A stone turned under her foot, she slipped wildly, and her chin glanced off her knee, cutting short her speech and coming within a painful instant of biting off her own tongue. She winced, spat blood, and ran on, saying no more.
A thunderous rumbling—a coach or wagon, moving in dangerous haste—rose ahead, moving to the left and dying away into distance, only to end in a thunderous crash, and more screams, this time of horses in pain.
Panting, Narantha reached the crest of the ridge in time to see Florin, almost at the lip of the second and last ridge before the sunlight, fling himself flat on his face to avoid eating a war-quarrel.
Almost before the bolt passed over him to hum harmlessly off into the trees, he was up again in a sprinting charge, the crossbowman cursing and snatching out the longest dagger Narantha had ever seen—a knife as long as her own forearm. Two other crossbowmen in dark and tattered leathers were clustered at the ridge-lip with the one who’d just fired. The tallest was grimly advancing on Florin with one of those overlong daggers in each hand and his crossbow lying in the leaves behind him, and the last was working his windlass like a madman, glancing betimes over his shoulder at Florin but keeping most of his attention on the unseen road beyond.
Unseen crossbows snapped, farther away—probably across the hollow—and there were more shouts.
Narantha started to sprint in earnest, sobbing for breath, as the forester reached the three outlaws. His sword rang off the long knife of the one who’d fired at him, driving the man back on his heels—and Florin sprang aside from him to confront the man with two fangs, leaping high.
The man stabbed with one, raising the other as a guard—but gutted only air as Florin came down into a froglike crouch and launched himself like a hurled hammer at the man’s ankles.
The outlaw toppled helplessly face-first into the leaves, burying one of his blades almost hilt-deep in forest loam. On the far side of him Florin rolled over and up and slashed at the third man, taking him in the back of the neck as he was still crouched over his bow.
The bowman fell sideways, head jerking loosely as blood spurted, but Florin had no time to even look at what his blade had done; he was whirling to slash the outlaw he’d toppled, moving almost as frantically as that man rolled and twisted around to face him.
One-Knife was hurrying around his fallen comrade to get at Florin. Running hard, Narantha shrieked, “In the name of the king!”
Her cry brought One-Knife’s head snapping around to look at her, as Florin slashed the downed outlaw across the chest. His sword skirled across unseen armor there, and its owner hacked viciously at Florin’s swordarm with his remaining knife. Florin let go his sword to avoid losing his arm at the elbow—and crashed down on that knife arm with both knees, driving his own dagger into the man’s throat.
Narantha threw her dagger at One-Knife’s face. It whipped past his cheek harmlessly, but kept him staring at her long enough to give Florin time to roll aside and out of reach.
Giving Narantha a sneer, the last outlaw turned and raced after the forester, stumbling across the bodies of his comrades as Florin wisely gave up trying to scoop up his sword and kept on rolling, hard and fast, to find his feet among the roots of a duskwood.
The outlaw’s charge came with lightning-swift back and forth slashes of his knife at the fore, and Florin ducked behind the tree to use its trunk as a shield.
The outlaw stumbled on roots in his haste and Florin raced around the tree and tackled him from behind, the pair of them crashing and bouncing in wet leaves as Florin drove his dagger home again and again.
Into unyielding mail. Narantha was almost upon them now, winded and panting, but she started the raw, strangled beginnings of a scream as she saw One-Knife twist around and drive his long knife backhand at Florin’s shoulder—
The young forester flung himself away, off the outlaw, who rolled over with a triumphant snarl and scrambled to get up. Whereupon Florin arched, shoulders on the ground, and lashed out at the man with both boots, catching him just at that crouching moment when the forester’s feet were gathered under him and his balance was shifting. The man flew backward and sat on roots, bouncing and cursing—as Narantha ran up, scooped up a fallen knife, and stabbed clumsily at the nearest part of him she could reach, his shin, right above his boot.
The dagger spun out of her hand, not seeming to do much harm, but One-Knife roared in pain—and Florin landed on him hard, stabbing ruthlessly. The outlaw’s cry sank into a long groan that trailed into silence.
