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  fire crackled from his hand, and Shandril saw three men in dark armor convulsed in the grip of Narm’s

  magic before it faded. Their screams faded a tittle more slowly.

  "Gods above, Mistress!" Tespril was frightened, her eyes large and dark. "They've destroyed the

  gargoyles already. Shouldn't we throw spells now, before our soldiers are gone, too?"

  Gathlarue was kneeling, nursing fingers that still smoked from where the rings she'd worn had flared

  and burned awry. She looked up and hissed in anger and pain, "Do you command here, Miss?"

  Tespril shook her head frantically. "No, no, Mistress," she said, almost pleading in anxious haste. "Yet

  look! Our best chance slips away"

  Leaning over the edge of the rocky height where they crouched, she pointed at the trampled grass

  below. The meadow was lit up as spellfire lashed out again, and more Zhentilar died.

  Gathlarue reached out and caught hold of Tespril's arm and breast with cruel fingers, digging them in

  bruisingly deep. Tespril hissed in pain, but the sorceress clawed her way up her younger apprentice

  until she stood upright again. Swaying slightly, Gathlarue stared down at the ruin of her force.

  Freed, Tespril sobbed in pain and shrank away. Then Mairara felt the cold eyes of her mistress turn on

  her. "The mistake is mine," Gathlarue said in a soft voice. "I was too impatient to get my hands on

  spellfre." Site turned to look at the battle below once more, and spellfire flashed again. "Now, Mairara,

  is your chance to prove yourself. Use the power you planned to betray me with - show me how good

  your killing sorcery has become!"

  Mairara stiffened, met the cold eyes of her mistress for a long, chilling moment, and then whispered,

  "I'll make you proud of me, Lady."

  Gathlarue raised a hand. "Do nothing yet to draw their attention to us up here."

  Mairara had already raised her clawed hands to work a spell that would blast the fray below with

  lightning. At her mistress's words, she lowered them, frowned, and then nodded suddenly in decision.

  Flicking hair back over her shoulder with one hand, she gestured with the other, muttering.

  The sprawled form of the gargoyle Mirt had slain now moved, wriggled, slithered, and seemed to flow,

  unseen amid the tumult of clashing blades and lumbering Zhenti-lar. It rose slowly and split. twisting

  and flowing into sudden sharp definition-becoming the alert, deadly-looking forms of two smaller,

  unharmed gargoyles.

  Mairara made a growling sound deep in her throat, and spread her hands. Gathlarue smiled. Somewhere

  in the darkness behind them, Tespril whimpered. Mairara, eyes flashing, gestured again, lips drawn

  back from her teeth in killing laughter.

  Delg turned, bloody axe in hand. Something had moved-there! Ye gods! More gargoyles were leaping

  and flapping out of the night, heading for Shandril. Roaring, the dwarf bounded away from the

  Zhentilar who'd been cautiously approaching and ran full tilt toward the lass, swinging his axe for

  momentum as he went.

  Narm threw something into the fallen lantern's flames to make them blaze like a bonfire. By its leaping

  firelight, he spotted the gargoyles. With one hand, he caught Shandril's arm and dragged her around to

  see this new danger. Small bolts of light streamed from his other hand, but the monster ignored them as

  it plunged toward the human maid, claws reaching out to rend and slay.

  Shandril turned in time to stare into red, baleful eyes close enough to touch easily with her fingertips.

  Startled, she screamed-spitting spellfire into the face of the thing as it crashed into her, slashing with

  cruel claws. She screamed again. Spellfire suddenly exploded into a bright ball around her that made

  Narm stagger back-and the gargoyle disappear forever.

  In the wake of her fire-burst, Shandril lay dazed, smoke drifting from her torn clothing. Where the

  gargoyle's claws had slashed her, ribbons of blood glowed briefly with the came radiance as spellfire,

  and then faded.

  On the trampled grass nearby lay Narm, groaning and clutching at his eyes. The burst of flame must

  have blinded him, at least for now.

