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She whirled, Spellfire blazed before his eyes, and he danced away with a
startled cry, Shandril looked stricken, "Sorry, Mirt-I didn't mean to..."
"But you almost did, anyway," he growled. "Come on, lass-we've got to get out
of here before all the Zhentarim in Faerun come down on us."
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Shandril shook her head, her face white to the lips, "I'm not running anymore,
Go if you wish-I'll stay and fight, as long as there're fools to challenge
me,"
Mirt rolled his eyes. "Ye'll find no shortage of battle, then," He looked over
his shoulder at the two Harper women and moved his fingers in a certain sign.
The pleasure-queens traded glances, Belarla swallowed, looked at Oelaerone
with an unspoken prayer in her eyes, and glided forward with silent speed,
From behind she slid one slim, skilled hand over Shandril's nose and mouth,
and her other arm around Shandril's throat.
Shandril stiffened. Spellfire flashed, and Belarla hissed in pain as it cooked
her arm and fingers. She was sobbing by the time Shandril's eyes dimmed and
she went limp. The Harper made sure she was senseless, and then lowered her
gently to the street,
The Old Wolf bent over Belarla. Tears of pain ran down her cheeks as she knelt
on the cobbles, Shandril across her lap, Mirt handed two steel vials to
Oelaerone, gesturing for her to pour it down Belarla's throat. "Healing
potions," he said gruffly, "See that she drinks them both-every drop,"
Then he scooped up Shandril, grunted as he heaved her onto his shoulders, and
said gruffly, "Thanks, Belarla. Myrintara should he able to set things right
for you again, if we can reach her,"
Belarla swallowed, shuddered as the potions took effect, and said faintly.
"I-I can manage."Then her gaze rose from an empty vial to fix Mirt with a
different pained expression, "By my halidom?"
Mirt spread his hands, "Eh ... heroes say it in all the best bardic tales," he
said sheepishly.
Belarla made a rude sound. Oelaerone pointed silently, Mirt glanced along her
arm and saw perhaps twenty-no, more-Zhentilar warriors approaching warily down
the street. He eyed them and asked quietly, "Know you any hiding-holes? They'd
come in mighty helpful, about now."
"Isn't it a bit late to be thinking about that?" Belarla asked him, but
Oelaerone pointed again-this time, at the stones under their feet.
"The sewers," she said simply, then turned, "This way," They hurried after her
shapely form, She led through a short alley and then across a broad street,
Another alley led them out onto a long, winding lane, Oelaerone turned down
it, ducked into a warehouse, and slipped through a dim maze of high-stacked
crates and curious men, to yet another street.
Mirt shifted Shandril over one shoulder, drew his sword, and trotted after
her,
Belarla watched behind.
As Oelaerone crept into another alley. Belarla said in satisfaction, "We must
have lost them by now-nicely done, Oelae."
They were all startled when a tall, burly Zhentarim mage appeared in their
path on the next street In addition to robes rolled up at the sleeve, the
wizard wore a single metal gauntlet that winked with spell lights. For a
moment, Mirt and the pleasure queens blinked abruptly at him. The street had
been empty moments before.
The mage took one huge step and viciously swung his studded gauntlet
backhanded at Oelaerone. She dived headlong to avoid being struck. He ignored
her, striding on toward the Old Wolf and his burden.
Mirt raised the tip of his sword, but the wizard darted to the Old Wolf's
burdened side, keeping Shandril between himself and Mirt's blade.
"It's past time for you to lie down and die, old man," the Zhentarim snarled
contemptuously, leaning in to smash Mirt across the face with the gauntlet.
The enchanted weapon was hard, and its magic numbed and froze the victim for
an instant so that the full force of its blow struck home. Mirt staggered.
Belarla's blade sang in at the wizard, The sudden sparks of a protective spell
spat and shimmered where the blade touched the wizard, then the knife tumbled
away, The Zhentarim stiffened, hissed a word, and a web of radiant bolts
flared out. Belarla reeled back, clutching her breast in pain, and fell
heavily to her knees, her sword clattering on the cobbles.
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Then the Zhent turned and ran after Mirt, grabbing at Shandril's dangling
throat with the gauntlet. Mirt snarled and thrust with his blade, but
Shandril's body hampered his weapon; he could not get a good strike at the
mage without carving her, too. He lowered her to the ground so that he could
battle this wizard-but the Zhentarim already had his gauntlet locked around
her throat in a strangling grip, and had begun to mouth the words of another
spell.
Mirt dropped both Shandril and his sword. His fist crashed into the man's
mouth-and the wizard's head snapped back, spun, and slumped. Sightless, fading
eyes swung past him as the man dropped to the street.
"Getting old, am I?" Mirt growled as he hoisted Shandril onto his shoulders
again. With great satisfaction, he kicked the Zhent's body, hard.
Oelaerone was helping Belarla up.
"How much farther is this way to the sewers?" Mirt snarled, looking around for
other Zlients. He saw none-only curious citizens glancing up from their daily
business. Thank Tymora for that. Oelaerone was pointing again, and Mirt
anxiously lumbered in the indicated direction.
"I've run down more streets in the Realms..." he muttered as they turned
another corner. This street was narrower, and it smelled; strewn garbage and
pools of water were frequent, and Mirt's boots skidded more than once.
"Not far now, Old Wolf," Belarla said from somewhere near his elbow.
Mirt looked around at the squalid street and replied, 'You know this area? I
just hope he was worth it, Belarla-whoever he was,"
"If you weren't carrying the most important being in Faerun right now,"
Belarla replied calmly, "I'd trip you into that next pool."
Mirt grunted, swayed, and managed to get through it upright "I always wondered
what pleasure-queens did for entertainment."
"Go down sewers, of course," Oelaerone said sweetly, from just ahead, "After
all, folk say our morals belong in the sewer-why shouldn't our bodies keep
them company?" She led the way into a short, stinking alley and, with a grand
flourish, indicated a pile of dung.
Mirt set Shandril gently down in the crook of his arm, and stared at it. "I
was picturing something a little closer to a door," he rumbled.
Belarla sighed and dug into the pile with both hands. "Come on," she said over
her shoulder, "We'll have plenty of chances to wash all this off, down below."
"I was afraid of that," Mirt growled, handing Shandril's limp form to
Oelaerone.
Water dripped, echoing somewhere in the dim distance. The archways overhead
were old and cracked and covered with slimy growths. Here and there, the ends
of pipes dripped filth clown into the thick, oily brown waters they toiled
through, The muck was chest high.
Mirt ducked under a sagging pipe and muttered, "No sneezing, now,"
Belarla struggled along at his elbow, helping to keep Shandril's face out of
the grime, "Could this be the worldfamous Mirt the Moneylender I see? Lord of
Waterdeep? Harper Lord? Scourge of the Sea of Swords? Mirt the Merciless, Old
Wolf of the North? This same old man, plastered with excrement?" [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]