Кейт Новак: Finder's Bane

“Where are you taking her, sir?” the soldier giving orders asked suspiciously.

“My patrol is waiting at the end of the path,” the bard lied. “I’ll interrogate her there. Join us when you’re finished cleaning up here.” He continued to guide the girl down the path, careful not to look back.

His coolness didn’t fool the soldiers. Two Zhentilar followed Joel, and although he couldn’t see them, the bard was acutely aware that their blades were pointed at his back.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” the soldier who’d taken charge said craftily, “but I can’t relinquish the prisoner without you giving me the password.”

Password. That’s just great, Joel thought with annoyance.

The bard released his grip on the girl’s arm. He gave her a quick shove forward, making room for him to whirl about with his staff raised. The first soldier, unaware that the staff was merely an illusion covering a sharpened sword, grabbed at the weapon with his bare hand. Blood spurted from what was left of the man’s fingers as he shrieked in pain.

Joel stepped back, parrying the second soldier’s blade with his own. The force of steel smashing into steel dispelled the illusion of the mage staff.

“You’re no mage!” the second soldier growled. He slammed his blade at the bard’s sword with enough force to knock it from Joel’s hand. Joel retreated several hasty steps backward. The soldier advanced on him with an evil grin. From behind him, Joel heard a twang . A moment later the grin disappeared from the soldier’s face as a crossbow bolt buried itself in his throat.

Joel spun about. His “prisoner” was already sliding a second bolt into a one-handed drow crossbow. The bard snatched his sword up from the ground and retreated to the girl’s side.

The girl stepped forward, leveling her cutlass at the soldier with the injured hand. Joel grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s go!” he ordered.

“We should finish them off,” she argued.

“Don’t push your luck,” the bard growled, tugging hard on her arm.

The girl dashed down the path at Joel’s side. There was no sound of pursuit behind them, but they didn’t stop until they reached Joel’s mare.

Butternut nickered nervously as Joel untied her lead rope.

“Who are you?” the girl asked.

“The Rebel Bard,” Joel said, making a courtly, albeit hurried, bow. “At your service, my lady.”

The girl laughed, though Joel couldn’t tell exactly why. “I’m Holly,” she replied as she sheathed her cutlass. “Holly Harrowslough. Your service is much appreciated.” Her accent marked her as a native of the northern dales, and she held her hand out in dales fashion.

Joel grasped the girl’s wrist as she grasped his. Her brief grip was strong and sure, and her smile quite pretty, but there was something about the way her dark eyes held his that made the bard feel awkward, as if he’d just confessed to some crime and was being judged.

“We’d better keep moving,” Joel insisted. He turned away hastily, making a show of tightening the strap on Butternut’s saddle.

“You don’t have to escort me,” Holly said. “The Zhents don’t usually bother me. It’s just that this patrol’s captain spotted me in Shadowdale last week, so he was overly suspicious. The other patrols won’t suspect me. And you’ll be safer if you aren’t seen cavorting with the natives.”

Joel’s forehead furrowed with concern. “Look, I know we’re perfect strangers, but I can’t just leave you here alone. I’m sure there must be a rule that forbids it. ’Thou shalt not abandon maidens in distress’ or some such.”

Holly laughed.

“Besides,” Joel continued hurriedly, “I could use someone who’s familiar with the area. I’m going north, and if it’s not out of your way, I’d appreciate your guidance.”

“Well, then, Rebel Bard, you’ve got yourself a guide,” the girl agreed with a grin.

Joel swung up into the saddle and offered Holly a hand. She swung up behind him easily. Butternut snorted with annoyance at the extra weight. “It’s just till we put some distance between us and them, girl,” the bard assured the horse, urging her forward with a nudge.

They had traveled all of a hundred yards when they heard the sound of horses on the trail behind them. Someone shouted something about spies. Joel kicked Butternut into a trot.

“Blast!” Holly muttered as she looked back.

“What is it?” Joel asked, his rear view blocked by the girl.

“A fresh Zhent patrol, mounted. And one of the ones we left behind in the clearing is waving them in our direction.”

Joel bit his lip, trying to formulate a plan. Butternut, he realized, could never outrun the Zhentilar loaded down as she was.

“I’m going to dismount and hold them off,” Joel said, kicking his foot out of the stirrup. “You keep going.”

“You can’t—” Holly started to protest, but Joel had already swung his leg over the mare’s neck and fallen to the ground.

Joel rolled out of the way of the mare’s hind legs and leapt to his feet. Drawing his sword, he prepared to make a heroic last stand, but Holly had other ideas. She had turned Butternut about and ridden back to the bard’s side.

“You know,” Joel growled with exasperation, “there’s not much point in my trying to save your life if you insist on being killed with me,” he said.

“What kind of guide would I be if I lost you to the Zhents?” Holly retorted grimly as she loaded a bolt into her crossbow.

From a pocket of his tunic, Joel pulled out a tiny vial of holy water. Not even the urgency of the situation overcame the awkwardness he felt praying aloud. With his head bowed with embarrassment, he whispered his prayer. “Finder, help us through this peril.” He splashed the holy water first in Holly’s direction, then on his own feet. When he’d pocketed the empty vial, he raised his sword again. Even with the blessing, the sword felt uncomfortably heavy in his hand. He had only the most rudimentary training in its use in Berdusk. Since then he’d had little inclination to practice and few reasons to use it.

The Zhentilar were closing fast when Holly shouted, “Hey!”

Joel looked up at the girl. She was trying to bat away a bird that fluttered about her shoulder. The bird landed on Butternut’s head. Joel could see that it was a jackdaw, its purplish black wings glittering even in the shadow of the trees.

Joel froze with anticipation. Among the advice Jedidiah had given him before they had parted was to listen to the birds.

The bird looked straight at Joel and cocked its head. “Turn the peril back at them,” the bird croaked. “Use the wand of their mage. With Lady Luck’s blessing, you cannot fail.”

Holly’s eyes widened with surprise, but she didn’t forget the approaching enemy. “Can you really use the wand?” she asked excitedly.

From his belt, Joel drew the wand he’d stolen from the Zhentilar mage’s corpse. It was fashioned from mahogany and polished smooth all around, save for a symbol engraved at the tip and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The symbol was an ancient rune signifying chaos. That could be the word that activated it, but what the wand did the bard couldn’t even guess. It was also entirely possible the wand wouldn’t respond to someone who lacked formal training and only dabbled in magic. He looked up questioningly at the jackdaw. The bird cawed loudly and fluttered off into the trees above.

“I don’t know if I can get it to work,” Joel whispered up to Holly, “but I can always bluff.” He took up a position in the center of the trail and held the wand out at arm’s length. The Zhentilar thundered down the trail single file.

“Halt!” he shouted, aiming the wand at the lead rider of the patrol. “Halt, or I’ll use the wand!”