All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [20]
"We're only going to Swords Creek!" Florin said in amused protest. Torm's probably reached it by now!"
"All the more reason for my being there in haste," Sylune told him severely. "The less time I give him on his own, the less I'll have to patch or set right!" And she was gone, galloping hard through the black-armored ranks of the Riders. Some of them amusedly watched her go; others cast appreciative glances at the silver hair that streamed out behind her as she crouched low over her horse's neck.
"Are your Knights always this pranksome?" Captain Nelyssa Shendean asked Florin quietly, visions of chaos on the battlefield rising before her eyes… chaos that could kill them all.
Florin gave the Shield of Chauntea a smile that had cold steel in it. "Usually far worse than this," he told her. "They're taking it gently so as not to upset you, I'd say."
Nelyssa sighed-and then her eyes widened in horror as she realized he wasn't jesting. Her hand went to the electrum earth pendant around her neck and brought it to her lips. "Mother Chauntea, preserve and shield us," she murmured feelingly.
An instant later, the ground rumbled under the hooves of the hurrying horses, rocking them all. As startled men cursed and hauled at their reins around her, Nelyssa looked around at Mistledale with a sudden, dazzling smile. Then she stood up in her stirrups, whooped, drew her sword, swung it in a wild, flashing salute to the sun overhead, and galloped off toward Swords Creek in tearing haste, scattering astonished Riders in all directions.
Florin met Rathan's gaze. He took in the priest's eloquently raised eyebrows, and shrugged. "We seem to have that effect on folks," he observed. "Tymora should be happy."
"Oh, she is," Rathan told him. "Wherever we go, the entire Realms around seems to be plunged into taking wild chances."
"I've noticed that," Florin said in dry tones. "It's not a state of affairs to everyone's taste."
The stout priest of Tymora shrugged in his turn. "Their loss," he said piously, "and Faerun's gain. May Tymora smile upon ye in the battle, Florin."
"And upon thee, stout heart," Florin told him. Rathan looked sharply at the ranger's innocent smile, and found it not quite innocent enough. He snorted and spurred away, leaving Florin alone with the Riders of Mistledale.
The ranger caught a few questioning looks from the black-armored armsmen around him, and smiled. "Easy, lads. There's no need to rush into our graves. The gods wait for us all."
"There're going to be gods at this battle?" one of the Riders asked fearfully.
"Now, lad, let's not get our hopes up," an older Rider said with a grin. "You've got to save some excitement for your next battle!"
The younger Rider swallowed. "If I live to see another one," he whispered, "I'll begin to worry about such things, Ostyn."
"That's the spirit!" the older Rider told him. "Cast your worries aside, and ride on into battle!"
The young Rider looked at him with a very white face and said nothing.
"Keep track of kills, shall we, lad?" Ostyn proposed.
"See which of us can slay the most Zhents?"
The younger Rider stared at him for a moment-and then fainted dead away, his eyes rolling up as he slid limply from his saddle.
Florin made a grab for the falling Rider's shoulder, caught him, and snapped, "Get the reins, Ostyn!"
The older Rider did so, deftly, and they guided the mount to an ungainly halt.
The rearguard Riders caught them up. "One down already?" a fat, cheerful woman asked, looking at the limp form across Florin 's lap. "We'll have to ask the Zhents to hold a thousand or so swords in reserve."
"You're volunteering to ask them?" Florin chuckled as they righted the young Rider in his saddle and shook him gently back to his senses.
"Never volunteer," Ostyn warned her.
"Actually," she said, indicating the reviving Rider with her sword, "I was going to nominate him."
The young Rider's eyes snapped open. He stared at her for a moment, face as white as a priest's vestment- and then, still staring,