Florin whirled around, letting the dying man slump against the tree. “I gave you a command!” he snarled at Narantha, eyes ablaze and bloody dagger in hand.
“I don’t take orders from you!” she hissed back just as fiercely.
They glared at each other, breathing hard. Then Florin whirled away from her, jaw set, and ran to retrieve his sword.
Without another word he plucked it up and raced over the ridge, down into the sunlight beyond.
Leaving Narantha standing over three very dead men, sprawled on the leaves in their blood. She could see bright new mail through the slashes Florin’s steel had cut in their leathers; where would outlaws get such?
A matter for later. If, when “later” came, they were still alive to ponder outlaws who were not outlaws …
The fair flower of the Crownsilvers snatched up the only long knife she could see that wasn’t spattered with blood and ran after Florin, plunging down a tree-girt bank into the narrow vale beyond.
Hunter’s Hollow was a battlefield.
It was a pretty place where the forest rose in two tree-cloaked hills, and in the space between them curved the king’s road—a wide and high-crowned dirt way flanked by ditches. As Florin had said, a superb place for an ambush.
Two horses were lying dead in the road, and a man was lying in the dust where he’d been flung off the saddle of one of them, a heavy war-quarrel through his body and his face white and staring fixedly at nothing. There was astonishment on his frozen face—and it was an expression he’d worn often enough while Narantha was cursing Master Delbossan that she recognized him right away: the taller and quieter of the two guards Lord Hezom had sent to escort her to his home.
The other guard lay in a huddled heap in the road well off to the left, several crossbow quarrels standing up out of his body, and a dark lake of blood spreading around him.
More quarrels studded the road north of that corpse, to where a coach lay smashed and canted on its side in the ditch, two weakly thrashing horses tangled in a welter of harness and more quarrels—beasts that no longer screamed in agony, but coughed and bubbled blood from their muzzles, drooling out their lives. Narantha’s stomach heaved.
Off to Narantha’s right, along the road, Master Delbossan still seemed to live. He was crouching, a light crossbow bolt standing out of his shoulder above an arm that hung limp and useless, in the lee of a dead horse bristling with half a dozen bolts.
Florin was bounding down to Delbossan, sword held high—and a crossbow bolt came humming out of the trees on the far side of the hollow, flashing past his hip before he could even hope to dodge.
Narantha tried to scream, and succeeded only in choking on her own sickness. Spewing her guts out, she slipped and slid down the bank into the hollow, another quarrel thudding into the earth close beside her.
There came a sudden thunder of hooves from the north, then around the bend and down into the hollow came three riders—men dressed in new and clean flamboyant hunting leathers, astride magnificent horses.
“I thought I heard shouting,” the foremost called back to those behind, a silver hunting horn in hand. “Look ye: Here’s a coach down, and—”
A crossbow cracked, and the man with the horn gave a queer sort of sob as a crossbow bolt tore out his throat and hummed on its way. Swaying in his saddle, already starting to topple, he galloped on, dead or dying, until another crossbow fired, and his snorting mount took a bolt in the withers, squealed, and reared, lashing out a
t the sky in pain.
The dead man fell to the road dust like a grainsack, windlasses whirred madly in the forest—and Florin changed his mind about running to Delbossan, and swerved to leap a fallen guard and race up the far bank of the hollow, shouting something incoherent.
“Back!” cried the second rider to the third, hauling on his reins so hard that his mount reared, bugling in fear.
Crossbows cracked in unison, a quarrel snatched the sword he was frantically drawing right out of his hand, blood spraying—and a second quarrel laid open his ear and spun him right out of his saddle with a shout.
The third rider—a tall, broad-shouldered, bearded man—was already out of his saddle and racing up the slope into the trees that held the crossbowmen, gleaming sword in hand.
Narantha cowered away from the wildly dancing, riderless horse of the man with the horn, ducking away as deadly hooves lashed out in all directions. Maddened with pain, it raced off south, bucking and twisting. Gods above, Narantha thought, losing her footing again and clawing at bushes and weeds to try to keep her balance, what next?
A moment later, she found herself thinking: What superb horses! Who are these men?
