"Those flashes," Islif murmured. "Semoor? Doust? I can't believe it!"
"Nor I," Pennae agreed. "Looked like-"
She peered as a faint glow blossomed on one of the ettin's faces, and added, "That's Semoor's magic." Then she peered harder at what that tadiance could let her see down in front of the ettin.
Frowning, she cursed.
"What?" Islif snapped as they both trotted forward.
"Tluining Dauntless, stlarn it!" Pennae spat. "Someone-Vangey the Royal Meddling Magician, for a wager! — must be watching us and has teleported him in here! Gods stlarn it!"
"Dauntless?" Islif gasped, astonished.
The ettin lurched forward in obvious pain, moving along the base of the gravel slope from left to right in front of them. Its dis-comfott was feeding a growing fury, and it was flailing the air with its morningstars as it sought to reach its foes: the ornrion Dauntless, Florin, and… that Harper from the Palace! Dalonder Ree, that was his name.
Pennae looked back over her shoulder, her fierce grin back. "Hamstring time! Both of us!"
She raced for the ettin so swiftly that Islif had to put her head down and sprint to catch up.
It was long past time for stealth. The ettin was cursing loudly and rending trees again-and Dauntless, at least, had decided to cling to tradition enough to snarl a war cry.
"For the Purple Dragon! Cormyr forever!"
Swords flashed, and morningstars swung-and struck. Smashed up and off his feet, Dauntless grunted in pain as the armor shielding his ribs crumpled and some of those ribs crumpled with it.
Dalonder Ree fended off the other morningstar with a precisely angled sword as he raced along under the ettin's swing. The ettin roared in triumph as he saw the ornrion's body go flying-and Pennae reached the ettin's far leg, leaving the nearer one for Islif, sprang as high as she could, and put all the strength in both of her shapely arms behind a keen slash of her dagger.
The blade bit into stinking flesh a moment before the Harper's sword sank into the ettin's crotch.
The two-headed giant stiffened, drew breath-and proved to every ear between Halfhap and Tilver's Gap that it really knew how to scream.
Islif reached its other leg, swinging her long sword as hard as she could.
The ettin screamed again, reeled, and toppled, felling several trees in its crash.
Dalonder Ree and Florin swarmed over its faces and necks, stabbing down into eyes and laying open throats.
The ettin convulsed with a wild, heaving violence that sent the men flying to join Dauntless in groaning, huddled heaps on the gravel slope. It fell silent and still.
"See?" Semoor observed from the ledge. "Lathander did that! All praise be unto the Morninglord!"
"Tempus defend me!" Islif snarled in exasperation, glaring up at the ledge.
"I wonder whar the penance is for strangling a priest with his own tongue," Pennae said beside her. "I believe I've stolen just about enough to pay it, by now-and if not, I'd cheerfully enslave myself to the nearest orc-pandering festhall for a month or two to make up the difference!"
"Festhalls! That's it! That's how we'll make coin enough to do Lathandet's great works for him!" Semoor called delightedly. "Pennae, I could kiss you!"
"And holynoses can fly, with about as much success," Pennae said under her breath. Then she brightened. "Unless I take you up atop yon cliff to start learning how, right now."
"Come!" Boarblade whispered fiercely, right in Klarn's face. "Tell all the others! We attack now, before they've settled themselves again! Swords out and slay!"
Klarn gaped at him, then turned and tan-blundering right into Darratur and receiving a firm shove rhat sent him aside into a tree.
The moment Boarblade saw Glay's face, he waved at them all to accompany him, turned back toward the Knights, drew his sword, and ran.
He could hear the four charging after him.
Good. Let them burst out to confront the Knights. He'd tty to gut the ranger or the fighting lass as he ran past-and then keep right on running, past the fray and into the trees, to plunge back into hiding.
Where he'd hide and lurk, awaiting his best chance to find that Pendant.
If the four dolts he'd been saddled with butchered a good share of Knights, well and good. He'd have that much less work left. Not that he was counting on it.
With Pennae and Islif helping him, Dauntless sat up, wincing.
"Ate you sure you didn't bring this beast with you?" he growled, waving a hand at the sprawled, dead ettin. "Or let it loose from somewhere in your pryings and thievings?"
"Of course we did," Pennae snapped. "We have scores of pets like this one-and worse! — and as we cavort across Faerun, we let them all loose to frolic through the trees and try to kill us! Gods above, how stupid can Purple Dragons be? You do know which end of a sword is which, I hope?"
"Oh, aye." Dauntless showed his teeth in a grin that wasn't pleasant at all. "I do know that-and so will your shapely backside in a breath or two, saucy lass!"
Pennae sneered. "Lick my sauce? Do my hair? Announce me to the queen?"
"Identify your head when I place it before her on a platter, more likely," Dauntless said. "With all the rest."
Pennae sighed loudly and gave the ornrion a shove that toppled him over, groaning in pain on his side in the gravel again.
"Pennae," Islif said reproachfully.
The thief shrugged. "My hand slipped," she said. "It does that. A lot."
"I've noticed," the ornrion said. "Lucky you are that my orders have changed."
"Oh?" Pennae said. "They've commanded you to be fair and reasonable, now? Is this is some special occasion?"
"When I can get up again," Dauntless said, "it certainly will be."
Boarblade raced along, heart pounding. It really didn't matter whether he had false Knights beside him-Ruldroun's four, or some of them, with their hargaunt disguises-or the real ones. Neithet could be trusted, but perhaps the real ones would be the better companions in a fight.
Well, he was about to see, wasn't he?
The stump was more or less as he remembered it. A little damp, with wet dead leaves plastered to it because rain had fallen in this stretch of the forest several times over rhe last few days, but he cared nothing for the fate of this tattered, dirty crone's dress anyhail.
He settled himself on the stump, facing down the familiar little clearing so he'd see in an instant if any war wizard arrived. Nigh every last Wizard of War knew rhis lush little glade. It was one of the pteferred "waystops" or "jump spots" for jaunts to Tilverton or the northeastern bolder wilds of the realm.
Hopefully, if one appeared, he'd not readily recognize Onsler Ruldroun behind rhe pocked and wrinkled crone's face the hargaunt had spun.
The scrying spell would be a little harder to explain away, but if he was given a chance to speak, Ruldroun knew enough of the catch-phrases to seem to be one of Those Who Harp for a few breaths.
And a few bteaths would be all he would need to triumph, tele-port away, or die.
So he sat on his stump, looking down the glade-which coinci-dentally was also facing in the direction of the battling Knights, who were not all that far off through the forest-and watched the battle through his scrying eye.
All he needed was a little more patience against the surging excitement that rose again and again within him. It was the roiling energy of the three men he'd slain that was making him so restless, he knew, but he could master this now. Enough of the wild, fevetish exhilaration was over and past. He was now always aware of what was really happening to him. When he kept away from exciting tastes and smells-good food-he could thrust aside the floods of emotion and tell himself calmly: You are awaiting the best time to step forward and seize the Pendant of Ashaba. Yes. The best time.