Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [46]
"On your knees, wench-or he dies!" The Zhentarim's voice was coldly triumphant.
Shandril looked both ways along the band. It fenced her in against the rocky remnant of an ancient wall, and from only feet away, a dozen or more Zhentilar warriors grinned at her, clubs raised.
She sank down, bitter despair flooding her mouth. The wizard snapped his fingers, and hurled clubs were suddenly crashing in on her from all sides, even before the magical darkness winked out and was gone…
Chapter 6
FINDING THE TRUE WAY
Finding one's true way in life can sometimes take an entire lifetime, for it is often the hardest task one faces-after finding out where the next meal is coming from, how to keep from freezing every winter night, where there's a sleepingplace safe from enemies, and just who one can trust to share it with, that is. Oh, aye-and finding the time to do all of these things…
Mirt the Moneylender
Wanderings With Quill and Sword
Year of Rising Mist
"It worked! Hah-ha!" Fimril, mage of the Zhentarim, laughed in glee as the Zhentilar hastened to truss their senseless captives. They were careful not to do the three any further damage-the orders they had been so coldly given about this came from much higher up than this capering wizard, and had been most menacingly specific.
Fimril had spent a long and hard year in private, hurling spells and modifying his castings until he'd fashioned a shieldlike band of magical annihilation: a deadly magic that sucked in light, warmth-even campfires and braziers of fire-and solid things, like stools and unfortunate captives, too.
All the way here, through the forest, a tiny voice inside him wailed that his shield wouldn't absorb spellfire after all, that he was marching to his doom. If the spell failed him, he was doomed… even if he escaped the girl's blazing spelIfire, any of the warriors who got away would see that he paid for his folly-painfully and permanently. Magelings were not well loved among the Zhentilar fighting men.
But it had worked-and now not a one of them dared betray him; their orders had been very clear about that. Fimril chortled and gloated, watching the warriors securely truss their unconscious quarry. Ah, but this was sweet! At last, he, Fimril of Westgate, would get what he deserved, rising in the ranks of the Zhentarim… perhaps even all the way.
He cast quick glances around, checking his bodyguard. Yes, they were ready-four burly, well-armed Zhentarim standing in a crescent at his back, making sure that no harm would come to him until he was safely back in Zhentil Keep.
Fimril laughed aloud and shouted down to the man who was busily checking the knots at Shandril's throat, "Ho! Lyrkon! How are our losses this night?"
The Zhentilar finished his task, controlling his exasperation. The knots seemed tight enough: if she struggled, she'd strangle herself. Aye, good enough. Slowly the Zhentilar stood. "A moment, Lord Wizard; I'll see." Gods, but this mage was going to be insufferable now…
He dusted his hands and looked around. Four-no, five; he'd forgotten Duthspurn until his eyes fell on the poor bastard's legs lying motionless on the ground. And that should be all… Wait, wasn't there a sixth, over there? – Lyrkon took a stride down the ruined wall-in time to see another of his men fall as silently as a gentle breeze glides through leafless trees. He stared at the hand that had appeared over Glondar's mouth-and as the soldier slumped, the face that came into view behind it: a fat, grinning face adorned with fierce gray-white brows and mustaches. Its blue-gray eyes met his own-and winked.
Gods!
"Out swords!" he bellowed, pointing at where Glondar was being killed. "We're under attack!"
Along the wall, his men looked up at him, snatching up their clubs or drawing swords-and the one next to Glondar promptly collapsed, a sword through his armpit. The warrior next to him turned at the muffled groan-in time to get the blade of the fat, mustachioed stranger right through his throat.
"Where?" Fimril shouted, peering