  Delg cursed as he ran toward them both. He saw the second gargoyle flying in for the kill. sinuous

  stone wings beating as it stretched out long-clawed limbs. With a last, desperate hound, Delg leapt at it

  It sensed him, and slid aside with frightening speed. Delg found himself about to pitch over its moving

  body, but he hooked his axe around one of its wings. The shock as he was brought up hard against a

  stony flank a moment later told him he'd succeeded. The gargoyle had crashed to the ground.

  The dwarf kicked and scrabbled against living stone for a few frantic moments, then got to where he'd

  hoped to be: crouched low astride the back of the gargoyle, with a firm grip on the root of one wing. He

  raised his axe to hack and hew.

  The gargoyle charged at Shandril-and with jarring force Delg brought his axe down on the side and top

  of its head. Stone chips flew. Beneath him, the monster shook and screamed. It tried to stand up, stony

  muscles surging-and Delg hacked at it again, putting his whole shoulder behind the blow. Sparks flew

  from the striking edge of his axe, and the gargoyle shuddered. A good part of its shoulder broke off and

  fell away-and a maddened instant later, the thing and Delg were both aloft. The beast whirled, buffeting

  Delg with stony wings, trying to shake him off.

  At the stars overhead, Delg snarled, "For the glory of the Ironstars!" and brought his axe crashing down

  again. The unwilling mount of living stone he rode plunged earthward with terrifying speed.

  Rocks rushed up to meet him like hungry teeth. Delg clung to the gargoyle, hacking desperately. Air

  roared past him in an angry wind-and at the last instant, the gargoyle twisted aside and shook itself,

  tearing his fingers free.

  The impact of the stone, smashing through his chest and guts like a great fist, drove the breath from

  him, and his axe spun away like a hurled hammer. Delg scarce heard the despairing cry of the Zhentilar

  it happened to strike, for he himself hung impaled on stone.

  Stone-always his friend, something he could work to his bidding, and trust, something solid and

  dependable.

  As if from a great distance, Delg Ironstar heard the voice of one of the elders, telling him long ago-so

  long ago-From stone we come, to stone we return, in the end.

  He looked out as the shattering pain rose to choke him, and he saw Shandril's eyes blazing with grief

  and shock as she screamed his name. She was running toward him through the fray. Dying, Delg of the

  dwarves of Mintarn Mountain, Harper, and Shield-Son of Clan Ironstar, wondered if the young lass

  he'd come to love so much would reach him in time.

  Eleven

  TOO LITTLE TIME, TOO MUCH DEATH

  Splendid, heroic deaths? Only in tales, ballads, and books, kitten. Death in battle is always brutal,

  painful. and messy-and there's never time enough then for those heroic scenes legends tell of. Too little

  time, loo much death. There's never time enough in life for any splendid or heroic things, kitten.

  Remember that-and make time before you must die. Ifyou do that, you wil1 have forged a better life

  than most.

  Laeral of Waterdeep

  quoted in Words to an Apprentice Ithryn Halast

  Year of the Weeping Moon

  "Delg! Delg!" Shandril's eyes spilled over as she ra
n, heedless, across the trampled grass.

  The battle raged around her, Mirt grunting with effort amid the crashes of steel on steel. Unheeding,

  Shandril wept tears of fire and fell on her knees beside the dwarf.

  Delg was reaching a trembling, clenched hand to her, eyes glittering in agony. "Sh-Shan . . ." he gasped

  faintly,

  blood on his lips. "For..." His eyes were still beseeching her a breath later, when they went dark.

  In his ears, Delg heard the soft crackling of flames. The Lady Sharindlar had come for him, and his

  time in Faerun was done. Tears blurred his last sight of the human lass he'd given his life for, and he

  couldn't even tell her of the love he'd come to feel for her.... Raging against the Zhentarim who had

  brought him death, Delg Ironstar went down into the everlasting darkness, waving his axe.

  "No!" Shandril threw her arms around the hairy, sweatsoaked body, but the dwarf's eyes stared past

  her, dull and unmoving. She knew they'd never see her-or anything else-again, and she clutched Delg

  tightly, her face pressed against his hard, strong-smelling chain mail. And she cried.

