Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [16]
Elminster twisted free of the tall, hook-nosed man who held him, and dove for the ground to avoid the sword slash he knew would come. The expected blade flashed past overhead, then the man was turning at the leader's shout to face the new threat.
Elminster's rings and the wand he wore at his belt had saved his life. The brigands been so intent on grabbing and breaking fingers and snatching away the smooth stick of wood to stay any magic he might hurl, that they'd not put a dagger in his throat.
He began crawling away from the trampled ground where they'd struggled, looking back all the while to avoid being taken from the rear. If he could get away-Then he saw the newcomer and struggled to his feet, This was no rival brigand come to settle scores or win a share of the loot. This was Sharantyr of the Knights. As he straightened, she spared time to flash a smile at him through her dance of striking steel. The three brigands were all around her now, tripping and stumbling over the body of the fourth. Her blade slid in and out, not daring to lunge full out in a killing thrust and thereby give another foe an opening to buy her death.
These were experienced warriors, not mere hungry hackers and stabbers. They would not fall easily, for all that they still gaped at her in wonder.
A woman-and so pretty, too, though her eyes held cold death for them, and her blade hissed like a striking serpent in her hand. She wore good leathers, but save for a gorget, she bore no metal plate to turn sword tip aside, And already she was panting, winded. Aye, for all her blade flashed so, they could take this one.
Abruptly she gasped and bent double. Grinning, Gaerth Wolfarm stepped in, drawing back his blade for a killing thrust.
"No!" Balrik roared from behind him. " 'Tis a trick, Gaer-"
His words died in his throat, too late by far, as Sharantyr straightened with a smile that chilled his blood, slashed open Gaerth's throat with a sweep of her sword, and shoved his body backward into Balrik's.
Cursing, Balrik stumbled aside, blade flailing in a desperate defense. But she was not coming for him. She'd turned, that beautiful long hair swirling, to slay Albeir.
Albeir o' the Axe. Albeir the veteran of half a hundred mercenary skirmishes on the Westgate caravan roads and in the Vilhon. Albeir the steadfast, who abruptly turned, white-faced, and sprinted away. Sharantyr took two running steps in pursuit, saw how he held his sword and that he was running toward Elminster, and snatched a dagger from her hip.
Balrik saw the blade spin to catch Albeir's ear in a gout of blood. He saw Albeir stagger, catch himself, and bear down on the wizard. The brigand grabbed the old man by the throat, swinging him around with brutal haste to serve as a shield.
Sharantyr halted and cast a look back at Balrik. He came on toward her, beginning to grin. Then he saw Albeir's grim face suddenly twist in pain. The old warrior's eyes went wide and he took a half step toward something unseen. Still staring, he crashed to the ground. Elminster looked down with evident sadness at the bloody dagger he held.
Balrik knew cold fear. The lady in leathers was turning back to him, blade low and deadly. It had seemed so easy, four on one, and an old man, too. Tymora spits on us from time to time, that minstrel had said back in Scardale. And look, 'twas the cold truth.
Then that blade came leaping at him again, and Balrik had no time for thought. Steel rang on steel inches from his nose as he parried desperately in the last instant before death would have found him. Then he had to do it again, gasping for air. Gods, this woman was not human! Where in the name of Tempus had she learned to wield a bla-there! Balrik saw an opening. His thrust, delivered with all he could put behind it, ran down her arm and laid open the leathers in a smooth, sliding strike. Her sword arm.
The silvery blade flew free, as he'd known it would, but she did not scream or fall back. She stepped into him, hard, and smiled into his face. "Good fight, carrion," she said calmly,