The rider with the wounded hand and copiously bleeding ear had drawn his dagger and was staggering up the slope whence the deadly quarrels had come. White-faced and reeling, Delbossan staggered after him.
There were shouts in the trees, and violently dancing branches. Steel rang on steel, someone shouted, and someone else burst out of the trees and flung a crossbow full in the face of the man with the bleeding ear. The wounded rider fell over, losing his dagger, and was promptly pounced upon and stabbed. Delbossan lifted his sword awkwardly, in his off-hand—then retreated, cursing weakly, as a second man joined the first, followed by a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth.
Then Florin sprang out of the trees in an explosion of leaves, sword first, and slammed into the rearmost two, sending them all tumbling down the slope and taking the legs out from under the other “outlaws.”
Someone screamed hoarsely, back in the trees, and the third rider loped out of them, blood all over his sword and a ruthless smile on his face, and came leaping down to join the fray.
Florin rose up out of the tangle hacking like a madman, and Delbossan lurched forward to chop whoever he could reach. Bouncing ribbons of slashed leather revealed more bright mail as the crossbowmen struggled to their feet, cursing and shouting. The moment they saw the bearded third rider, they ignored Florin and Delbossan, crowding forward to slash and stab at this new target.
Who had both sword and dagger, and wielded them with deadly skill, crafting a wall of ringing steel that brought death to the first two who tried to wade through it. Fighting furiously, Florin took down a third, and in the frantic swordplay that followed Narantha saw Delbossan grunt and grapple a man from behind. They struggled together, snarling, and beyond them one outlaw sprang forward to bear down the bearded rider’s sword arm, the last outlaw lunged, thrusting hard over it at the man’s face—and Florin slashed that thrust aside, wielding his steel in wild and frantic parries that took him reeling aside entangled with one outlaw. The bearded man’s superb blade lashed out so flickering-fast that the second outlaw was going down, head wobbling atop his slit throat, before he truly realized he was dying.
“No! Not supposed to—” he said plaintively, blood bubbling forth at his every word, and he fell on his face.
The bearded man reached over him to slice the throat of the crossbowman struggling in the horsemaster’s grip, turning to snap at Florin as he did so: “Take him alive! It makes the questioning easier!”
Somewhere behind them all, Narantha gasped.
Florin, however, was gasping too, doubled over and clutching his ribs with bloody fingers as if he could stop the welling blood. The slash was deep; he was touching one of his own ribs through the slippery stickiness …
The last “outlaw” spun away from the faltering forester, grinning savagely, and flung his blade full in the bearded man’s face.
The parry was swift and hard, but sent the bright blade clanging out of its wielders hands, and the grinning outlaw sprang forward, drawing a needle-blade dagger that glinted bright purple in the sunlight.
“Poison!” Delbossan shouted hoarsely, as the bearded man reached for his own dagger, the “outlaw” leaped, and Florin flung his sword, sobbing in pain. End over wobbling end it flashed, to bite deep into the hand that held the poisoned dagger, and snatch it away, trailing a finger.
The “outlaw” shrieked in pain, and the bearded man brought his empty hand up in a roundhouse blow that lifted the man off his feet, scream ending in a clattering of teeth clashing together, and let him crash limply to the ground, senseless.
“Well fought!” the bearded man boomed, striding forward to ease Florin to the ground. “What’s your name, lad, and where hail you from?”
“F-Florin,” Florin managed to gasp, shuddering. He barely saw a gleaming steel vial being unstoppered under his nose, but it flooded down his throat cool and soothing, and the pain ebbed instantly. “Florin Falconhand,” he gasped, “of Espar. What’s yours?”
He was still too pain-dazed to lift his head and look around, and so did not know that Delbossan and the Lady Narantha were already kneeling in the road, but he did hear Narantha gasp at his blunt asking.
“Azoun,” the bearded man said with a smile—a smile that broadened as a stunned Florin gaped at him. “Azoun Obarskyr, of all Cormyr.”
If the glare that Lord Crownsilver leveled at the war wizard whose hands cradled and gave life to the speaking-stone sizzled with searing fire, the look with which Lady Crownsilver favored that same mage held deadly ice.
