Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [24]
By the time he had all three bows loaded and ready, he was gasping for breath and could hear the creak of leather and jangle of metal on the wind. The armsmen were coming down upon him. Lying in the snow, breath streaming back over his shoulder, he arranged the bows, planted four daggers in the snow for ready snatching, and waited.
His life hung on the hope that they'd not have bows ready themselves-and wouldn't see him in time. Elminster shook his head at his own recklessness and found his mouth suddenly dry. Well, whatever befell, it wouldn't be long now.
There was a sudden thunder of hooves, shouts, and the clash of arms. What could be-? And suddenly Elminster had no time for speculation as an armsman burst into view, galloping hard, crouched low over the neck of his horse. The prince of Athalantar raised his bow carefully, steadied it, and fired.
The horse plunged on, rearing and giving a high grunt of alarm as it saw the steep descending slope. With no time to veer or slow, it felt the man on its back fall sideways, hard, pulling on its reins. It reared, fighting the reins that were tugging its head around. Its hooves skidded in the snow, and it crashed atop its rider. Together they slid down the hill. The horse sprang up and pranced away, shaking its head as if to clear it. The man lay still in the trampled snow.
No more horsemen rode into view, and from over the brow of the snow-clad rise came the shouts and steely skirl of battle. Elminster frowned in puzzlement, and then took up his daggers, thrusting them back into his belt. Holding his second bow ready, he advanced cautiously until he could see over the crest.
Mounted men were circling and hacking at each other in the nightgloom atop the hill. One group was clad in motley garb, the odds and ends of half a hundred mismatched armors it seemed, and where by all the gods had they come from? The other group were armsmen, outnumbered more than two to one and fast losing. As Elminster watched, one soldier of Athalantar broke free of the fray, spurring his horse desperately, and set off across the hills at a gallop.
The prince of Athalantar set his feet in the snow, raised his bow, and fired. The quarrel passed over the armsman's shoulder, and fleeing warrior galloped on. Elminster cursed and ran back for his third bow. Scooping it up, he sprinted along the edge of the hill. The distant armsman was smaller now, but coming into clear view as his horse climbed the unbroken snow of the next slope. Elminster aimed carefully, fired-and saw his quarrel speed true.
The armsman threw up his arms, tried to clutch at his back with both hands, and fell out of his saddle. The horse went on without him.
"I didn't think we had any bowmen with us, this night!"
Elminster turned in delighted recognition at that cheery voice. "Helm!"
The leather-jawed knight wore the same tattered leather armor, rusty gauntlets, dented helm, and stubbly beard El remembered-and probably, by the smell of him, hadn't taken them off or washed any part of him since that day on the meadow above Heldon. He rode a mean-looking black horse that was as scarred as its rider, and the long, curved sword in his fist was nicked and shining darkly with fresh blood.
"How came you here?" Elminster asked, grinning with the sudden hope that he might not die this night after all.
The knight of Athalantar leaned forward in his saddle. "We've just come from Lawless Castle," he said with raised brows. "Quite a few good men lying dead back there, but Mauri couldn't find Eladar among them."
"When I ran out of armsmen to kill, I came here," Elminster replied gravely. "They'd found the castle, and I had to slay the rest before they had a chance to report it. They went to a camp- those fires, there-and there's another band of armsmen, probably larger than this one, over there somewhere." He pointed into the night. "They were circling to take me."