There were four men-lawless adventurers wielding swords and not bows or spells-and they stood large and tall in their dirty and mismatched armor. They swaggered down out of the trees without haste and ranged themselves across her path with crossed arms and confident sneers.

"Well, well," the tallest one said slowly, an unfriendly and yet at the same time overly friendly gleam in his eyes. "The gods do bring us some wonderful things. Gems, good swords, coins in plenty… and now, a beautiful wench."

"I'm in haste," Sharantyr said warningly, not slowing her slow but steady walk, "and shan't suffer any delay. Please stand aside."

"Shan't you, now?" another of the brigands laughed, as his fellows snorted and guffawed.

"I thank you for your generous and courteous warning, lady fair," the tallest outlaw told Sharantyr mockingly. "But I fear we must insist you tarry with us-detained, you might say, at our pleasure."

Sharantyr sighed, drew her blade, and broke a gem across its keen edge. "Then it must be swords between us," she warned.

There was another chorus of laughter and snorts of mirth-wrapped around loud groans of mock sorrow, this time. They waved their own swords at her and took a step forward in unison.

"Don't slay her outright," the leader said. " 'Twill be far less fun with a corpse!"

Sharantyr gave him a wintry smile. "My thoughts exactly," she replied. "Wherefore I'd prefer to spare you. Live to fight another day, sirs. You stand in peril of death if you attack me."

"We'll be the judge of that," the tallest brigand sneered. "You're not the only one running around Faerun with a little magic, you know."

He nodded to his fellows, and they all muttered something, more or less in unison. Shandril let fall Flamewind's reins and took a step or two away, in case some fell magic should smite her weary mount whilst rebounding from her own protective enchantments.

The brigands' blades were suddenly alive with blue fire- arcs of tiny flames that leaped hungrily back and forth from blade to blade. They grinned at her from behind their risen, crawling magic, fanned out so as to imperil her far to her left and her right as well as straight ahead, steel to steel. They came at her in a rush, sparks flashing among the blue fire of their swords.

There's nothing like a sharp sword for opening men and letting their secrets run out.

Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr

Why I Ride Men And Not Thrones

Year of the Bow

Malivur let fall his wagon-flap disgustedly. "Still searching- while we sit here within easy reach of whoever sworded us last night!"

"We'll be older, so much is certain, before we see Water-deep," Krostal agreed calmly, running his fingers through his ginger beard as his dark-robed partner stormed past like a fuming thundercloud, striding down the wagon to the decanters one more time.

The low-pitched clink of the stopper told him it was the fire-sweet green alanthe from Sheirtalar that was suffering depredations this time. Good; he hated the stuff-too sweet, and yet as tart as the yhaumarind they ate bowlsful of in the Tashalar. Brrrhh.

"What is this Voldovan thinking?" the spice-merchant burst out, waving a goblet that was half empty already. "He's supposed to be the best of masters on this run, not a ox-headed idiot!"

"I'm sure he is, and doing whatever seems most wise to him," Krostal said soothingly.

"I'm sure he's a wind-roaring tyrant, a lying, cheating whoreson rogue, and a-a treacherous fiend in league with too many brigands for us all to fight! Why else call a halt in the Blackrocks but to leave us undefended while the wolves gather dozens deep around us? Why-"

"Why storm and roar so?" Krostal asked mildly. "He'll only hear us and set his dogs to listening at our flaps… and who knows what they might hear before you master your temper?"

"Temper? Temper! I'll show you temper, you gutter-born sneaking slybeard! Why-"

"Why, I wonder how 'tis I endure your slow-witted foolery, these stretching days!" Krostal said quickly, saying Malivur's next words half a syllable ahead of his wagon-partner.

Who fell silent, glaring at him down the length of the wagon with eyes that promised swift death in their green glitter. For a moment, Krostal could have sworn the goblet beneath them shone back that fell green glow… then the dark-robed wizard lifted the goblet, drained it in menacing silence, and snarled softly, as he strode forward like a stalking cat, "Have a care, gutter-thief. I can destroy you at will and hear no word of protest from our superiors for doing so. They told me to keep a very careful watch on you-for the treachery they fully expect you to work when spellfire's within our grasp."

The ginger-bearded seller of imported Lantanna clockworks-toys, self-igniting timer lamps, and musical devices! Rare and strange; get them while you can!-who was indeed a master thief for the Cult of the Dragon in his off hours, smiled easily at the raging wizard. "You think I wasn't told the same thing about you? Really, Malivur, you're very much the self-important child at times! Have some more alanthe and master your raging or I'll make sure the far more powerful wizard the Followers sent along on this admittedly cursed caravan sees and hears you. If his ears fill with one of your indiscreet tantrums, it'll take him about two breaths to muzzle you properly and permanently, without any direction from me."

The dark-robed wizard froze, then stroked his oiled black mustache very slowly and almost whispered, "What other Cult wizard? Or is this another of your tasteless, dangerous lies?"

"Oh, no, seller-of-spices, this is dark, blunt truth. He's probably not the only Cult mage along on this run, either. He's just the only one I know by looks, though I'm sure I'm not supposed to have ever seen him or know who he is."

Malivur hissed like a snake, a habit of thoughtfulness rather than malice, and swirled his empty goblet as if it still held something. When he spoke again, his fury was gone. "Is it your judgment, Krostal, that we've any hope of seizing the wench and wresting the secrets of spellfire from her-or just slaughtering her and avenging the Sacred Ones she destroyed?"

"I'm beginning to doubt we can do either," the ginger-bearded thief replied, lifting the flap again to look for guards or merchants who might have wandered to where they could overhear. "Yet if I was confident we could do one of those two things, I'd say the latter. A falling beam or the hooves of a maddened horse could slay this Shandril-she's just a lass, after all-but to hold her, after you'd somehow captured her, is something I doubt anyone in Faerun could do."

"Mmmph. Not even a zulkir of Thay or the one called Larloch?"

Krostal shrugged. "Who knows what they can do? What's truth in talk of their deeds and what's tavern embellishment?"

"Your point is good," Malivur agreed, slowly returning to the decanters, "and yet such reputations bring attention and attacks. No one of repute can last for long unless they hide themselves well or hold true power. We must close our hands around this Shandril cautiously, lest, say, the infamous Elminster appear and destroy us at the moment of our victory… or beset us on one side whilst we battle spellfire on the other. He did so before, recall you, when this same lass and her mageling were in Rauglothgor's lair."

Krostal shrugged again. "I've never curbed what I dare do for fear of the grand and great. One can't live guided by fear of these great heroes, unless one has centuries to spend idle in cautious waiting. When do they really show up, ever? Have you been confounded by one when hurling spells for the Cult-when you slew that mage in Westgate, say, and took his wealth for the Followers? Of course not. One stands and falls on one's own efforts. If one is good at it and resists the invariably fatal temptation to sit on a throne somewhere, one never even comes to the attention of the 'big folk' like Elminster, the Blackstaff, and the Seven Sisters we hear so much about!"