All Shadows Fled - Ed Greenwood [57]
The crossroads in front of the Old Skull Inn was heaped with dead. The twisted mounds were so high the Zhentilar, advancing in a great horde from the east, had to scramble and climb. The grisly, slippery wall was being held against them by desperate dalesmen wielding axes and blades.
Among the dusty defenders were Storm Silverhand and her sister, Dove, both clad in battered and scorched plate armor but bareheaded, their silver tresses swirling as they fought. Storm leapt into the air and smashed aside a foe's blade, her other hand snaking in to take him by the throat. Muscles rippled in her arm as they crashed back down to earth together. The Zhent blackhelm struggled for a moment in her iron grip- then fell limp, his neck broken. Two of his fellows scrambled up the mound of dead, waving blades to get their chance at the Bard of Shadowdale.
Dove Falconhand took that chance away, rushing along the line of defenders to thrust one Zhent desperately aside into the other armsman. Off-balance, the blackhelms stumbled among the corpses. Storm dumped the man she'd just slain atop one, and kicked the other in the face with her boot. He fell down the heap, head rolling limply, and was smashed aside by more Zhentilar rushing up to challenge Storm in their turn.
"That's the problem with Zhents," Rathan growled as they turned their horses toward the black-armored host crowded up against the wall of dead. "There're always too many of them."
"Lances down!" Nelyssa cried, and led the charge.
Through the thunder of pounding hooves they heard someone of Shadowdale cry, "The Riders! The Riders of Mistledale!"
"And the mighty Torm, too!" the thief shouted back, just before they crashed into the Zhent lines.
Men reeled like broken dolls under the impact of hooves and lances and thundering war horses, and when the press of bodies slowed their progress, the Riders let go their lances and laid about themselves with swords and maces.
"Shadowdale!" Dove Falconhand snarled, leading a charge from the ridge of slain.
There were screams of agony and frustration from the Zhents, packed too tightly together to raise weapons or move from the blades.
A desperately wielded spear sought Term's thigh; he sprang from his saddle and vaulted into the fray, drawn sword extended between his boots. He came down atop a Zhentilar and rode the man to the ground, stabbing viciously with the dagger in his free hand. The man convulsed and lay still; by then Torm was two kills away, his slim blade and dagger sliding in and out before the close-packed Zhents could react.
With a wall of corpses around him like a shield, he struck out from between their bodies, swift and sure, thrusting, dancing away from blades,… until the crash of a felled Rider and his horse cleared some space, and the dead began to topple and slump all around.
Into the opened space leapt Storm, clapping a gasping Torm on his shoulder. "Bravely done!"
"Ah-all for… you… Lady," Torm huffed, trying to essay a courtly bow-and slipping in gore so that he lurched to one knee. The fall saved his life; a whirling axe meant for his head flashed harmlessly through empty air.
Storm hauled him upright. "The battle's this way," she said helpfully, pointing with a sword that was red to the hilt.
He gave her a fierce smile in answer. Then his jaw dropped. "By the gods, look!" he bellowed, pointing. Storm turned in time to see Belkram, Itharr, and Shar-antyr advance another pace through the ranks of Zhen-tilar. Fighting in unison, standing close together in a human arrowhead, they were dealing death with furious speed.
"The Rangers Three," Storm said, watching her pupils in admiration.
The hesitant gangliness she'd seen all too often the day she'd fought Belkram and Itharr at the farmhouse was gone. Now they moved like dancers, deft and quick. Sharantyr was the key. Her smooth style had drawn the two Harpers into a team. Storm began to believe their survival in the castle of the Malaugrym was more than good fortune bolstered by the aid of Mystra