The wizard smiled softly, a snake contemplating prey that cannot escape. "Then in the morn they'll set out. You shall have twelve mages, Swordmaster—one of them Magelord Landorl Valadarm."
The warrior nodded, wondering privately whether Landorl was a fumbling dolt or someone who had simply earned Kadeln's displeasure. He hoped for the latter. Then this Landorl might at least be useful if the gods-cursed outlaws attacked the cutter.
The two men smiled tightly at each other, there on the battle¬ments, and then both turned their backs deliberately to show they dared to and strode slowly away with a show of casual un¬concern. Their every step told the world they were strong men, free of all fear.
The battlements of Sarn Torel stood still and silent, unim¬pressed, as they would stand when both men were long in their graves. It takes a lot to impress a castle wall.
*****
Elminster was happily blowing on scorched fingers, licking the last scraps of horseflesh from them, when one of the watch¬ers burst into the cavern and gasped out, "Patrol! Found the way in—killed Aghelyn, an' prob'ly more. Some o' them ran straight back to tell where we lair!"
All over the cavern men swore and scrambled to their feet, shouting. Sargeth cut through the din with a bellow. "Crossbows and blades; all but Mauri. The lads and the wounded, stand guard in the glowcavern—all others with me, now!"
As they ran through the darkness, swearing and ringing their weapons off the unseen stone in their haste, Sargeth added, "Brerest! Eladar! Try to get clear of the fight here and go after those who're running back to the wizards—you're the fastest afoot of all here old enough to swing a real blade. I need those armsmen all dead—or we will be."
"Aye," Elminster and Brerest panted, and went through the mouth of Wind Cavern in a roll. The quarrel that sought their lives hissed past and struck the rock within easy reach of Sargeth's head. The second one missed entirely—but Elminster came to a stop behind a snow-cloaked boulder in time to see the third take Sargeth in the eye, and drive him back like a crum¬pled bag of bones, to slide down the rock wall, twitching.
Elminster laid his drawn dagger beside him in the snow, snatched up the old, mended crossbow that had fallen from Sar¬geth's hands, and cranked at it for all he was worth. The wind¬lass clattered loudly, but outlaws were rushing past and firing their own bows now, and shouts told him that some of their bolts were finding their marks.
Loaded at last. "Tempus aid my aim," Elminster murmured, scratching his finger on his dagger tip until blood came to seal the prayer to the war god. Then he laid the ready bow down, whipped off the helm he wore, and waved it on one side of the boulder.
A quarrel hissed past. Elminster scooped up the bow and was around the boulder in an instant. As he'd expected, the arms¬man was standing to watch his target die—so Elminster had a clear shot at his face, past a knot of howling, hacking outlaws and coolly slaying armsmen.
El aimed carefully—and missed. Cursing, he leapt back—but Brerest came past him with a loaded crossbow of his own, set himself, and fired carefully.
The armsman had started to turn away, seeking cover. His face sprouted a quarrel, his head spun around, and he staggered back and fell.
Elminster threw down his bow, snatched up his dagger, and sprinted through the snow, dodging desperately fighting men. He was still a few hard-running paces short of the first rock large enough to shelter behind when an armsman rose from be¬hind the second rock, ready crossbow in hand, to aim into the fray in front of the cavern. Seeing Elminster, he swung his weapon around hurriedly. There was no way he could miss.
Elminster skidded to a desperate stop, then changed direc¬tion and dived into the nearest snowbank. He landed hard in a flurry of snow, slid across unseen smooth rock, and flipped over, expecting to feel the thump of death striking home at any mo¬ment.
It didn't come. El wiped snow from his face and looked up.
Brerest or one of the other outlaws had been lucky. The arms¬man was curled over the top of his rock, barehanded and groan¬ing, a shaft through his shoulder.
"Thankee, Tempus," Elminster said with feeling, took two running steps, and flung himself right over the top of the first boulder, heels first, to crash down on whomever might be there.
The armsman was on his knees, struggling with a jammed windlass; Elminster's landing smashed him to the ground like a rag doll, and El dragged his dagger across the man's throat a breath later. "For Elthryn, prince of Athalantar!" he whispered, and found himself blinking back sudden tears as his father's face came to mind.