  In the rocks high above, Mairara curled her lip in the darkness and gestured with both hands. The

  crippled gargoyle turned on broken wings to swoop down on the unguarded, weeping maiden.

  Shandril cried uncontrollably, body shaking.

  Mirt roared out as he ran for her. The Old Wolf finally reached her, shook her, and bellowed, "Shan!

  Shan! We need yer spellfire, now!"

  Shandril stared up through a rain of tears that would not stop falling, and saw the gargoyle veer off for

  another pass.

  Mirt shook her roughly. "No time, lass! We've-"

  A spell raked them from the rocks above, bolts of crackling lightning that made Mirt grunt and bite his

  lip as they jolted him. Shuddering, his hand reached out and tightly grasped the haft of Delg's axe.

  Shandril was oblivious, her face buried in the old dwarf's sweat-soaked leathers. She wept silently.

  "Gods aid me now!" Mirt cursed. He hurled the sobbing girl away and spun around.

  Just in time. A Zhentilar blade was already cutting the air toward his neck. Mirt raised his left hand.

  Delg's notched axe in it, and blocked the attacking sword. The impact shook both men, and the old

  merchant's own curving long saber was in the mans throat and out again while they were both still

  shaking.

  Another Zhent was hurrying at Mirt. The warrior held his blade low and deadly as he charged in, but

  was still steps away when flame rained down from above, cooking him and sending the old merchant

  staggering back, eyebrows smoldering.

  Thank Tymora and Mystra both for that carelessly hurled spell, the Old Wolf thought, wondering just

  how many Zhent wizards were waiting in the darkness up there. He'd led his friends right into a waiting

  trap this time ... all because he'd been foolish enough to think the wizards wouldn't know about the gate

  here. He quickly retreated to Shandril, glancing back to make sure no new dangers threatened. Only

  then did he discover where that last gargoyle had gotten to.

  There! High above in the night, the dark form of the gargoyle flapped in a tight turn, head leering

  down, preparing to dive....

  "Shandril!" Mirt growled, backhanding the weeping maid. "Aid me!"

  The sobs broke off just as the gargoyle plummeted out ad the night. With a curse, Mirt cast Delg's axe

  at it and grabbed the magical dagger at his belt. Another Zhentilar warrior was trotting out of the

  darkness, shield and sword saved. the Old Wolf knew he couldn't escape their blades forever.

  Then the air beside him exploded with a roar. Mirt cried turning his head away from the bright flash.

  He didn't the gargoyle burst into dust and flying stones, or the Zhentilar vanish into ashes and shifting

  smoke.

  Shandril looked around at the ruin she had wrought. Smoke rose in wisps from the blackened turf. A

  man was crawling slowly through the scorched grass toward her; she raised a hand to destroy him.

  Then she recognized Narm's head. A cold shiver ran through her as she realized just how close she'd

  come to slaying him. It could have been done in a moment; he would have been dead forever. It was all

  too frighteningly easy...

  "Now! Hit her now-before it's too late!"

  Without taking time to look, she hurled spellfire up at that shrill voice and was answered by more

  despairing screams-followed by a sharp cracking sound as rock shattered and began to slide.

  The ground shook. Smoldering figures in dark armor bounced and rolled amid tumbling stones. The

  ledge above the meadow where the Zhents had been broke off and slid down toward her. One slim

  figure floated in the air for a moment, rising above the cascading stones, and then flew to another rocky

  height, robes rippling.

  A Zhentarim! Shandril bared her teeth and hurled a gout of spellflame, blasting the rock where the

  dark-robed mage stood. Her foe rose above the shattered stone and hung in the air, mockingly. Arms

  raised, the Zhent began the gestures of spellcasting.

  With a shriek of fury, Shandril dashed her hands towards the ground, hurling spellfire downward. A

  moment later, she rose on columns of spellfire that pummeled the rock and turf beneath her, and she

  raced through the air toward the Zhent. A startled face gaped at her. The Zhent was a woman!

