Finder's Bane - Kate Novak [2]
Butternut nickered softly and stopped. Joel halted beside her. Now he could hear what her more sensitive ears must have heard earlier-the clash of steel against steel. Somewhere in the woods to the east someone- several someones-were battling with swords. Joel spied a narrow path leading in the direction of the noise.
The young priest pulled his mare off the trail and tied her to a low branch. Magically reassured, the beast commenced to graze on the undergrowth. The bard pulled up the hood of his green cloak and drew his sword before he began moving stealthily down the path toward the sounds of battle.
The trees on either side of the path grew more sparse, and Joel could make out figures in a clearing up ahead. The bard ducked behind a tree and peered around the trunk to assess the situation.
In the center of the clearing stood a granite boulder over eight feet high and thirty feet around. Five armed men had cornered a lone swordswoman up against the rock. From the black and yellow badges sewn on their leather jerkins, Joel could tell that the men were Zhentilar, soldiers of the Zhentarim, the Black Network.
Branson had warned Joel about them. The Zhentarim shipped their honest goods down the Northride Road through Shadowdale, but there were certain goods that Shadowdale's lord, its wizard, and its people would not stomach. These included mercenaries, arms, and slaves, which the Zhentarim was forced to bring through Daggerdale. To protect this illicit trade, the Black Network sent soldiers to patrol Daggerdale by leave of the puppet rulers it had set up in the town of Dagger Falls. The Zhentilar, Branson had explained, were a menace to any goods not belonging to their masters and harassed travelers on principle. The Zhentilar in the clearing weren't much older than Joel, but they were all armed with swords, and their eyes were cold and pitiless.
Their chosen prey of the moment was barely more than a girl, barefoot and dressed in a long skirt and a tunic, both woven from brown wool. A small leather backpack hung from her left arm, serving as a shield. If not for the cutlass she wielded in her right hand, Joel might have taken her for a Dalelands shepherdess. Considering her dark skin and short bushy hair and the curved blade, Joel wondered if perhaps she was an askara, a fighting woman from one of the southern empires. Whatever her origins, she was certainly no stranger to combat.
Two Zhentilar already lay on the ground. One was a soldier with a fatal gash across his throat, while the other was a spellcaster with a dagger in his chest. Despite having felled two of her seven attackers, the swordswoman was hard pressed now. With her back against the boulder, she couldn't be surrounded easily, but neither could she escape. Although three of the five surviving Zhentilar hung back, they made an effective fence of steel behind the other two soldiers, who harried her like dogs who had cornered a fox. Blood seeped from several small cuts on her arms, and she appeared to be tiring. From time to time, she let the point of her sword droop carelessly. It was only a matter of time before she would make some fatal error.
There was no question in the bard's mind that he would help the young woman. He would have liked to ponder until he could come up with a foolproof plan, but there wasn't time. Certainly the odds weren't favorable for a bold assault. That left deceit. Joel grinned as a wild scheme took shape in his head.
According to Branson, the Zhentilar were used to taking orders from their mages. With its mage captain felled, this patrol was obviously in need of new leadership. Joel waved his fingers about his body, chanting a simple illusion spell to mimic the outfit of the dead Zhentarim wizard. The fabric of his cloak shimmered until he appeared to be wearing black and yellow robes emblazoned with a Zhentarim badge. With the same spell, he covered his face with the illusion of a long gray beard and cloaked his sword with the shape of an oaken staff.
Taking a deep breath, Joel stepped into the