All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [18]
A smile flickered across her face. Amglar realized it was because of his elaborate dignity-the boots he'd clicked together were all he wore. He grinned back at her, and said, "If you're so adverse to wearing breeches an' all, I'll see if they'll fit me."
Myarvuk came bustling in a few breaths later and looked sharply down at the body sprawled facedown on the floor, blood pooled about its head.
Amglar, resplendent in too short breeches, said briefly, "Spell went wrong. You're spellmaster of this sword now."
Myarvuk brightened. Then his eyes narrowed and he took a quick pace back, out of the swordlord's reach. "How can I be sure your next report to the steward won't contain a note of how I treacherously slew my master? I think I must know where we both stand… or if I must ensure that I'm very soon the only one still standing." He raised one hand threateningly, wriggling his fingers in a pantomime of spellcasting.
Amglar shrugged. "Save your spells for the foe, boy. Even if I did report that you killed Ondeler, twould not paint you ill in their eyes. You know that. Rest assured my reports won't say you had any part of it, unless you want me to write thus. Now stop prancing about trying to impress me, an' see what you can salvage of this carrion's"-he nudged the dead wizard with his foot- "magic, for your own use."
Myarvuk bent to his task eagerly, but stiffened a few breaths later when Amglar growled, "Just one other matter, Spellmaster. You don't need an envoy, an' Bat-tledale doesn't need its best lady escort slain. If we are to have a deal, she stays here, unhurt-your witness, if you ever need one, that you weren't anywhere near when Ondeler so unfortunately left us."
Myarvuk nodded and shrugged. "No argument here, Lord." He bent gingerly to the body. "I don't suppose you-?"
"Nay, boy. Loot your own bodies… an' don't be all day about it. The Sword of the South rides out of Essembra as soon as it's light enough to see full quarrel range ahead. There'll be no scouting and creeping about, either. We ride looking for battle. Someone in Mistledale seems to want death, and I mean to bring it to him!"
Axshabenford, Mistledale, Flamerule 16
"Clever battle strategies?" Florin asked, wrinkling his brow. "What clever battle strategies, Torm, do you think a force of seventy-twenty of whom are untrained farmers-can essay on the field? Against seven thousand?"
The thief shrugged. "The mighty battle mastery of gallant Florin Falconhand is a legend from the Dragon Reach to the Storm Horns, and shiny-eyed maidens await, breathless, for whatever Florin may have up his-"
"Don't push it, Torm," Florin said dryly, and snapped his visor down. His next words boomed hollowly from inside his fearsome great helm. "Armed with my reputation, I'm sure we can take the field with sixty-nine rather than seventy."
As the Knights around them chuckled, the ranger stood tall in his stirrups and waved his blade. "Ride out!"
The cry was echoed by the captain of the Riders, and all the horses surged forward eagerly. They were so few that the road took them easily.
More than one watching villager shook his head in disbelief at the calm manner of Mistledale's defenders. One of the riders-the woman with silver hair, who'd sat asleep and nearly naked in the window of the Six Shields several nights running-even laughed merrily at something the thief said to her. The three rangers riding easily behind her exchanged glances and smiles, and spurred their horses to pass her by, giving the watching folk of Ashabenford cheerful waves.
The villagers were not heartened.
One spat into the dust of the road and rumbled, "A handful against thousands! We'd best be packing the night through and try for Cormyr, I guess…"
"There's no safe place to ride to," the woman standing beside him said quietly. "I'll be staying on. They'll cut me down in my own fields, to be sure, but at least I'll die at home, on my own land,