  Shandril charged right at her, eyes blazing fire. Gathlarue knew real fear for the first time in a long,

  long while. It hurt even to meet the maid's gaze-raw, burning pain that would have torn her apart if

  she'll not twisted free. Gathtarue turned in the air and fled, flying as fast as she could.

  Spellfire tore the night apart above her.

  Gathtarue found herself falling. Rocks rushed up to meet her. Her mind snatched desperately at spell

  phrases; she magically steadied her descent and came: to rest on smoking grass. Her hands trembled as

  she wove a shieldshaped wall of magical force before her, curving it to meet the cliff at her back.

  Spellfire struck Gathlarue's shield an instant after she was done. It splashed on bare earth, ignited grass-

  and then clawed its way along the spell-shield. The flash of its strike left her eyes watering. She closed

  them hastily as a second attack came, striking with such fury that it shook the shield and Gathlarue

  beneath it.

  Still flying, Shandril screamed with rage, but the magic defied her spellfire. She hurled fiery

  destruction a third time, feeling the deep ache that told her she had little energy left-and saw that bolt,

  too, lick harmlessly off the Zhentarim s invisible shield.

  Panting, Shandril landed on the smoking meadow, staring at the woman in dark robes. The sorceress

  turned her cruel, frightened face aside and would not meet her eyes. Breast heaving, Shandril stared at

  her enemy-and then her eyes narrowed, and she spread her hands over her head. She lashed out at the

  cliff behind the woman.

  Rock cracked, shook, and fell in a gathering roar. Mighty boulders crashed and rolled, and the

  Zhentarim dsappeared beneath them. Dust rose.

  Shandril stood ready, eyes hard, until it cleared.

  One of the mage's hands protruded from the fallen rocks, straining vainly toward the open air and

  freedom she'd never reach.

  Her fingers reached, twitched feebly, and then fell still. Puffing. Mirt rose from atop a rocky knob, the

  blood of Zhents all over him. The meadow was empty of living enemies at last
. He raised his eyebrows

  and spared breath enough to mutter, "So young ... so much power..." "Gods," Mairara whispered to

  herself, crouching whiteknuckled behind a rock in the heights above the meadow. Then her eyes

  widened in horror as the veteran Zhentilar beside her stood up and calmly hurled a dagger at the maid

  below, putting all the strength in his shoulder behind the smooth throw.

  Steel spun through the night. The venomed blade had served Unthlar Highsword well over the years,

  slipping into many a rival's back or unwary eye. Its touch meant death. Unthlar watched his deathfang

  hurtle toward Shandril's stall, unprotected back, and he started to smile.

  Too soon. Mirt saw the flicker of its flight. Groaning in his haste, he leapt between Shandril and the

  attack, throwing up both his own blades to knock the dagger aside.

  At the same time, words of soft anger came out of the night beside the puffing merchant. The strongest

  spell Narm could hurl-one that always left him utterly drained of wits and strength-rent the night,

  exploding in the air right in front of Unthlar.

  Mairara shut her eyes and flung her head to one side as wetness splattered the rocks around. She looked

  back in time to see Unthlar's lower half-all that was left of himstagger backward and fall heavily among

  the rocks beside her.

  She heard curses and scrambling sounds from behind her as the few surviving Zhentilar fled in terror.

  Then Mairara looked down again-straight into the hard eyes of the maid who bore spellfire.

  Shandril stood staring up at the Zhentarim sorceress. Her hair was moving about her shoulders with a

  life of its own, curling in slow menace.

  "By Mystra's mercy," Mairara whispered, looking at Shandril with wide eyes, "make it quick."

  Shandril granted her that last wish. When the roaring had died away, all that was left was drifting

  smoke and the cracking of overheated rock

  White-faced, Shandril looked down at Delg's still body, and then turned to look east. The tears that fell

  from her cheeks burned the ground they touched. "Right, then, Lord Manshoon," she said, voice brittle

  and quavering. "I've done all the running I'm going to do. Now you will learn what it is to be hounded!"