Delg turned to look east. His hand glided swiftly to the reassuring hardness of his axe. "She won time for us to escape, blasting a score of Zhents out of their saddles. Unfortunately, there are more, and all her, ah, magic is gone."

The captain was not a stupid man. His eyes widened for a moment as the dwarf spoke of magic younger than most spell-hurlers, that lass. His eyes narrowed again an instant later as he too turned to look at the horizon. His face changed, and he shouted, "Down! Ware arrows!"

A hail of shafts answered him, thudding into the turf many paces short of them. Up over the nearest hill bobbed many darkarmored heads, rising and falling at a gallop. The Zhentilar, riding hard and with arrows to waste, had come. Faces paled and jaws dropped. Then the men who wore the Purple Dragon were scrambling for crossbows and cover. As the minstrels of the Dales say, they scarce had time for last wistful wishes before death swept down on them.

Shandril heard a faint yell, then another. Somehow she found strength and was on her feet, her head swimming. The world rocked and swayed. There was nothing in her but sick, helpless emptiness. Sweat glistened on her hands with the effort. She swayed and caught at the back of the wizard's chair for support.

Astonished and irritated, the mage looked up into her face. She pushed past, leaned on the table for support, and reached out with weak, trembling fingers. The blade was cold but tingling as she touched it; trembling with weakness and relief, she felt the magic it bore begin to flow into her."What're you — that's magic, lass — no — don't!" the wizard blurted. Then he stared in surprise; the blade flashed with sudden light and seemed to waken. Pulses of radiance ran down it and up the arms of the young girl, who grasped its hilt in both hands and gasped. She closed her eyes and shuddered as small arcs of lightning leapt from the blade and spiraled around her.