All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [46]
The fat cleric doggedly intoned his spell, sweat running down his face-and fire from his hand burst forth within the Malaugrym, causing it to recoil with a roar of mingled fury and pain.
Illistyl's eyes narrowed as flames gouted from the beast. She dug a hand into her purse, snatched a silver coin, and snapped out a cantrip that crumbled the metal to powder in her hands. Flinging the powdered silver into the flames, she leapt back.
The explosion that followed was spectacular. The coils around Sylune1 spasmed, flinging her free-and then smashed into her body with the force of a charging war horse, hurling her like a rag doll against the side of the tent. She struck, tumbled, and came to rest atop Torm, who madly stabbed the Malaugrym and sobbed with rage.
"It's dead, Torm," Sylune told him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder as she looked over him at the gory lumps that had been the other Malaugrym. "And so's the other one."
"Gods," the thief hissed, eyes blazing, "they could have killed you!"
"Yes," Sylune agreed, "but they did not, thanks in part to you." She put up her hand to wipe the sweat from his brow, then leaned forward and kissed him. He stared at her for a moment, and threw his arms around her, weeping uncontrollably.
"It's been rather a long time since any man got this angry for my sake," she murmured into his shoulder, "but try not to get yourself killed defending me, Torm!"
"Why not?" the thief said when he found enough control to speak. "Have you seen what they did to your hair?"
The Ring of Skulls
Swords Creek, Mistledale, Flamerule
17
Sharantyr shades her eyes again and is sure of it. Another flash, there… and another. And then Zhents are pouring out of the woods in a hundred places, the bright morning sun glinting on ebon armor.
There is a stir along the banks of Swords Creek, and the short bark of Kuthe's order off to the right. The Riders of Mistledale move amid a growing thunder of hooves, hurrying along the southern edge of the dale to meet the invaders. Lance tips glitter as they sweep down.
Restless, the lady ranger hefts her own gleaming blade, licks her lips, and watches Kuthe's lance lowered with menacing force. He flicks it expertly, taking out the throat of a Zhentilar as he passes, and with bright blood still trailing from the tip, buries it deep in the face of the first Zhent horseman to appear out of the woods.
The man crumples as he's flung back out of his saddle. A score of crashes follow up and down the edge of the trees as Zhent maces and spears find shields or the Riders behind them and a horn sounds from just behind Shar, calling the retreat.
Horses wheel and rear. Zhentilar soldiers race in to gut the retreating warriors as they turn away. One Rider tarries too long, and Shar sees him go down, hacking frantically with his blade at a dozen foes as they drag him to ground and stab him. The riderless mount in fear lashes out with its hooves, leaps wildly into the air, shedding broken Zhent armsmen like rag dolls, and lands running west down the dale to where Kuthe is rallying the Riders.
Arrows hiss past Shar's shoulder as the farmers of Mistledale, faces set in fear and determination, strike their own first blows against the foe. Only a few black-armored figures fall, and now they're streaming out of the trees by the hundreds, a glittering black carpet of death that advances west with casual confidence. More than one of the watchers along Swords Creek gasps or retches in fear; there are thousands of Zhents!
"Gods," a man nearby mutters in despair and disbelief, "have they been breeding armsmen like rabbits? Look at them!"
Certain death was coming for them, and they all knew it. Shar