Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [65]
Mirt stood at the roadside. He was looking down at the dwarf rather like a bull wearily regards a small, loud dog. as something not yet worth kicking, but that may soon become so if it continues to annoy.
"We leave the road here," he said patiently, "and go across the fields. Trust me: I know this land well."
"As do I," the dwarf replied, unmoved. "The more northerly we tend, the closer we get to the Zhentarim and the lawlessness of the Stonelands where for all we know this Dragon Cult rides freely, too. Short of turning back into the teeth that follow us, this is the worst way we could tread."
Mirt sighed. "Aye, so it may seem. But look ye. Sir Dwarf, and heed-in Suzail, or any port on the Inner Sea, the Zhents and the Cult could have a dozen's dozen of agents waiting, an' we'd never know until their blades were in us. More than that; they've hired eyes aplenty watching for the walking source of spellfire, and those known to guard her, in all those places. Moreover they expect Shandril to come that way, and by the roads. These be all good reasons, by my blade, to turn aside and seek the secret way I know."
Delg snorted. "The Stonelands are bandit country, and worse-they hold fearsome beasts and Zhent evil.
Enough of both, even you must admit, that the Purple Dragons have never been able to hold Azoun's word as law north of the road that links Arabel with High Horn, let alone to Desert's Edge, where earlier kings of Cormyr always claimed to rule. A land of outlaws, breakneck gullies, little hidden cliff's and thornbushes; it crawls with monsters by night and creeps with them by day. Do you think us a band of sword-swinging heroes, bedecked with magic blades and fancy armor? Or have you such a band up your sleeve-or hidden in that capacious belly of yours?"
Mirt sighed again and spoke with exaggerated gentleness. "I have no quarrel with thy glowing description of the land, nor do I have any swordarms to protect us-save the two that come visibly attached to this belly ye're so impressed with. Yet, look ye, I know of a way not known to those who chase at our heels. A way to save Shandril nearly a season of travel-time on her long way to the North, a way to avoid the roads and inns of Cormyr-and the trackless wastes of the Backlands on the western edge of Anauroch, too, where every second merchant could well be a Zhent agent, or someone else who'd just as soon stick a dagger between yer shoulder blades the moment ye turn yer back."
"So what is this magical way, that I've never heard of it?" the dwarf asked suspiciously, brows bristling.
"That's it precisely," Mirt said, lowering his voice. "Magic. That's all I prefer to say."
Delg snorted. "Trust me, then, you're telling us: trust me to lead you into a land of death because I've left some handy, oh-so-reliable magic there, which’ll whisk us away from all danger and leave all our foes and cares behind."
Mirt smiled thinly. "I couldn't have put it much better than that-are ye sure ye don't do a rich trade in dealing horses somewhere in Faerun?" Then he sighed and looked to Narm and Shandril. "Ye've heard Delg, and my words too, about the paths before us. Choose then, whether ye'll follow me. I will say only two things more: first, that the way through Cormyr's roads and cities is almost certain death, where my way offers death not so sure by a long measure; second, that whate'er yet choice, it must be made speedily, for if we stand here debating in the open all day, death will come up behind us and lay claws on our shoulders while yet we speak."
Shandril stared at him and at Delg, and then looked to Narm, who said, "The decision must be yours, love." They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, and then Shandril turned back and said very quietly, "I'm sorry, Delg. Storm and Elminster and the Knights told me some things about gates, and this sounds like one-am I right, Lord Mirt?"
Mirt nodded. "The gate, aye; but not this talk of 'Lord’; ye're no subject to me."
Shandril waved away