"Hold!" he roared, reaching for a wand. Was this some sort of treachery? "Stand, all of you! Answer me. Why are you running?"
They came to a clattering halt before his fury. Men shifted and would not look at him.
"L–Lord," one armsman said, fear full in his voice, "there's a woman-a dragon she is, with a sword! I saw her kill ten of us or more, and-"
"And so you fled, all of you," Stormcloak said with contempt. He looked coldly around at them all, eyeing men now clearing throats and exchanging glances and looking very uneasy indeed. "Are you warriors?"
Silence answered him. "Are you men?"
Nods, and more silence.
Stormcloak took a step forward. "Are you Zhentilar?"
"Aye, Lord."
"Yes, Lord."
Stormcloak nodded wolfishly. "Good," he said with deep sarcasm. "I had begun to wonder about that." Then his voice changed again. "And what do Zhentilar warriors do?"
"Obey, Lord."
" 'Obey when told to slay,' isn't that how the song goes?" Stormcloak corrected.
Nods answered him again. Stormcloak looked around at them all.
"Obey whom?"
A man swallowed. "Z-Zhentarim mages, Lord."
Stormcloak gave him a brittle smile. "And why do you obey mages, all of you?" He looked around at them all again. In the end, to break the heavy silence, he answered his own question. "You obey mages-myself, for instance-because if you don't, we'll unleash magic on you more terrible than any blade, more painful than any wound!"
He looked at them as the passage rang with those last shouted words, and let the echoes die away before continuing.
"Warriors who run one way can face one woman-with a sword," he added with a sneer. "Warriors who run the other way will face me," he said, raising his wand with slow menace and a silky smile.
In silence, the men called Wolves by the folk of the High Dale turned sullenly, raised their swords, and went back down the passage. Slowly.
Sharantyr stalked forward on silent feet, like a hunting cat. Many had fled down this passage. If she knew Zhents, they'd soon be back this way, a mage in their midst ready to use a spell or a wand to smite her down and impress all the warriors who watched.
So another way would be better. Were there no side passages in this place? She glanced this way and that as she went, and in the end chose a stair going up. If she could not go around, she must go over. She had only one life to lose and could not afford to fight fairly, or to face large groups of thirsty swords or a mage in a large open space.
"Well, then, Stormcloak," she said aloud, "let us see if one Knight with a sword can bring you down. It's been done to Zhentarim before."
"Who's that? Maerelee?" a voice asked from the head of the stair.
"No," Sharantyr replied truthfully, coming steadily on up the stairs. "It's me."
Then she was level with the man: a Wolf in armor, frowning warily, sword out. The weapon swept up as he saw her. "Who are you?" he challenged. "I've not seen you before, here or in the dale."
"I am your bane," she said calmly, walking toward him. Her expressionless face did not change as he tried to bat the sword out of her hand with his own. Nor did it change when, at her sudden lunge, he found himself two fingers away from death. Nor after, as he parried frantically, countered and found himself forced to parry even faster. He turned to run and she sprang after him, landing hard on his running legs.
He fell heavily, and her blade stabbed down as she landed atop him.
When she rolled back up to her feet, he lay still on the stones, facedown. Sharantyr looked down at him for a moment, sighed, and went on. Just how many Zhents were crawling about this castle?
"It only takes one to kill thee," she heard Elminster's long-ago voice tell her, and smiled wryly. Thanks, Old Mage. Well said. On with it, then.
She found the next one just inside the first room her passage entered, heading east. He was sharpening his sword and reacted with commendable speed, grinning as he whipped his blade at her stomach.
This Wolf obviously considered himself a matchless swordsman. Sharantyr parried two lightning-fast thrusts, leaned close to spit into his eyes, stamped on his toes, ducked her blade under his parry-he was good at attacking but not so good at holding off attacks-and ran him through.
She left him twisting in agony and snarling curses at her, waving his blade weakly and ineffectually at her from the floor. Mielikki forgive me for what I've had to become, she prayed silently. I've made myself a worse butcher than any Zhentilar soldier!
Shuddering, she opened the door at the end of the short passage she was traversing, found herself in a bunk room with four startled Zhents, sighed, and started slaying again. Just how long had she been killing? There were some days of her life that she'd very much like to forget forever, and couldn't in her darkest dreams. This was definitely turning into one of those days.
"This is fast becoming one of those days," Itharr said wearily as the Harpers battered their way through another door, stolen shields held high to ward off crossbow bolts or thrown spears from the Wolves waiting beyond. None came, so they flung the shields down and charged.
"You're not getting bored, are you?" Belkram asked in mock concern.
At his shoulder, Gedaern grinned and cocked his head to survey both the Harpers.
"Are the two of ye always like this?"
"Worse," Belkram replied mildly as three Wolves in full plate armor shouldered aside an anxious servant with a halberd and lumbered forward to meet them. " 'Ware, brothers!"
The two Harpers stepped forward to meet the charge. The Wolves came at them swinging heavy battle-axes in great roundhouse swings the lightly armored men could not hope to stop except with their bodies.
"Back!" Belkram called, waving a hand at the older dalesmen. He ran back to where they'd thrown down the shields, snatched one, and threw it to Itharr. Itharr ducked under a swing, dropped the shield, and had to scramble away to avoid being beheaded. The Wolves came on, grinning through the bars of their full helms.
"Itharr, you do the sticking!" Belkram called, and laid hands on the body of a Wolf he'd killed breaths before.
One Wolf charged him. Belkram heaved the corpse up into a cradled position across his own chest, puffing under the weight, and dumped it into the Wolf's swing, dragging axe and arm to the floor. The corpse's arms flopped loosely. Belkram sprang over them to land with both feet on the man's axe-wielding arm. The man roared hollowly inside his helm as Itharr arrived, daggers in both hands, to drive them into the sallet's eye slits. The roaring stopped abruptly.
The two Harpers sprang away just in time, leaping and rolling to avoid the wild, chopping blows of the other two axes.
There came a shuffling sound from behind them, and the dalesmen trotted past, carrying a heavy wooden table like a ram. They flung it into one of the Wolves, knocking him over, then snatched out their blades to attack the other Wolf together.
The Wolf drove one to the floor with his first blow. His second hacking swing struck sparks from their weapons with its fury. A dalesman screamed as his wrist snapped under the impact and his old sword flew from it to clang along the flagstones. Then Belkram leapt in from one side, tackling the Wolf waist-high.
They went to the floor together, but frantic axe work forced the Harper to break free and roll away without delivering any real blow.
Itharr was getting up off the table, daggers dripping. The Wolf under it would never rise again.
There was a shout from the room beyond, and more Wolves rushed into the room. They were lightly armored, but there were six of them.