Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [15]
Just like the Old Mage, walking away into the trees.
* * * * *
Elminster walked on into the deepening forest, just walking ever onward, tree-cloaked hillsides rising and falling under his feet. He felt empty and weak, as useless as a rotted log, and at the same time restless with the power that fairly crackled within him. Power he could not use, could not touch, dare not try to unleash. "By Mystra's touch," wizards often swore. By Mystra's touch, indeed.
His wandering feet brought him to the edge of a little gully, and Elminster paused a moment, gazing about to choose his route onward. He heard the faintest of sounds in the underbrush far behind him and nodded. The fifth time… too often for all such noises to have been small, disturbed forest creatures.
Someone-or something-was following him. Someone intelligent and with deliberate purpose. Someone who took care to keep out of sight. Elminster sighed and turned to face back the way he had come. "Ye may as well walk with me," he announced to the woods, "though truth to tell ye I'd prefer silent company this day."
Silence greeted him, the listening, waiting silence of the forest. The old wizard joined its wait for a breath or two and then shrugged, turned about, and went on. Not a friend, then-or not overbold, at least.
His hand strayed to the hilt of the belt knife he'd almost forgotten and then fell away again. Perhaps the magic he wore would suffice-in rings and pipe and wand, and even in the dagger strapped inside his right boot, whose soft sole was already wearing thin-even if the Art of his head and hands had deserted him. Elminster feared he'd soon have to find out.
He shrugged, trotted down a little bank, and plowed through a hollow that was ankle deep in dry leaves. He climbed its far side steadily and walked deliberately on into the rising land beyond, but paused in a stand of massive shadowtops to listen.
After what seemed like a long time, he heard the sound he'd waited for. Now was as good a time as any to look at death, he supposed wryly. He turned and took one step around the dark trunk of a forest giant, laid a hand on his belt knife-and the world fell on him, gauntleted hands smashing brutally into his face and stabbing steely fingers at his throat.
3
Doomed Not to Walk Alone
Death came for them with cold fury. The four brigands, intent on robbing an old man in fine robes, the sort of person who might well have a gold coin or two stitched into belt or boot top, did not hear their doom coming down on them.
One looked up too late. Long brown hair swirled as a leather-clad figure raced through the trees, sword held high. The staring brigand raised his dagger too slowly. He spun to a blood-spattered fall, throat cut open, as the swordswoman stormed into their midst.
Then her silvery blade was leaping everywhere, like a many-headed striking snake. Storm Silverhand had taught her things with a sword, and she was almost as fast as the famous Bard of the Blade.
Balrik Daershun was also counted fast and able with a blade. He'd ridden in the forefront of Lashan's troops, not so long ago, when they'd cut down full-armored Sembian lancers on the road south of Essembra. He'd killed four that day, leaping from his mount to carry the last lancer out of his saddle, his dagger finding the visor-slit even before the antagonists struck the ground together. Men had spoken of Balrik's fighting with awe and praise, and he'd been toasted with much wine.
Toasts had been fewer since, but Balrik's blade still served him. In the final rout of Lashan's leaderless host, Balrik and a dozen comrades had carved their way through a well-armed Cormyrean horse patrol to escape.
Outlaws led a hard life. Since that battle, Balrik had learned to fear arrows and quarrels from afar. He had only three companions left now, but two of them were nearly as good with a blade as he was, and he feared no man who came at him with a sword.
After that first whirl and flurry of steel, Balrik began to think he'd not be given time enough to learn to