Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

The soldiers must have stepped out of doorways and side alleys; they’d managed to form a ring around Shandril. She was walking unhurriedly on, toward two anxious-looking Zhentilar whose blades were raised. The others were drawing in around her as she walked, their swords ready.

Finally one of the warriors in her path said uncertainly, “ We have you, woman. Kneel and surrender, in the name of the Raven!”

Shandril raised a hand and burned him like a torch. The other soldiers backed away, blanching. Oily smoke rose up from the huddled form in the street—and then Zhentish boots echoed on the cobblestones as they broke and fled. As they went, they tugged horns from their belts, and ragged calls went up, echoing off the grim towers around.

“By my halidom!” Mirt snarled. “Now ye’ve roused the whole place.” He laid a hand on Shandril’s shoulder.

She whirled. Spellfire blazed before his eyes, and he danced away with a startled cry. Shandril looked stricken. “Sorry, Mirt—I didn’t mean to …”

“But you almost did, anyway,” he growled. “Come on , lass—we’ve got to get out of here before all the Zhentarim in Faerûn come down on us.”

Shandril shook her head, her face white to the lips. “I’m not running anymore. Go if you wish—I’ll stay and fight, as long as there’re fools to challenge me.”

Mirt rolled his eyes. “Ye’ll find no shortage of battle, then.” He looked over his shoulder at the two Harper women and moved his fingers in a certain sign.

The pleasure-queens traded glances. Belarla swallowed, looked at Oelaerone with an unspoken prayer in her eyes, and glided forward with silent speed. From behind she slid one slim, skilled hand over Shandril’s nose and mouth, and her other arm around Shandril’s throat.

Shandril stiffened. Spellfire flashed, and Belarla hissed in pain as it cooked her arm and fingers. She was sobbing by the time Shandril’s eyes dimmed and she went limp. The Harper made sure she was senseless, and then lowered her gently to the street.

The Old Wolf bent over Belarla. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks as she knelt on the cobbles, Shandril across her lap. Mirt handed two steel vials to Oelaerone, gesturing for her to pour it down Belarla’s throat. “Healing potions,” he said gruffly. “See that she drinks them both—every drop.”

Then he scooped up Shandril, grunted as he heaved her onto his shoulders, and said gruffly, “Thanks, Belarla. Myrintara should be able to set things right for you again, if we can reach her.”

Belarla swallowed, shuddered as the potions took effect, and said faintly, “I—I can manage.” Then her gaze rose from an empty vial to fix Mirt with a different pained expression. “ ‘By my halidom’?”

Mirt spread his hands. “Eh … heroes say it in all the best bardic tales,” he said sheepishly.

Belarla made a rude sound. Oelaerone pointed silently.

Mirt glanced along her arm and saw perhaps twenty—no, more—Zhentilar warriors approaching warily down the street. He eyed them and asked quietly, “Know you any hiding-holes? They’d come in mighty helpful, about now.”

“Isn’t it a bit late to be thinking about that?” Belarla asked him, but Oelaerone pointed again—this time, at the stones under their feet.

“The sewers,” she said simply, then turned. “This way.”

They hurried after her shapely form. She led through a short alley and then across a broad street. Another alley led them out onto a long, winding lane. Oelaerone turned down it, ducked into a warehouse, and slipped through a dim maze of high-stacked crates and curious men, to yet another street.

Mirt shifted Shandril over one shoulder, drew his sword, and trotted after her.

Belarla watched behind.

As Oelaerone crept into another alley, Belarla said in satisfaction, “We must have lost them by now—nicely done, Oelae.”

They were all startled when a tall, burly Zhentarim mage appeared in their path on the next street. In addition to robes rolled up at the sleeve, the wizard wore a single metal gauntlet that winked with spell lights. For a moment, Mirt and the pleasure queens blinked abruptly at him. The street had been empty moments before.

The mage took one huge step and viciously swung his studded gauntlet backhanded at Oelaerone. She dived headlong to avoid being struck. He ignored her, striding on toward the Old Wolf and his burden.

Mirt raised the tip of his sword, but the wizard darted to the Old Wolf’s burdened side, keeping Shandril between himself and Mirt’s blade.

“It’s past time for you to lie down and die, old man,” the Zhentarim snarled contemptuously, leaning in to smash Mirt across the face with the gauntlet. The enchanted weapon was hard, and its magic numbed and froze the victim for an instant so that the full force of its blow struck home. Mirt staggered.

Belarla’s blade sang in at the wizard. The sudden sparks of a protective spell spat and shimmered where the blade touched the wizard, then the knife tumbled away. The Zhentarim stiffened, hissed a word, and a web of radiant bolts flared out. Belarla reeled back, clutching her breast in pain, and fell heavily to her knees, her sword clattering on the cobbles.

Then the Zhent turned and ran after Mirt, grabbing at Shandril’s dangling throat with the gauntlet. Mirt snarled and thrust with his blade, but Shandril’s body hampered his weapon; he could not get a good strike at the mage without carving her, too. He lowered her to the ground so that he could battle this wizard—but the Zhentarim already had his gauntlet locked around her throat in a strangling grip, and had begun to mouth the words of another spell.

Mirt dropped both Shandril and his sword. His fist crashed into the man’s mouth—and the wizard’s head snapped back, spun, and slumped. Sightless, fading eyes swung past him as the man dropped to the street.

“Getting old, am I?” Mirt growled as he hoisted Shandril onto his shoulders again. With great satisfaction, he kicked the Zhent’s body, hard.

Oelaerone was helping Belarla up.

“How much farther is this way to the sewers?” Mirt snarled, looking around for other Zhents. He saw none—only curious citizens glancing up from their daily business. Thank Tymora for that Oelaerone was pointing again, and Mirt anxiously lumbered in the indicated direction.

“I’ve run down more streets in the Realms ….” he muttered as they turned another corner. This street was narrower, and it smelled; strewn garbage and pools of water were frequent, and Mirt’s boots skidded more than once.

“Not far now, Old Wolf,” Belarla said from somewhere near his elbow.

Mirt looked around at the squalid street and replied, “You know this area? I just hope he was worth it, Belarla—whoever he was.”

“If you weren’t carrying the most important being in Faerûn right now,” Belarla replied calmly, “I’d trip you into that next pool.”

Mirt grunted, swayed, and managed to get through it upright. “I always wondered what pleasure-queens did for entertainment.”

“Go down sewers, of course,” Oelaerone said sweetly, from just ahead. “After all, folk say our morals belong in the sewer—why shouldn’t our bodies keep them company?” She led the way into a short, stinking alley and, with a grand flourish, indicated a pile of dung.

Mirt set Shandril gently down in the crook of his arm, and stared at it. “I was picturing something a little closer to a door,” he rumbled.

Belarla sighed and dug into the pile with both hands. “Come on,” she said over her shoulder. “We’ll have plenty of chances to wash all this off, down below.”

“I was afraid of that,” Mirt growled, handing Shandril’s limp form to Oelaerone.