All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [14]
Then he turned back to them. "That should buy us the time we need," Baergil said with a certain satisfaction, "to make Galath's Roost ready to properly welcome Zhent butchers." The Riders around him laughed again – a chorus of low, quiet sounds that held no humor.
Jhessail shivered despite herself, and caught Illistyl's eye. The two of them shared a comforting look as the priest turned away.
As Merith moved up beside his wife and stretched out a long arm to embrace her, Jhessail felt a pat on her knee – and looked up to see Kuthe wheeling away from her.
"Well done, Knight," he said gruffly. "See you at the Roost!" He urged his mount into a canter, and all around Riders spurred their horses after him, heading for the distant trail into the trees that would take them to the Roost… to turn the ruined keep into a deathtrap for Zhentilar blackhelms.
Merith and Jhessail's arms were around each other, and their kiss went on until Illistyl looked up at the sky and remarked brightly, "Beautiful weather we're having, isn't it?"
The sky seemed to know this already, though the two Knights beside her didn't seem to notice – or care. Illistyl sighed and rode away. In the distance, she saw dead men and horses rising in a stiff ring around the black-armored priest. She shivered, shook her head, and rode after the Riders.
See the Realms and taste true adventure, they'd said. Well, here we go chasing it again – and flashing swords to that!
The Dead and the Liaing Both Ride
Essembra, Battledale, early hours of
Flamerule 16
Gostar yawned and backed into another circular walk, keeping his eyes and attention always on the night to the north. As if his shifting had been a signal, his companions did the same. Those who fell asleep on guard duty or were judged careless often swallowed sword blades on the spot, but the long, cold hours made feet ache and limbs stiffen. It was best to keep moving in the last stretch before dawn, when the mists clouded bright armor and played tricks on eye and ear.
Now, for instance. A low rumble-Gostar could feel it in his jaw more than he could hear it-was rising from the ever-shifting mists ahead. A helmed head down the line inclined to listen; the others had heard it, too.
The noise was growing louder, becoming a continuous soft thunder, swirling over and around them with the scudding mists… and seeming familiar. He'd heard this sound before. In his saddle, on the rolling plains near Thentia…
Then he knew what it was, and ice clawed at his heart and throat.
Gostar shook himself, swallowed, and shouted, "Rorst! Run back to rouse the camp!"
"And why'd I risk a flogging to do that, now?" Rorst asked in his usual, careless, I've-seen-it-all tone.
"Can't you hear it?" Gostar waved one gauntleted hand at the mists before them, where the sound had become a continuous choppy thunder. "Those're horses, man-half a hundred or more, at full gallop!"
Helmed heads were looking at him all along the line, now-and in the eyes, their whites flashing in the gloom, Gostar saw the grim realization that he was right. Swords gleamed and sang as they were drawn. Rorst took a few lazily shambling steps away from the line just to show that he didn't take orders from a fellow ranker, and feared nothing besides. Then he broke into a trot.
A line of fast-plunging horses leapt out of the north mists, like arrows seeking targets. Atop them rode black-armored warriors, drawn swords in hand.
Gostar yelled in fear and defiance and raised his own sword, whirling it around his head to get the speed he'd need to cleave armor and unhorse a foe. He sprang deftly aside as a charger galloped right at him, then leaned in to strike his blow. It wasn't until he looked up into eyes that were dead and dark that Gostar knew something was wrong, horribly wrong.
The face above his was Estard's… and Estard was up in Mistledale this night, with sixty fellow Zhentilar blades, carving out a claim there for the Sword of the South. Who, then, was this…?