He met both dooms with an urbane smile and the words, “I’m not listening, lord and lady; you may continue to speak freely, in utmost confidence.”
Narantha’s father glanced mistrustfully around the chamber, deep in the Royal Court of Suzail—and her mother snapped, “Piffle! You’re hearing every word, varlet!”
“True,” the War Wizard replied solemnly, “but I’m not listening to them.”
Narantha’s tinkling laughter rose out of the speaking stone at that, causing the Lady Jalassa to wail, “My baby!” once more, which turned Narantha’s laughter into a despairing, embarrassed, “Moth-er!”
“Well, you’re safe,” Lord Crownsilver said gruffly, “and so’s the king. And you played some small part in foiling the mysterious assassins. We’re proud of you, lass. Now you just sit tight, right where you are—never stepping out of sight of Lord Hezom or his chatelaine for an instant, do you hear?—until we see you again. Whoever sent those slayers will be furious, and will try for you next, so no more gallivanting around the woods with young commoners! I absolutely forbid such conduct! Do you hear me well, daughter?”
“Daddy!” Narantha protested. “ ’Twas not like that at all! We did no ‘gallivanting,’ if that’s your clumsy euphemism for rutting, and whatever his birth, he’s a fine and loyal subject of the king!”
“I’m sure,” Lord Crownsilver said curtly. “Just remember what I said—if you’re a true Crownsilver, and would like to remain so in our eyes.”
He wagged an imperious finger at the war wizard, and added, “This converse is at an end.”
The two Crownsilvers rose together, ignoring both the nodding war wizard and Narantha’s faint and fading farewells as the speaking-stone lost its glow of operancy, and strode into the innermost chamber, closing the door firmly.
The war wizard (they had not troubled to remember his name) had earlier assured them it was shielded to ensure utmost privacy—from war wizards and great archmages half Faerûn away, not merely lurking servants—but Lord Crownsilver trusted no wizard. He tapped the great crystal that topped his cane and murmured a word over it, saying nothing more until its kindling glow became a steady radiance. Then he held it out horizontally, and his wife sat herself with deft dignity in one of the waiting chairs and took hold of the other end of it
.
“Gods above,” Lord Crownsilver hissed, leaping in before his wife’s tongue could rule their converse, “but I am more furious than I have ever been, in all my life! Our daughter—our daughter—bedded by some unshaven backwoods lout! And now she wants to wed him, too!”
“Don’t be silly,” Lady Crownsilver hissed. “We won’t allow her to do anything of the sort, and after she’s raged about it for a tenday or so and smashed enough things over the heads of loutish servants who frankly deserve it, she’ll be tired of him and be on to someone else, as she always does. Someone more suitable! We’ll see to that, and so will the court, after I say a few of the right words to the right people!”
“But Nantha is ruined,” Lord Crownsilver said angrily, “and our reputations with her! How can we expect anyone to believe she’s untouched? Anyone who matters?”
“Maniol, stop bellowing foolishness.” Lady Jalassa’s voice was as iron-hard as usual, but it held a cold commanding note her lord had heard only once or twice before. “We will not have to convince anyone of any social standing to believe in anything—because we will not tell them what befell our Nantha. So they will never know.”
“But Kim—”
“Your mother will know nothing if you say nothing, Maniol. For once.” Now Jalassa’s voice was like a stone dungeon door grating shut.
For the first time in his life, Lord Maniol Crownsilver looked at his delicate, diminutive wife with something akin to fear.
“So who is this ‘Florin Falconhand,’ anyhail?”
Highknight Arglas Duskeldarr shrugged. “Some backwoods bumpkin with a fair face, the luck of loving Tymora Herself, and a quick blade. Too clever by half, so he’ll doom himself within the month, and end up dead behind some tree with a dagger in his vitals, black-tongued with poison in some noble’s private feasting room because he refused to join in treason—or we’ll be dismembering him, ye and I, on Vangey’s orders. That’s what befell the last half-dozen lads Azoun liked the look of, anyhail.”
Swords of Eveningstar Page 11
