promptly collapsed in a damp ruin of fungus and punky wood, dumping him onto the ground. He sighed.
That mournful sound made a few sputters of mirth escape Belkram. The taller Harper shook for a few moments and then leaned near, still chuckling. "I'd like to try to get back to that clearing. We should be able to see the gate's light. We could go around it, staying in the trees, and look for paths and such. These guards must have a barracks somewhere, where we can get food and mayhap even healing quaffs, for your shoulder. I was in Luskan, once. The idiots there had a barracks with a flat, unguarded roof. We rested above them, all the while they turned the city inside out for us, and hid most of their gear while they were out tramping around."
"Very nice," Itharr said. "Now help me up."
They went into the night together. Belkram had to use his sword only twice before they saw the amber light again.
"Now what, sir?" The Sword might have been a chamber servant back in Zhentil Keep.
Nordryn shrugged. "Wait here. Our duty is still to guard the gate while the others seek out these intruders."
The Sword nodded. "As you command," he said expressionlessly. Nordryn looked at him and then all around and found, with sinking fear, that the two of them stood alone by the gate. Their men were all blundering about in the woods. A sudden outbreak of shouting came from the trees, followed by a scream that ended in a dying wail.
"Ah," Nordryn said with satisfaction. "They've got one, at least."
The Sword raised an eyebrow. "Someone died, aye. In the trees, Lord, it could be one of us killing another just as easily as those we're after. You can't tell… until it's too late."
Nordryn looked at him. "Oh, no?" he scoffed. "Are you telling me Zhentilar soldiers can fight only in the full light of day?"
The Sword looked back at him, and shrugged. "No," he said briefly. "At night, though, we seldom know whom we're killing."
Nordryn stepped back hastily, eyeing the gleaming sword between them.
"What happens if you slay one of… of our men?"
The Sword shrugged again. "As I said," he drawled mildly, "by then, it's too late."
Nordryn backed two paces farther from the blade.
"A wizard?" Itharr breathed, staring into the night.
Belkram nodded. "No doubt. We go wide to the left now, down slope a bit. I see lights, so there'll be a track we can follow."
Itharr grunted. "Good. I've lost more blood than I thought I had in me."
Belkram sighed. "Hold up a breath or two longer," he said. "It would have to be your sword arm."
Itharr growled agreement deep in his throat. "Thanks to Storm," he said, "I can at least use a blade properly with my left hand. Next time, run to the right, will you?"
Belkram made a little bow. "As you wish, Lord."
Itharr decided it was his turn to sigh. Again.
Thalmond shifted his weight off the stool experimentally and winced. The burned leg shrieked at him. He unbuckled his sword and leaned on it, scabbard and all, hopping awkwardly across the guardroom. Aye, it would serve.
Someone groaned from one of the beds. Thalmond hesitated, then turned and went out. None of the others could walk unaided. If he hurried, he would not be seen.
He'd fought for Black Master Manshoon more years than most of these lads had been alive, and knew a thing or two about standing orders. What he sought had to be somewhere in the meeting room.
He hopped along as fast as he could and saw no one on the way. Shouldering the door open, he leaned against the wall for support and waved a seeking arm along it. Metal dangles clinked; he'd found the cord that ran up to the lamp. He lowered the lamp and felt at his belt for his flint.
With the skill of long practice, he struck the stone a glancing dagger blow that showered sparks where he needed them. Six careful breaths later he was easing the door closed and turning back to a room lit by the warm glow of the hanging oil lamp. The object he sought would be somewhere within reach of this lamp, where it could readily be found in the darkness by feel. Not under the chairs or tables, for every blade who grew bored was apt to run his fingers along the edges of his seat or rub itching hands or forearms on the underside of the table edge, and might discover what Thalmond now sought.
No, it was somewhere-here? He stared at the map on the wall and carefully pulled at its edge. Nothing. He pushed. No. He slid the map carefully to the right and it moved-three finger-widths, no more.
There! In the revealed niche, two metal vials hung one above the other by leather thongs. Thank Tymora for her good favor. Even priests of Bane used the warrior symbols for healing! He'd just have a little, enough to stop this Bane-blasted burning in his leg.
Thalmond plucked the sword-rag from his belt-if he never actually touched the vial, no clever magic could tell he'd been here-wrapped the cloth around his hand, and reached out.
A gentle voice, very close by his ear, said, "My thanks, and farewell. Greet Tempus for me, old warrior." The steel at his throat was very cold. Thalmond had only a little time to feel surprised, time to tell himself that at last he knew what death would feel like, time to grow just a little angry that he'd heard no one behind him… and then, no time at all.
"Did you have to set the place alight with them all inside?" Itharr whispered, face white in the darkness.
Men rushed past them, shouting. Belkram raised the loaded crossbow carefully on his knee and whispered back grimly, "I had to kill one old warrior to get these. He flung up his hand as he fell, and by Tymora's favor broke the lamp that hung just above. Flaming oil everywhere! I scarce got out in time. Have you finished that yet?"