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embraced him. Into one large and hairy old ear she murmured, "Ye seem a good man. Try to stay alive; I'll
need thy service when this land is mine." Then she turned away.
Darrigo Trumpettower stood with the gems glittering in his hand like so many fallen tears, and stared after
her.
The slim woman in the tattered cloak strode off across the field, walking west. The bleeding sorceress
floated along in the air behind her, as if she were being towed on an invisible, weightless bed.
Only one armsman moved to stop her, winding his bow into readiness, loading it, and setting it to his
shoulder. He felt the hand that struck his bow aside but never felt the stout cane that smashed him to the
ground, or anything else. His quarrel leapt toward the sun, and no one saw whether it reached there or not.
Darrigo Trumpettower stood fierce-eyed over the dead arms-man and growled, "At least I can be proud of
something before I die. Come on then, Wolves! Come and cut down an old man, and tell yerselves what
mighty heroes ye are!"
* * * * *
This was the time to use a prayer she'd always wanted to try but had never found the right occasion for.
Mystra's dictates were quite strict: her priestesses could never call on her for their own benefit, and Braer had
warned her how few riches he'd made ready for her to call on. Yet she felt that now was the right time.
The bloodstanch litany was not one Elmara used often, so she had to take time to pray to the goddess for
it. Night had come to the Haunted Vale when Elmara took the fallen sorceress in her arms and said the
words of her last useful prayer, the one that would transport them both to the only enclosed refuge she could
think of: the cave below the meadow, overlooking ruined Heldon.
As the moon-drenched hills vanished and familiar earthy darkness was suddenly all around, Elmara
smiled wearily. She'd never heard of a female magelord, nor were armsmen likely to dare turn on one. If this
lady sorceress lived, she could be the teacher and ally El would need in her fight to free Athalantar.
"All alone, I cannot defeat the magelords," she murmured, ad-mitting it at last. "Gods above know, I can
barely deal with one enchanted sword!"
*****.
Much later, Elmara sighed despairingly. The sorceress hadn't awakened, and her newly healed flesh felt
burning hot under El's fingers. Had the crossbow bolt been poisoned? El's prayers had melted that dart away,
stopped the bleeding, and drawn to-gether the woman's torn shoulder... but in truth, she knew few healing
charms
 the prayers Mystra gave her faithful included many barriers and spells that blasted foes apart and hurled
things down, but were shy on magics that mended and healed.
Still unconscious, the woman lay on a bed of cloaks. Her fevered flesh was drenched with sweat, and from
time to time she murmured things El couldn't catch, and moved her limbs feebly about on the sodden cloaks.
Her skin
 even to her lips was bone-white.
Elmara's best efforts to gather her will and force healing into the body of the sorceress failed utterly. El
might be able to turn memorized prayer-spells into healing energy for herself. .. but Mystra hadn't given her
the means to aid anyone else.
The sorceress was dying. She might last until morn or a little longer, but... perhaps not. Elmara didn't
even know her name. The woman's body moved restlessly again, wet with a sheen of sweat that returned
however often El wiped it away.
Elmara stared at the woman she'd rescued, and wiped mois-ture from her own forehead. She must do
more, or she'd be shar-ing her cave with a corpse in the morning. With sudden resolve, she took the woman's
purse
 which held a good handful of coins and crawled out of the cave, casting a ward against wolves across its
mouth.
There had been a shrine to Chauntea, Mother of Farms and Fields, south of Heldon. Perhaps for wealth
enough the priest who tended its plantings could be persuaded to come hence and heal. It was too much to
hope he'd keep his mouth closed about the cave and the two women; whatever befell, she'd have to find a new
lair.
Elmara sighed grimly and hastened down from the meadow, hurrying as much as she dared in the
nightgloom. From days when she'd played here often, her feet easily found gaps in the trees. Just how long
ago had those days been?
Then she was out of the trees, into the ruins of Heldon
 where she came to an abrupt halt. There were lights
ahead: torches burning where there should be none. Not moving as if held by men searching for something, but held
fast on high, as if they blazed here always. What had befallen the ashes of Heldon?
Weariness gone, Elmara stole forward in cautious silence, keeping to the deepest shadows. A palisade
rose in front of her, a dark wall that ran for a long way, enclosing
 what? Looking along it, she saw a helmed
head at a corner where the wall turned.
Carefully, El drew back, and retraced her steps in the night until she found a certain boulder she'd climbed
often as a child. Shielded from anyone watching from the palisade, she cast a spell that turned her into a
silent, drifting shadow, and went to the walls.
In this form, she could glide along swiftly, without worrying about noise. She hurried around the walls.
They enclosed a square and were pierced by two gates. The gap under one of them was large enough for her
to pass in shadow-shape ... and she was inside. She reared up in the darkness of the wall and looked around
hastily. This spell did not last long, and she had no desire to fight her way out of a camp defended by
gods-alone-knew how many aroused armsmen.
For there were armsmen here in plenty: two barracksful, at least, by the look of things . .. guarding
loggers, it seemed. Cut timber lay piled everywhere; Elmara shook her head sourly. If she were an angry
elf-mage, one fireball over the palisade would turn this torchlit camp into a huge funeral pyre. Perhaps
some-one should suggest it to them.
Later. She had work before her, as always. Where there are lots of armsmen, there are always priests of
Tempus, or Helm, or Tyr, or Tyche, or all four ... Tempus, at least.
The shadow scudded along behind the barracks and ware-houses, seeking a corner where a sword would
be standing up-right in a wooden block as an altar. Ah ... there. So where was the priest? Elmara drifted
toward the nearest building. Within was a plain room hung with battered armor
 trophies of Tem-pus, no
doubt and the unwashed man sleeping beneath them reeked of ale. If that was the priest, she thought in disgust, her
venture here had failed, and she'd best be out and seeking the shrine to Chauntea before her spell ended.
But first... there was one splendid house in the center of the rest. The lair of the local magelords,
doubtless, but she could hear a faint din of laughter and talk from this far off; perhaps they were drinking the
night away . . . and a priest might be there.
The house had guards, but they were bored and resentful of the feasting within, and one soon strolled over
to the other to share a jest. The shadow slipped through the spot where he'd stood and in at the door. Thence
it ghosted past curtains and hurrying servants into a large, noisy room beyond.
A drifting globe of magical radiance competed with many candles to light up this grand chamber, which [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]