Not now, he told himself desperately, and ran on toward the next boulder. The wounded man saw him and struggled to get aside, groaning. Elminster drove his dagger home and snarled, "For Amrythale, his princess!" Then he ducked down, scooped up the man's loaded bow from where it had fallen—and looked up in time to fire it into another armsman, who had just risen from cover with a spear in his hand. Ahead, another armsman took an outlaw quarrel in the hand, screamed, and fell back behind his rock, sobbing.
The clash of arms back by the cavern had ceased. El risked a look back and saw only dead men. They lay in bloody heaps in front of the cavern . . . and just a few paces away lay Brerest, both hands clutching forever at a quarrel that stood out of his heart.
Gods! Sargeth and Brerest both . . . and everyone, if those armsmen got word back to the wizards. How many armsmen were there? Four dead, for sure, Elminster thought as he ran for¬ward, crouching low, plus all those by the cavern. The hail of quarrels hissing up and down the ravine had ceased—was everyone dead?
No, the sobbing armsman and perhaps two more lay ahead, somewhere in these rocks. There had to be at least two patrols here, and they'd not have sent more than three from each pa¬trol—perhaps only three in all—to report to the wizards. To have any hope of catching them, he had to find the horses these'd come on, and ... of course! Some of the missing armsmen, two at least, were holding the horses below.
Elminster crawled around the boulder, keeping low, and took four daggers and a spear from the two dead men. An outlaw quarrel hissed out of the cavern and almost took him from be¬hind; he sighed and crawled on in the snow.
He had almost reached the sobbing armsman when another rose from behind a rock to aim carefully at the cavern mouth. El¬minster cast the spear; it was in the air before the man caught sight of him.
The armsman didn't have time to change his aim. His bow hurled a quarrel harmlessly down the ravine as the spear took him in the breast, plucking him away from his rock, and flung him back to crash down on his shoulders in the snow, bouncing and arching in agony.
Elminster's charge took him onto the armsman's bloody chest, and he stabbed down again with his bloody dagger. "For Elthryn, prince of Athalantar!" he snarled as he dealt death, and the warrior under his knees managed a startled look before all light fled from behind his eyes.
Elminster flung himself aside in a roll. Quarrels and spears from both ends of the ravine crossed in the air above the dead warrior where he'd been kneeling. Scrabbling in the snow, El-minster slew the man who was still clutching his bleeding hand. "For my mother, Amrythale!"
Panting, he took up the man's bow and ducked behind a rock to catch his breath and ready the weapon. His boots bristled with spare daggers now, and the bow was soon loaded. He crouched low, cradled it in his arms, and came around the last rock with his finger on the trigger.
No one was there. Elminster stood frozen for a moment, and then knelt down. Another outlaw quarrel hummed past to fall into the empty snows below the ravine. El watched it go, and then looked up. He could climb the shoulder of the ravine and from above see where the armsmen had gone; the snow had stopped falling and the wind had died, leaving the hills around white and smooth with fresh-fallen snow.
Everyone could see him as he climbed, too, aye—but then, Tyche put a little hazard into everyone's life.
Elminster sighed as he plucked the quarrel from its groove and slid it down into one of his boots. He left the bow cocked as he slung it across his back by the carry-strap and scrambled up the slope.
He'd not climbed more than his own height before a quarrel tore into the snow a handspan away from his head. El snatched at it, kicked himself free of the snowy rocks and frozen grass, and slid back down the slope, feigning lifelessness. The quarrel came with him as he crashed on his face in the snow, trying to keep his bow unbroken.
Tears blinded him for a moment, but his nose didn't seem broken. He blinked them away and spat out snow while he slid the bow free. It was unbroken; he loaded it, emitting a drawn-out rattling groan to cover the sounds he made.
An armsman with a second crossbow ready rose out of a snowy thicket nearby, looking for the man he'd hit. He and El¬minster saw each other at the same instant. Both fired. And both missed. Elminster found his feet as the quarrel sang past him—would he forever be running around this ravine, panting and slipping?—snatched daggers from his boots, and ran to¬ward the thicket, blades flashing in both fists. He was afraid the warrior had a third bow cocked and ready....
He was right. The armsman rose again with a triumphant smile on his face—and Elminster flung a dagger at him. The man's smile tightened in fear, and he fired in haste.
The quarrel leapt at Elminster, who flung himself desper¬ately over backward. As he fell, his knife met the quarrel with a clang and a spark. The dagger spun wildly away, and the quar¬rel burned past Elminster, ripping open his chin and thrusting his head around.
