Nonetheless, he was a man of the sword. He knew battle skill, and he agreed with what the excitable Moonviper had said. Zarduil had been one of Heladar's best.
Zarduil should not have fallen. Blakkal leaned forward to see better. The door guard that Stormcloak had set for this meeting was more than the usual three thickheads, and their relief man had been added to make up a foursome of competent bladesmen. Heladar's former bodyguards had orders-Zhentil Keep's orders, Blakkal had no doubt-to diligently protect and serve the lord of the dale, whoever that lord was. Wherefore they, too, had been at the doors: Zarduil, Mashann, and Raeve.
None of those three were men Blakkal cared to face, even in an unfair fight. They were Zhentilar veterans-men of steel nerves, steel wrists, and the swiftness of serpents.
And they were being beaten. Blakkal watched one of the two men-Harpers? Thief-adventurers from Cormyr? — dart through Mashann's guard and run his sword tip in under the shoulder plate of the big man's armor. Something even more surprising happened next. The man in leathers ducked and wrenched and got his blade back out again to parry before Mashann's own fast sword touched him.
Blakkal did not even try to look like he was listening to Stormcloak. The self-styled Lord of the High Dale was blathering something about treachery from neighboring realms, as if only Zhentarim were allowed to usurp the thrones of strategically located farming dales.
Other councillors watched the fight just as intently. There were no other guards in the room. The rest had been outside the doors. The rebels should never have reached this hall.
On at least two of the watching faces, naked hope and glee were written. The tailor, Rundeth-what was his last name? Hobble? Hobyltar! — normally laconic and stone faced, had eyes as bright as new coins and was struggling not to smile. Down the table, stout Gulkin was grinning openly.
Stormcloak shot them a look that had a cutting edge to it. Blakkal smiled; the lord was beginning to learn how Heladar had felt, sitting in that chair with a table of men who were openly trying to bring about his fall. Boots may fit just as well on other feet, as the Sembians put it.
There was a crash as a Wolf and one of the men in leathers went through some of the chairs together, ending up on the floor wriggling like eels as they tried to get their blades into each other.
Then Mashann staggered back on his heels, raised a failing hand to his throat, and crashed backward to the floor. The man who leapt over him was only six running steps from the table where they sat. Timid Jatham scrabbled for his dagger. Stormcloak scowled but couldn't help but to break off and watch.
The last Zhentilar veteran reached sideways with his blade, and the charging man in leathers had to hastily dance back to ward off seeking steel. Raeve held the man for a moment, but the only other Wolf still standing was dropping his blade and sagging slowly to the floor after it, that wild-haired woman standing grim over him.
Raeve cast one look back at them all, shook his head, and as the tattered intruders advanced, suddenly ducked and bolted through them, making for the door. Steel rang on his warding blade, and then he was through.
Stormcloak roared at him. "Raeve! As you are loyal to Zhentil Keep, hold! Stand and fight for your lord, or by all the dark gods, I'll turn you into a dung worm!"
Raeve turned his head as he reached the doorway, sword rising to guard his exit. He looked at Sharantyr. Silent and blood-spattered, she glided toward him.
Raeve turned his eyes to meet Stormcloak's hot gaze, shook his head silently, and was gone.
The lord wizard's furious magic missile twisted in the air to become a beam of shining glass shards, but they shivered and crashed against unyielding stone beside the door. A head too far to the left, and a breath too late to impress Raeve.
Sharantyr turned smoothly to join the silent advance across the great hall. Councillors screamed, cursed, and toppled chairs in their haste to flee, as the High Dale they had ruled so cruelly and casually reached bloody weapons for them.
Lord Angruin Stormcloak trembled with rage and dawning fear. Where had these… these vagabonds come from? These three in leather, they were no dalefolk! They were Harpers, or worse, sent to bring him down.
Sharantyr had come for him that day, through guard after guard. Her sword arm was so weary that she could barely hold her blade, and stinging sweat and blood were running into her eyes. Only a few steps more and she would have this wizard.
Only a few steps more, but she suddenly could not find the strength to run.
The snarling wizard drew back his hand and pointed directly at her as he shouted words that echoed and hissed, and crushed something small in his other hand. Black blood ran out between his fingers, and he cast a wrinkled thing away-a leech.
Sharantyr could only go on, blade raised, face like stone. She was only three paces away… two, now-
The still-pointing finger erupted in writhing black light, boiling upward. A moment later, a rain of black daggers was falling toward her.
The lady ranger tried to struggle on, waving her blade to ward off the dark points. Her weapon swept through the daggers as though they were so much smoke, but when the blades struck an instant later, they were cold and very hard-and they went in deep.
Sharantyr screamed in pain and fell. Writhing on the cold, hard stone floor, clutching at her arms and gut in shuddering agony, she heard Stormcloak laugh.
The wizard put a foot on his chair and gained the top of the table, still laughing. He spun about to stand facing the attackers, as frantic councillors raised their weapons in a protective line in front of him, yelling for him to use his spells to slay. The two Harpers slashed at the waiting blades, but it was quickly apparent that some of the councillors were not the frightened tremble-wits they'd have others believe. Steel rang on steel, and the two Harpers were fighting for their lives, two weary dalesmen at their sides. One of the men threw a dagger at the wizard, trying to ruin whatever magic he was working, but as it left his fingers he knew he was too late.
Stormcloak's rolling laughter came again. Lightning leapt from his spread hands in crackling, spitting arcs, a bolt from each finger. He flicked his hands to lash all the rebels with the reaching lightning.
As the bolts leapt, however, they were changing, and Stormcloak's laughter faltered. One of his spells had twisted again. Where lightning had crackled with fury, feeble blue sparks were fading away around a cluster of ceramic vessels and earthenware pottery that had not been there an eye-blink earlier.
As Sharantyr gasped and groaned on the stones, crockery rained down out of thin air to shatter around her. A jagged shard laid open her cheek in one long gash as it spun past, and she ducked her head, hoping nothing would find her eyes or throat. Then the crashing sounds were gone and sudden silence fell upon the hall.
"Very impressive," a new, rather acerbic voice said into the thick of the hush, commenting calmly from the doorway. "But if ye hope to challenge Manshoon for control of the Zhentarim someday, ye'll have to do better than a few teacups."
An old man stood there, a gaunt but wiry old man in tattered robes, with long, flowing white hair and a longer beard. He stood taller than most men but was as thin as a sharp-tongued noblewoman. It hardly seemed possible that he had the strength to hold up the naked high constable, who dripped blood from many half-healed wounds and still trailed the long, heavy chains of his enslavement from arms that were gnarled and knotted with muscle.
Yet the old man not only held up the wounded giant, he half-carried him forward into the room and leaned him carefully against the wall. When he straightened up, his eyes were like two blue-white flames as they met those of Angruin Stormcloak.