Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [80]
For two long, cold breaths, Shandril stared at him thinlipped, and then managed a smile, and turned to look west.
"Find Eveningstar for me, then, and Tessaril." she said. Mirt's gusty sigh of relief echoed off the rocks around. Then they all looked back at the drifting ashes that had been Delg, and there were fresh tears.
Later that night, as Mirt led the way up a narrow cleft, heading west out of the still-smoldering meadow, the Old Wolf said, 'Tell me, lass: if ye've any plan for this attack, or if we're all going to rush headlong to our deaths."
"We get there, you show me Manshoon, and I burn him," Shandril said sweetly.
"That's it? No battle plans at all?"
"You're my battle plans, Old Wolf," Shandril told him. Mirt sighed and stumped onward. The. comforting weight of Delg's battered axe rode in his hands, and he stared ahead, looking for certain moonlit crags to guide him to the best way down into Cormyr again.
In his mind, Mirt saw Delg's dead, staring face, and muttered to himself that he really was getting too old for adventuring.
When Mirt fell for the third time, the cold mists and the lightening gloom told them dawn was not far of f. The Old Wolf announcing wearily that he'd fall asleep walking if they went on. Norm and Shandril both murmured exhausted agreement, and a moment later they slumped together in a little dell, sitting on the turf. Wearily the old merchant wrestled Delg s pack from his back and felt in it for a prickly handful of kindling.
"Is that wise?" Narm was yawning as he spoke.
Mirt managed a shrug in reply-and then stiffened. The other end of the chain Delg had broken must have somehow fallen into the pack. As the Old Wolf's arm came out with kindling, the fine gold lay curving along it Mirt stared. Dangling from the chain was a tiny four-pointed star fashioned of some white metal, set atop a tiny black anvil. Mirt touched it, shaking his head in wonder. "He was an Ironstar dwarf," he murmured.
"What's that?" Narm bent forward, his voice thick with sleepiness.
"The fabled lost clan of the dwarves," Mirt said, his weary voice echoing with awe. "The mightiest, most noble dwarven house, driven into hiding long ago. They're a legend among the Stout Folk-and among men who delve for metal, too." Tears came into the old adventurer's eyes. "Ah, Delg," he growled and shook his head again.
Shandril began to cry and in the same instant, Narm began to snore. Mirt looked over at them. The young mage was asleep where he sat, face gray and drawn with exhaustion, eyes open and unseeing, his mouth gaping. Shandril shook, huddled into a ball, beside him.
Long, still moments passed before Mirt went to lay a comforting hand on her head. Tears streamed down the face she lifted to him, and dripped silently from her chin. Shandril's eyes were very gray as she bit her lip to keep from weeping loudly. She looked at Narm anxiously, not wanting to wake him.
Mirt put an awkward arm around her shoulders. They shook, and Shandril whimpered once, deep in her throat, before she thrust her face against his chest and began to sob. Mirt held her tightly and said nothing. He'd done this before in his life, more than once, but still did not know any words to give her that were both comforting and true. Perhaps there were none.
He stared into the little fire he'd kindled and saw places far away and faces from long ago. The Old Wolf barely noticed when the girl in his arms fell into an exhausted sleep. He was still sitting there when the last coals died away to gray ashes and the pale dawn came creeping over the crags.
Chapter 12
WHAT FOUL WIZARDRY
Raise not thy voice in anger, lest the sleeping dragon wake.
Shadows in the Firelight
Old saying of Faerun set down by Glarthlyn of Silverymoon, Sage
Year of Dark Frost
Somewhere in the Stonelands, Manshoon turned in satisfaction from his scrying ball.
"It's time," he said softly, looking around at the encampment. Fear was in the faces that looked back at him; even the veteran Zhentilar here were