All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [26]
"Aye," Belkram told her as the two Harpers came to join her, expertly plucking the poles out of the heart of the rumpled canvas. "But they're under the misapprehension that they're just housing the short-coin laborers who arrive each harvest to help get the crop off the fields… it's not until they see their hired help at work in the fields that they realize how many bored Sembian nobles they're carrying."
Sharantyr chuckled at that as Belkram held the tent up with one pole, and Itharr crawled inside to raise it from within. "I could get used to having both of you gallant blades around," she said affectionately, fielding the tangle of tent rope that Sylune tossed to her.
"Just two of us? Is that enough to keep up with you?" Belkram asked with a grin.
"On some mornings," Sharantyr said, thrusting over his head the emptied sack that had held the tent pegs. "On some mornings."
"Mmpnffh," he replied firmly.
"Exactly what I was going to say," Itharr agreed, head emerging from the half-raised tent. "Mmphffh."
Sharantyr and Sylune sighed, smiled, and shook their heads in unison.
"Get him a bag, too," Torm suggested, pointing at Itharr as he walked past. "Me, too, and Rathan. After all, you know what they say-all men're the same with a bag over-"
"Enough, Torm!" Sylune said, and snapped her fingers. The thief vanished in midstep, and they heard his surprised "Hoy!" of protest from the far end of the camp as he reappeared, looked around, and started back toward them.
"Poor Torm," Sharantyr said, watching him. "I wonder if hell ever grow into dignity and polite manners? I suppose he must grow up someday."
"For some of us," Sylune observed serenely, "it's a long walk."
Battledale, Flamerule 16
There was a sudden flash of emerald radiance from the empty saddle ahead, and Swordlord Amglar stiffened, hand going to the hilt of his sword-just in case.
Spellmaster Myarvuk rode ahead of the hitherto unladen horse, the mount under him linked to it by a long lead. Now he was twisting around to see what had befallen, clinging to his saddle in an ungainly attempt not to fall off. Amglar watched him in grim amusement. These wizards all rode with the grace and balance of lumpy sacks of feed-and if the expression on Myarvuk's face was any guide, about as much comfort.
As both men stared at the green light pulsing and growing stronger in the saddle, Amglar watched the Zhentarim mage's tense face… until, suddenly, he knew the new thing he was seeing there: fear.
A second empty-saddled horse pulled its lead free and galloped off to the right. The swordlord's gaze darted to it, but no radiance or other sign of magic appeared. If the gods smiled, perhaps there'd only be one high Zhentarim joining them.
Of course, given what utter ice-hearted bastards all powerful mages of the Black Network were, one was more than enough.
The emerald light had built into the shape of a seated man now, and the swordlord sighed amid the endless thunder of hooves. The rest of his time with the Sword of the South was not going to be enjoyable-and might well encompass the rest of his life, given the ruthless and sensitive nature of senior Zhentarim.
The green radiance flashed and faded, revealing a richly cloaked man who sat his saddle as if he'd always been there-and was already looking grimly about, his face as black as old night.
At least this one could ride. Amglar forced a grim half smile onto his own face as the Zhent wizard turned to look behind him.
"For the glory of Zhentil Keep," the swordlord said in formal welcome. The wizard merely nodded curtly and turned his head away. Oh, joy. Getting this one to take the slightest notice of orders was going to be nigh impossible. Best start wading into the blood now, then. Amglar reined his horse in beside the galloping wizard.
"Lord Manshoon sends his greetings, Spellmaster Thuldoum," Amglar said loudly, keeping his