"Why so tense?" Narm asked, coming up beside Delg. "I haven't seen any Zhents about-and I've looked as far off as I can, too."

"Eyes, lad," the dwarf growled up at him. "I can feel them, every moment. We're being watched, again." "Should I tell Shan?" Narm asked quietly.

"Not just after she's been off in the bushes, lad," the dwarf said, looking critically at the blemishes along the edge of his axe-blade. That Zhent idiot had certainly managed to bring it down on a lot of stones last night. "But soon; I don't want her walking carefree."

Shandril ran despairing fingers through her hair as she came toward them. "Oh, for a bath! I stink!"

"We all do, lass," the dwarf told her gravely. "All the easier for dogs to find us, if they've got any more with them."

"Gods," Shandril said, face paling, "don't remind me." "No, no," Narm said, with feeling. "Don't remind me. I can still feel those teeth."

Shandril remembered all too vividly, retched, and turned hastily away. They watched her shoulders shake for a moment, and Narm turned to Delg with a sigh.

"Now look what you've done," he said.

"Nay, lad-yon's your handiwork. Grab her, now, and let's be on our way. We haven't time for foolishness." "Foolishness?" Shandril's voice was weak but indignant, her face the color of old bone as she rose from her knees.

The dwarf glared at her. "Aye, foolishness. You've several days' march of woods to be sick in-you don't have to stop each time you feel ill. On!"

She glared back at him, took a deep breath, wiped her mouth clean, and went on.

"What was that?"

"The sound of your own big feet, Othrogh," the Zhent swordmaster muttered. "Quiet, now-the maid could be the other side of that next tree."

The half-orc sniffed the air, then shook his head with an emphatic grunt. "No. I'd smell her."

Around him, the other members of the patrol rolled their eyes, made various faces, and sighed. Swordmaster Cleuvus looked at Othrogh sourly and said, "Just keep your lips shut for awhile, hey? They gave us all the same orders-and you heard 'em as well as I did." He looked up. "The rest of you," he added shortly, "spread out now! She hurls fire, remember? If you all crowd together under the same tree like that, how could she miss?"

There were various grumbles and dark looks; he knew they'd only gathered to hear him berate Othrogh-and they knew he knew. Cleuvus grinned. Ah, well, swordmasters were never loved. Except when they went to town with coins enough to hire-He was still thinking such vivid, pleasant thoughts when the tree beside him grew a stout arm with a mace at the end of it and rudely crushed the back of his head in. Cleuvus fell on his face like a thrown stone, thinking of love forever.

"Skulk through the forest, would ye? Wear dark armor that offends mine eyes, would ye? Oh, the crimes! The crimes!" The voice rose in mock anguish amongst the startled gasps of the Zhents, and its owner lumbered into their midst-and bowed.

"Rathan Thentraver, Knight of Myth Drannor, at thy service. Looking for little girls in the forest, are we? Well, if ye find any, be so good as t-"

"Get him!" The eldest Zhent snarled, and swords flashed in a sudden rush of dark armor.

A man dropped heavily, cursed-and then gurgled and fell silent. The object he'd tripped over rose, dusted himself off, and then calmly glided forward to bury his bloodied dagger in the back of another warrior.

Torm of the Knights grinned at his comrade Rathan across the tumult of clashing weapons, then said, "Now is that nice? You could've waited for me to get some blood. You could have let Torm-much thinner, handsomer, and younger than a certain priest of Tymora-strike first? You could have busied yourself at some ritual or other; the one where you wear ladies' underthings and pretend to be a paladin, perhaps-but oh, no! The clarion call of battle was too strong. The-" He broke off to duck frantically aside as two Zhent blades crossed in the space where the knight's face had been a moment earlier.

Puffing, Rathan smashed his way through another Zhent's guard, shattering the sword raised against him. As the man fell, spraying blood from his crushed face all over the knight's knees, Rathan said, "Oh, aye let ye strike first and grab all the glory. Betray the commandments of Lady Luck to dare all and leave my life to chance. Let a clever-tongued thief go ahead of a respected, dignified, nay, even rotund-pillar of whatever community I'm currently passing through. Not by the Lady's laughter! When the bards sing ballads of this day, when two knights went up against almost a dozen Zhent sword-swingers in the forest, 'tis Rathan whose deeds will awe. Rathan who'll get the beauteous maiden as his reward. Rathan who'll take his usual pratfall," Torm put in, his blade finding the throat of the Zhent whose frantic swing had made Rathan stumble back hastily. The fat priest tripped over a tree root and sat down heavily. "Oww!" he complained as the ground shook.

For their next few breaths, the knights were too busy slaying the last few Zhentilar to notice that the tree whose root had felled Rathan shook now in soundless laughter. Two golden eyes high on its trunk watched the last blood spilled, and then closed, just as Torm leaned against the bark below them, breathing hard, and said, "Well, still no sign of what we seek-how many Zhents is that, now?"

"Thirty-three," Rathan's voice came back gloomily to him from the other side of the tree. "Why do they always come along just when I need to relieve myself? Tymora, if ye're listening-tell me that!"

The day passed in continuous plodding travel-one weary stride after another, slipping and ducking and scrambling through, around, and over trees-fallen trees, leaning trees, and gnarled, tangled, growing-in-all directions trees, damp leaf-mold slippery under their feet. Here and there pale brown mushrooms the size of halflings' heads rose up in clumps, and rotting stumps held lush green cushions of moss.

Shandril hadn't thought she could ever tire of trees-but then, she'd never thought she'd see so many trees in her life, let alone in one day. These weren't the beautiful giants of the Elven Court; Hullack Forest was dark and dense and damp, its trees grown thick together.

The three travelers felt like unwelcome intruders; none of them had wanted to stop at highsun to eat. They'd hastened on, instead, searching for higher ground and a clearing where they could camp.

The sun had sunk low by the time the ground began rising again. Here and there, rocks showed through the moss and the fungi-cloaked wreckage of fallen trees. Ravines and gullies appeared more often, and the black pools of standing water were smaller and fewer. As the sun slipped to a last, low red ribbon under the trees, the weary travelers' hearts rose. They were climbing sharply at last.

"Delg," Narm said excitedly from behind the dwarf as they slipped and clambered upward, Shandril between them, "some of these rocks have been cut and dressed. Look: straight edges on this one-this must be some sort of ruin."

"You don't say," the dwarf said softly. "It wouldn't surprise you overmuch, I suppose, if I told you I'd noticed a thing or two about these rocks myself…"

The dwarf's voice died away in wonder as they came out into a height of crumbling stone arches, walls, and broken stairs. Shattered pillars reached like jagged fingers up at the twilight sky. Selune shone faintly just above the horizon as night came down on them.

"Well, here we are for the night, whatever your likings," Delg said, peering all around with keen interest. "'This is old, old indeed-and not dwarven nor yet elven, either. I'll have a look at this in morning light… I can tell the age of the stonework better then."

"For now," Narm put in firmly, looking at the dark trees behind them, "we'd better find a corner of this we can defend, or we may not live to see the morn."