Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [14]
"Aye. A safe place," DeIg grunted. "A place one of us can defend while the others sleep. A place with rock at our backs is best."
"Assuredly," Narm agreed. "I'm sure I've several such places just lying about here, somewhere… now where did I leave them, I wonder? Cou-"
"You," Shandril told him severely, "have been listening to the nimble tongue of Torm too much of late.
Let's hurry, ere the light fails entirely: we must seek high ground and hope we find a cliff, or perhaps a cave."
"One without a bear," Delg added, hastening on in the gathering darkness. They could hear him puffing as they hurried on over leaves and tangles of fallen, mossy logs. More than once he slipped or stumbled and broke branches underfoot with dull cracking sounds. "I never liked forests," he added gloomily on the heels of a particularly hard fall.
Shandril and Narm both chuckled. They were climbing a tree-clad slope toward a place of slightly greater brightness in the deepening twilight; a glade, perhaps, or rocky height where trees grew more thinly. The forest around them was coming alive with mysterious rustlings and eerie, far-off hoots and baying calls. The three hurried onward and upward over tumbled stones, racing to find a refuge before nightfall caught up with them.
The trees thinned, and then the weary travelers came to an open space. Looking up, Narm saw stars winking overhead in the gathering night. A huge shadowtop tree had toppled here, perhaps a season ago, its vast trunk smashing aside smaller saplings to clear a little space in the thick, tangled forest. The three wanderers looked around for a moment, met each other's eyes, and nodded in unison. This place would have to do.
Delg caught Narm's elbow. "Gather firewood," he said. 'You and me. One each side of her, while Shan unpacks. Don't make noise you don't have to."
"A fire?" Narm said. "Won't that draw anyone who's searching-" `They've magic, lad," Delg told him dryly. – They could find us if we stuffed leaves in our hair and stood like trees 'til morning. The big beasts, too – an' the smaller ones'll come to look, but not dare approach too near. We may as well have some comfort."
"Dear, dear," Gathlarue said, not very far away, as she looked into her softly glowing crystal, where three tiny shapes moved and spoke. Her slim lips crooked in a little smile. "I was so looking forward to seeing you stuff leaves into your mouth, Sir Dwarf. Now I'll have to stare at your fire-and looking into dancing flames always makes me sleepy"
"Wine, Lady?" Gathlarue's older apprentice stood over her, a dark shape against the trees that rose all around them. The slim, raven-haired girl held a silver-harnessed crystal decanter in her hands.
Gathlarue looked up at her, smiled, and took the goblet she offered. "My thanks, precious one. You know my needs so well."
Mairara twisted her mouth in a wordless, affectionate reply, bent to kiss her, and glided softly away.
Gathlarue grinned faintly into her scrying globe; the blood-spell she had woven long ago let her listen to the thoughts of both her apprentices whenever she chose, unbeknownst to them. For all her kisses and kindnesses, Mairara meant to work her a painful death one day soon.
Before that day came, Gathlarue meant to use her well. To rise in the ranks of the Zhentarim would take more magic than Gathlarue could wield alone. A few days back, while in Zhentil Keep, she'd seen afresh all the cruel striving that would oppose her. The magelings had been gathered to hear Manshoon, and so much cruelty and aroused magic had hung barely in check in that room that the smell of it had almost made her afraid.
Almost. She'd have to be careful, as always; the other mages could bend their wills entirely to hurling destruction, but she always had to spare some Art when in their midst for cloaking herself in male guise. Her Zhentilar warriors respected her, but no women, it seemed, rose high in the robed ranks of the Zhentarim.