Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [116]
"Lord Tessaril," Narm said again, urgently, striding nearer, Storm got up, a warning in her eyes, and blocked his path to the Lord of Eveningstar.
They both heard Tessaril say softly, "I know just how you feel, Narm. Go with Torm and get a good meal into you, whether you feel hungry now or not, Come back when you're done-and I'll have your teleport spell ready."
Narm could hardly believe he'd heard her say the words. "Thank you! Thank you!"
"I can't let one go, and then build a cage around its mate," Tessaril said softly, "but you may not thank me so fervently in the end, Narm-nor may that end be far off."
Narm bowed to her and said, "That's a chance I'll take, Lady-one all who live must take. My thanks for giving me the freedom to take it."
As he and Torm went out, Storm and Tessaril watched the young maze go, Then they looked at each other; new respect for Narm Tamaraith shone in both their gazes.
Chapter 17
BUSINESS BEFORE PLEASURE
Now in that grim, gray city are women called pleasure-queens, who keep house amid furs and silks and perfumes and have mastered the art of snaring a man in the street with one dark glance of promise.
Disgusting enchantresses – they're the only reason I ever ride north of Selgaunt, I tell you.
Oblut Thoim, Master Merchant of Teziir
Letters to a Sheltered
Son Year of the Striking Falcon
Mirt waved his saber, sunlight flashed and glimmered along its edge, More than one Zhentilar eyed that blade warily. The fat man obviously knew how to use it and the bare fist that held it was as large as some men's heads. Yet there were over sixty blades set against it, and nothing to protect the old one's back, The outcome was certain; he and Shandril were doomed.
A Zhentilar officer muttered, "Easy, now-strike all at once, and we'll run him through from all sides like a pleasure-queen's pincushion."
There were scattered chuckles as the Zhentilar took the last few steps they'd need. Mirt stared around at them, wild-eyed, sword waving desperately, And then he smiled and flung himself backward, arching over Shandril's body, He raised his arm as the warriors rushed in, and the plain brass ring on it flashed, once.
The air was suddenly full of whirling, deadly steel, As the blood spattered him and the screams sounded all around, Mirt drew back his arm and felt for the hilt of his saber, Only a short time passed before the blades vanished again, but the screams ended even sooner, The courtyard around him ran with blood; it looked like a butchers back-room floor.
Mirt grinned and clambered to his feet "Handy things, blade barriers," he said, surveying the carnage, His eyes searched the walls for archers or overenthusiastic wages, Tymora smiled on him, for once.
"Up, lass," Mirt growled, and plucked Shandril's limp form up from the flagstones, He draped her over his arms, his saber still held securely in one hand, and staggered across the courtyard, wheezing under his load.
The maid in his arms grew no lighter as he lumbered out through an archway, down a lane strewn with bodies of citizens the Zhents had slain, and turned left at the first cross street, Smoke rose from shattered towers here and there; fallen stone was everywhere, and priests and wizards rushed wildly in all directions, each accompanied by a trotting bodyguard, "The high priest is dead!" one mage shouted excitedly to another.
"Blasphemous nonsense!" another shrieked back, and the two men's bodyguards surged into each other in a crash and skirl of viciously plied weapons, Whether Fzoul was dead or not, the spell-battle had reduced the Zhents to a state of chaos.
Mirt was glad he saw no Zhentilar patrols as he made his way down the ruined streets, turning right then left. He trotted down avenues and up short rises, and still no soldiers blocked his way. A few folk gave him startled glances, and one warrior did step out of a tavern as he passed. But the soldier took one look at the blood-covered warrior with a drawn sword and a woman dangling in his arms-Mirt