Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [30]
Shandril screamed again, rolling free, as a hurled spear hummed past her ear.
Amid the hissing torches, the Zhentilar warcaptain watched her crawling as fast as she could for the cover of a tree. He grinned cruelly and said to one of his officers, "Now."
The swordmaster whistled, and the air was suddenly alive with hissing crossbow bolts.
Chapter 4
GREAT MURDERING BATTLES-AND
WORSE
It is one thing to face a rival with your blade in hand and make a bloody end to all rivalry between you.
It is quite another to wage war with coins in the shadows and softly striking words in hidden chambers.
The second way can kilt just as surely-but no one who follows it is lauded as a hero, or grudgingly granted as brave even by one's enemies. There is something in us all that admires those who stand tall and bold in the bright light of day-even when they pay for this boldness with their lives.
Azlundar, lion of Neverwinter
One Warrior's Life
Year of the Sighing Serpent
Crossbow bolts hummed hungrily through the night around Shandril. She crouched low, looking around frantically for Narm and Delg. There they were, among what was left of the dogs. Shandril's stomach lurched and turned over uneasily at the bloody sight; she let her revulsion fuel the rage that was building in her. Spellfire flared and raced down her limbs. Her tattered leathers caught fire, flaring up in bright flames that rose around her until they licked at her sweat-soaked hair. Armored in spellfire, Shandril Shessair stood up and roared her anger into the night, flinging her arms wide. Spellfire blasted out of her in all directions, low over the heads of her loved ones, lancing into the Zbentilar warriors.
The white flash of its striking was blinding. Trees cracked and fell, blazing. Men screamed briefly amid the roaring. Crossbow bolts flared into flying cinders. Heat-shattered armor fell from blackened skeletons, which toppled slowly after them to the smoking ground.
The spellfire died slowly and raggedly. There was a last rolling burst, and then only a slow sputtering of flames, fading to nothing.
Shandril stared wearily around at the smoldering devastation, smoke rising slowly from her hair. She moaned, her eyes went dark, and she crumpled to the ground.
DeIg struggled to his feet, hurling bloody dog corpses aside. "Lass!" he bellowed, face white,
"Shandril! I'm coming!"
Bloody axe in hand, the dwarf staggered across the beaten turf to where Shandril lay. A few flickering lanterns were still alight, and by their dim glow the dwarf found her. She was breathing and apparently unscathed, though very pale. Moving as stealthily as he could, he dragged Shandril to cover behind a tree. Then Delg straightened to see what foes remained.
A few Zhent warriors were still standing in the lee of two smoking trees. They seemed dazed; Delg counted seven-no, eight: a huge man in cracked and blackened plate armor rose among them, sobbing and clawing at his helm with spiked hand-gauntlets that were each as large as Delg's own head.
Narm was moving feebly among the dogs.
"Narm!" DeIg roared. "Up, lad-I've need of your spells! Hurl a few balls of fire at yon Zhents!"
The dwarf knew well that Narm's Art was too feeble to work such magics, but if he read them right, the Zhentilar soldiers might run like rabbits at the thought of facing more fire. If he was wrong-well, one doom was as good as another.
He was half right. DeIg heard curses, and saw men running off into the night.
"Simron, come back, you craven dog!" A swordmaster bellowed. "The curses of Bane and the Brotherhood on you!"
"Rally them!" This hoarse voice belonged to the giant with the spiked gauntlets. "Rally them, Swordmaster and spellfire shall yet be ours! Does the priest live?"
"By the grace of Bane," a cold and smooth voice answered him, "I do indeed. How fare you, Warcaptain?"