That all changed two instants later. The white-bearded man strolled calmly back out into the sun, smiling at his daughter. He seemed as startled as the Wolves when an agonized cry rang out from inside the hut.
"Help! Cabalar! Dhondys! Aid, by Bane and Mystra both! Ohhh! She's killing me!"
The Oversword paled, jerked out his sword, and snapped, "Sabras! Mykhalar! Stay on the road! Everyone else come with me!" He swept his arm toward the hut and charged. Six black-armored men hastened at his heels, blades flashing.
The gaunt old man with the long white beard bent down and pulled something from his boot. As he rose, he threw off his tattered over-robes and charged to meet them.
The old fellow was scrawny. The Oversword could see his ribs as he ran toward them, beard streaming back over his shoulder. He wore only dusty leather breeches, gray with age and shiny at the knees, and his boots. A wand flashed in his hand, and from it blue-white death lashed out twice to strike one of the Wolves, leaving the soldier staggering and groaning in pain.
A wizard! And the crossbows were in the hut beyond him, by Bane's black heart! The Oversword looked over his shoulder and saw that Sabras and Mykhalar were already hastening to join him. He slowed, directing them with his blade, and watched his men race to meet the old man.
The girl, too, was running now, and she had her blade out again. A trained warrior, by her looks; all trace of uncertainty and awkwardness was gone now.
The old wizard must have some trickery ready. Why else charge alone against seven men in full armor?
Abruptly, fear rising cold and ugly in his chest, the Oversword came to a stop. "Spread out!" he roared. " 'Ware a trap!"
As if heeding him, the whitebeard skidded to a halt. His hand ducked to his boot, replacing the wand there and coming up with a little brass scepter that ended in a spherical cluster of wrought hands.
The Oversword's heart sank. He'd confiscated that himself, early this morn, from a sharp-tongued, dark-eyed Sembian caravan guard-wizard. The scepter had fairly echoed with power in his hands. Inside the hut, Ildomyl had visibly paled and hastily set the thing aside.
What it was, exactly, the Oversword knew not, but he knew enough to fear it. For the first time the thought that he might have to flee for his life or die here on the road, as highsun stole nearer to end the morn, came to him suddenly and chillingly. The Oversword paled and looked about.
A surprising number of local folk had appeared up the road to watch. They stood silent, still as statues, gazing at the scene.
The old man held the brass scepter and spoke a certain word, clear and echoing and unfamiliar. There was a flash of golden, metallic light. The charging Wolves, who were almost upon him, staggered suddenly back. They scattered helplessly, arms and blades flailing, propelled away by magical hands that shoved and grasped and flung-hands as big as shields, each having three long fingers between two hooked thumbs.
The old man's hands were empty now as he dove nimbly forward to take the feet out from under a Wolf.
They crashed to the ground together, a magical hand spread out over the black-armored chest like some gigantic spider. The old man swarmed along the writhing warrior to snatch the sword from his hands.
The Oversword saw the stolen steel descend into the helpless throat of its former owner an instant before the constraining hand melted away into the air from whence it had come. All the other hands also quietly faded, pulsed, and vanished.
The old man stood calmly hefting the blade he'd seized. The Wolves recovered themselves, bellowed their fury, and came for him.
Heart in her throat, Sharantyr ran as she'd never run before, knowing she would not arrive in time, or do much good if she did. There was only one of her, and these warriors looked trained, strong, and fit. The one Elminster had hurt with magic missiles was still on his feet, moving with less pain than before. Six Wolves came on with murder in their eyes, the Oversword bringing up the rear with a sudden, snarling charge.
The armored forms closed in around the old man, and despite herself Sharantyr screamed. The sound brought a warrior around to face her. With desperate savagery, Sharantyr flailed away at him with her blade, hammering him so hard and fast that he had no time to do anything except fend her off.
Beyond, Wolves roared and swords clashed. Sharantyr murmured a prayer to Tempus to aid the Old Mage as her own sword slid in under the edge of her opponent's helm and came back dark and wet.
The man fell heavily, and Sharantyr sprang aside, peering desperately to try to learn Elminster's fate. Another Wolf was already running toward her. Despite that approaching danger, the lady ranger stood for an instant in amazement.
Elminster was still on his feet amid all those armored giants. Steel flashed in his hand, and he was laughing. She shook her head, struck aside the blade reaching for her, and stared again.
For a moment the image of the gaunt, sharp-tongued old man in tattered robes seemed to fall away, and she saw the impish, snake-quick youth he had been many long years ago.
His eyes blazed. He dodged, lunged, and ducked under a reaching blade with the easy agility of youth. He laughed.
Sharantyr watched him in amazement, while almost without thought or effort her blade found the throat of the Wolf who had charged her. She no longer saw the Old Mage, but a man strong and supple, with the defiant pride of youth. A man of power delighting in the fray, the Laughing Hero of the North spoken of in legends, greatest of the carefree blades in the alleys of Waterdeep, slayer of fell things, prankster-and fearless fighter, even when alone against a host.
Elminster, half-naked and scrawny, whirled and leapt among the blades. Around him, the black-armored Wolves coughed or cried out and fell in their blood. Always there came that low laughter, except when Elminster rose up to bury his blade in the face of the Oversword of the guard and cried, "For the dale! Let there be freedom again for the High Dale!"
When the last man fell, there was no sound from the watching men and women. Most of the village folk seemed to have emptied out of the huts and shanties beyond the keep. A score or more had gathered to watch, and in a few hands Sharantyr saw axes, pitchforks, and clubs. She looked down at the huddled black hulks, shook her head again, and walked toward the Old Mage.
Elminster stood leaning on his blade, looking suddenly old again. He was panting, great shuddering breaths that shook his body, but none of the blood on him was his own. He looked at her with two eyes that were very blue, and managed a smile.
"M-my robes, Shar," he gasped. "Old bones feel the cold an' all." Sharantyr embraced him, rubbed his shoulders briskly, and hurried to snatch up his robes from where they lay.
The Old Mage dressed, throwing down the sword as if it were something diseased and foul. He shook his head.
"That draws deep," he said, eyes distant. "It gets… harder every time."
Sharantyr put an arm around his shoulders. "I'm still amazed," she said softly, "but shouldn't we be going? With all that noise, they must have been alerted at the keep."
The folk of Eastkeep stood watching them, not speaking. Sharantyr saw awe in their eyes, and leaping hope, and a little fear. Elminster did not seem to see them at all as he adjusted his belt and shrugged his shoulders several times to settle his robes comfortably.
In the stillness, they heard the faint sounds of weeping from the hut.
Sharantyr looked at Elminster. "The wizard," she asked. "Did you-?"
The Old Mage shook his head and silently motioned her to follow him. Together they went to the hut, and the Old Mage drew the door curtain aside.