Ed Greenwood: The Best of the Realms, Book II

And by all the Holy Darkness of Shar herself, the lure would work.

* * * * *

“Andur? Andur!”

There was nothing wrong with Dove’s night-sight, and she’d seen death before. Andur Marlestur was still warm, his wide eyes staring forever up at the moon in astonishment, his mouth slack and… bloodless. But how, in so few breaths, could— then, kneeling with the lad she might have loved in her arms, Ambara Dove saw the ragged slash across his throat, heard faint rustlings in the trees all around her… and knew the who, if not the how.

Tears made the moonlight so many shimmering stars, but through them she could see the men with knives—a dozen of them, and more. Hard of face and eye and dark-clad, they drew swiftly apart to surround her, forming a ring around the stones of The Place.

In a flare of heartfelt fury Dove lashed them with fire—or tried to. Her magic went wild, of course, becoming sparks that boiled up into bell-clear tones, a mocking music that drifted harmlessly into the trees and left the men in dark leathers grinning at her.

They were still spreading out, each man striding farther from the next, and laughing at her snarls of rage. Dove tried another spell, which failed even more feebly than her first.

In its wake, she could think of nothing else to do but watch as the bladesmen completed their ring. Then, at a sharply snapped order—just where it came from, she couldn’t catch—they all took a step closer to her.

Where they stopped, gazing on her with smiles that held no shred of mercy.

Dove swallowed, fought down the urge to lash out with another spell that would be twisted into futility, and forced herself to sink down in her mind… down into the warm, humming, eternally-waiting glow of the Weave. Where she flung a silent cry at the unseen cottage: Uncle El! Storm! Uncle El! Aid—aid, or I die! She sent the gleaming of knives she was gazing at with that plea, wrapped around its ringing urgency, to show the peril she faced.

And waited, quivering in fear and grief, Andur’s dead face so close beneath her, hoping the men with the knives would go on waiting for whatever they were waiting for.

That sharp order came again, and the ring tightened another step, booted feet stepping in unison up onto the stones she knelt on.

And there they stopped again.

Something stirred, deep in Dove’s mind, almost choking her, and she couldn’t hide her alarm. This turmoil wasn’t of her doing, wasn’t…

Then something burst through the trees, trailing a whirlwind of shredded leaves, flying hard and fast right at her.

It darted over the heads of the ring of bladesmen, caught the moonlight for the briefest of instants as a falcon—then struggled in the air, clawed by the silent wild magic of The Place, to tumble helplessly down to the stones before her: a panting, breathless, barefoot Storm.

As if that had been what the men with the knives had been waiting for, they sprang forward in an eager wave of dark leather, gleaming grins, and reaching knives, Laeral arched and clawed at the moonlit air, losing her pout in a wild, large-eyed gasp as Elminster’s mind-voice crashed into her head.

GET TO THE PLACE, TO FIGHT FOR DOVE’S LIFE— NOW. MANY MEN WITH KNIVES. LASH THEM WITH SPELLS FROM WELL OUTSIDE THE WILD MAGIC.

The youngest of the three sisters in Elminster’s care reeled, clutching the red pain spilling through her head. Uncle’s farspeaking had not been gentle.

Yet she had pride and strength enough to straighten upright into an insolent pose, sigh, roll her eyes, and ask, “So the High-and-Mighty Mistress Dove the Willful has got herself encoiled in something beyond her at last, has she? You’ve let her stew long enough already to learn something, I trust?”

YES. AND NO. COME!

Elminster’s command was a mind-shout that sent Laeral to her knees. She bit her lip and shuddered helplessly for a breath or two, and then pouted, straightened, and told the moon overhead, “Unlike my sister Dove, I’m not going to disobey just for the delight of doing so. That’s so childish.”

* * * * *

Dove rolled poor Andur under the rushing feet of the men in front of her as she spun around and launched herself in the other direction. Knives were stabbing in at her—she was going to die—she was— The roiling in her head was now a dark, rising thunder in her body, shaking her in its inexorable approaching flood.

She screamed, or thought she did, as something burst out of her, blinding her momentarily. Storm groaned in pain somewhere behind her, then—.

The bladesmen right in front of Dove toppled as if their legs had been cut from under them, and a dark, bearded form that was—yes—Uncle Elminster rose up out of their bouncing limbs to busily thrust a dagger into the neck of the bladesman to his left.

Dove’s frantic dive slammed her straight into the thrashing bodies of the fallen bladesmen. They were hard, heavy, and reeking, and she slid onward in what could only be blood, coming to an uneasy stop surrounded by the stink of death and the dark hulks of dead men.

Someone spewed out blood and an agonized groan back where Uncle El was plying his knife, then Dove heard two men grunt in pain, almost in unison, as if sharp steel had been driven deep into them both.

She scrambled up, looking wildly around for a knife, and saw Elminster sagging to the stones, clutching at his side— and nearly knocking foreheads with a bladesman doing the same thing. They’d stabbed each other!

Already more bladesmen were hastening over to stab at Uncle El…

A spell washed over them all, stabbing arcs of lightning that became floods of harmless water in a struggling instant. Someone spat out a startled curse that rose into a shriek of pain as Storm flung herself shoulder-down on the corpse-strewn stones, her palms still flickering in the aftermath of her useless spell, and brought her legs up into a bladesman’s crotch with all the force she could muster.

One of the men attacking Uncle El turned his head to see what Storm was doing, and that gave Dove time enough to see and snatch at a fallen knife. Another bladesman leaned forward to slash down viciously at her and sliced open her shoulder with fiery ease.

The slashed remnants of Dove’s light gown fell away to her waist as she rolled desperately away. She kept rolling, clawing open the catches of her girdle and coming up again to lash a bladesman’s dagger aside with it, then flail him across the face with the corset-like leather.

He slashed back at her blindly and she caught his knife-hand and flung herself to the stones again, twisting hard.

He screamed as bones broke and let go of his steel fang.

Dove snatched it away and rolled, losing the rest of her gown in twisted confusion around her neck. It took but a moment to pluck it off and swing it as a flail of sorts into another bladesman’s face, then serve his throat as Andur’s had been.

Hot blood sprayed her bare flesh, and Dove hissed in disgust, whirling away again to face the man she’d disarmed. He stared at her bared flesh for a moment as the moonlight caught her curves, and she flung herself at his ankles.

As he cursed, toppled, and came down hard, she stabbed up—harder.

More blood fountained, but thankfully he fell over and past her, spraying someone else.

The night flared into eerie blue-white fire behind Dove, and several men cursed in alarm.

She turned her head in time to see Elminster staggering to his feet, face twisted in pain, and what should have been blood leaking from between his fingers as blue-white, dripping tongues of flame. The hilt of a dagger that no longer had a blade fell away from him, to clang and clatter on the stones.

Then real lightning split the night, laced with Laeral’s triumphant laughter. Outlined against it Dove saw bladesmen who’d staggered off the stones convulse, wave their limbs spasmodically, and fall.