Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [25]
Almost weeping with terror, Alorth slithered down. Those burning eyes stared up at him from only a few feet away. They might belong to a young, frightened girl-but they held his death, and Alorth knew it. He trembled, sudden sweat running down his nose.
"Touch no weapons," Shandril said, biting off her words. "Reach down and get him out of the pit. If he's hurt, or if you leave the pack behind, you die."
Alorth stared at her for a moment, and at the young mage who rose up from the dirt to glare at him. A crossbow bolt whistled past them.
"Move, or die!" Shandril hissed, eyes flaming. Spellfire lanced out. The Zhentilar cried out at the burning pain her gaze brought him, and fell heavily on his knees. Behind him, he heard screams and a roar like rolling thunder. He looked around-to find the forest lit by hungry flames, Zhentilar warriors shrieking and staggering in the conflagration. The young lass stood defiantly facing them, fire dancing in her hands.
Then something gleamed, very near, as it slid down into his view: the point of his own sword, not a finger's length from his eyes, the angry face of the young mage behind it.
Sobbing in fear, Alorth turned and reached for the dwarf. Too far. He'd never reach that far, without-he frantically scrabbled at the edge of the pit, but harsh hands were suddenly at his ribs and belt, heaving and shoving.
With a cry of terror, Alorth Bloodshoulder toppled headlong toward the spikes, those cruel points leaping up at his face, and-there was a sudden pain in his knees as he came to a wrenching halt. Alorth groaned. Sweat fell past his eyes-and spattered on the sharpened wood only inches below. The mage must be sitting on his lower legs.
The dwarf, still snarling dwarven curses, swarmed up his arms, digging in fingers with cruel force.
Then the weight and the pain were both gone, and Alorth was roughly hauled up onto the ground.
Freed, he slumped into the dirt, moaning softly.
The noise like thunder came again. Alorth looked up with tear-blurred eyes, and saw a stream of white, roaring flames rolling down the already blackened gully away from him, the girl silhouetted against its brightness. Crossbow bolts leapt from the trees to either side, caught fire as Shandril looked at them, and crashed down in smoke and ashes. The dwarf, axe in hand, glared at Alorth from a foot or so away, and the Zhentilar fearfully snatched the dagger from his belt.
Shandril heard his grunt of effort and spun around. Spellfire roared, and Alorth found himself staring at the bare bones of his arm. The smoking remnants of the dagger fell from them an instant before they collapsed, pattering to the ground in a grisly shower. Alorth found breath enough to whimper for a moment before the world spun, and he crashed down into darkness…
"Are there any left?" Narm was peering back through the trees as they stood gasping for breath in a little hollow deeper in the forest- They had run from the gully of smoking Zhentilar corpses for what seemed like an hour. The pursuing shouts and crossbow bolts seemed to have stopped-and far behind them, they heard barking calls that probably meant wolves had discovered waiting cooked meals.
"There're always more Zhents, lad," Delg puffed. `they're like stinging flies." The dwarf was glumly looking at his torn and punctured pack. Shredded clothing protruded from the rents the spikes had made.
Narm pushed the cloth back through the holes. Between gulps for air, he said brightly, "That could've been… far worse… aye?"
Delg rolled a severe eye around to meet his. "Many men spend their lives trying to get out of one hole or another. Just take care, Narm, that yours doesn't wind up being a pit with sharpened spikes at the bottom of it."
Shandril managed a weak chuckle, and then got to her feet. "We'd best go on while we can," she sighed. "Or they'll be on us again-and those crossbows can't miss forever."
Narm was muttering something and passing a hand over Delg's