El roared in pain and fell on his knees, hearing the crunch¬ing of the armsman's boots behind him as the warrior came run¬ning. Elminster turned, shaking his head to clear it and growling at the pain. The man was scant paces away, sword raised to slay, when El flung the dagger in his other hand into the man's face.
It clanged harmlessly off the nose guard of the armsman's helm, but the man's swing missed the diving youth, the sword striking the snowy ground and the rocks beneath. The warrior roared and fell heavily on top of Elminster's left hand.
Elminster screamed. Gods, the pain! The man rolled about atop his hand, kicking at the snow to get a grip with his boots. Elminster sobbed, and the world turned green and yellow and swam fuzzily. He grabbed at his belt with his free hand. Noth¬ing there. The man grunted; Elminster felt the hot breath of the armsman turning to face him and bring his blade down. His weight drove the hidden bulk of the Lion Sword, on its thong, bruisingly into Elminster's chest.
Desperate, Elminster tore at the throat of his jerkin. His fin¬gers found the hilt of the sword. Over long nights in his first winter in the hills, he'd sharpened the broken stub of the blade until it had a keen, raw edge and point—but beyond the quil¬lons, the weapon wasn't even as long as his hand. Its puny length saved him now. As the armsman's face glared into his, inches away, and his elbow swept his sword up for a gutting thrust, Elminster thrust the Lion Sword up and into his eye.
"For Elthryn, prince of Athalantar!" he hissed—and as the hot rush of blood drenched him, found himself sinking into red, wet darkness....
*****
He was floating somewhere dark and still. Whispers rose and fell around him, half-heard through a slow, rhythmic thud¬ding. . .. Elminster felt the pain of his hand and an answering ache all around. In his head? Yes, and the white glow was rising and pulsing, now—the one he saw when he gathered his mind. The glow grew, and the pain lessened.
Ah, thus! Elminster pushed with his mind, and the white ra¬diance faded. He felt a little tired, but the pain receded ... he pushed again, and again felt weaker, but now the pain was al¬most gone.
So. He could push pain aside. Could he truly heal himself? El¬minster bent his will... and suddenly all his aches and hurts re¬turned, and he could feel cold, hard ground beneath his shoulders, and the wet stickiness of sweat all over. From the place of whis¬pers, he swam up, up, and burst out into the light....
The sky was blue and cloudless overhead. Elminster lay on his back on snowy rocks, stiff, cold, and aching. Gingerly, he rolled to one side and looked around. No sign of anyone or any move¬ment—good, because his head swam and pounded and he had to duck down again to catch his breath. The darkness again rushed up to claim him ... and it felt so good, his head so heavy....
*****
A little later, he rolled over. Snow vultures flapped heavily into the air, circled over the ravine, and squalled complaints at him.
The last armsman lay dead beside him, the Lion Sword in his face. Elminster winced at the sight, but put his hand to the blade, turned his head away, and pulled it free. Wiping it in the snow, he squinted at the dimming sky—steel-gray now, with the last light of day ebbing behind full clouds—and got up. He had a task to finish if he wanted to live.
He felt weak and a little numb. Down the ravine in the open space in front of the Wind Cavern, eight or more armsmen and more than twice that many outlaws lay dead, quarrels protrud¬ing from most of the still forms. The vultures were circling over¬head, and wolves would be here soon. Hopefully they'd find enough to feed on without entering the caves, where the weak would guard until armsmen came to hack them down. He'd have to slay more armsmen to prevent that. . . and he was getting sick of killing. El grinned weakly as he went down the ravine, averting his eyes from the sprawled dead he passed. Some brave outlaw warrior he was!
At the mouth of the ravine was a large trampled area trailing off into tracks of horses coming and leaving. The armsmen must have given their fellows up for dead. Elminster's shoulders sagged. He couldn't outrun horses in this deep snow. He and the other survivors were doomed ... unless he gathered all the bows and blades he could, took them to the last outlaws waiting in the darkness, and made the caves a death-trap for the armsmen. Still, some would survive to identify the lair for later forays, and besides, what if they began by hurling a fire-spell into the caves? No.
Elminster flopped down onto a boulder to think. His sudden descent saved his life; a crossbow quarrel hummed just over his head to vanish into a snowbank close by. The youngest prince of Athalantar—perhaps the last prince of Athalantar—dived hastily off his boulder into the snow, face first, and floundered about in the chilly stuff until he was huddled behind the rock. He peered up whence the bolt had come.
