Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [63]
The old, familiar symbols and phrases filled his mind again as they had so many times before, but he did not let go of Storm’s hand, even for a moment. Throughout life, one does not miss any chance to hold onto the things that are really precious, if one is truly wise.
A cool wind whipped around the mages and howled off east, along the old and broken rock ridges of the Stonelands. It brought faint, far-off howls with it.
Ramath involuntarily looked over his shoulder, but the black-robed wizard beside him only smiled.
"Whatever it is would have to travel much of the night. to reach us, mageling, even if it knew we stood on this spot. My Art will turn it away if it tries. So stand easy."
Ramath shook his head. "I've tried, Dread Master but whenever I look where it's dark, I see her."
"Who?" The question was sharp.
Ramath swallowed. "A light-haired girl… shrouded in flames."
"What? She's here, and moving about, hidden from all but you by magic? Or can you see rocks and trees through her; do you see something from your dreams?"
"A dream image I suppose, Master-yet I'm not asleep. I see her walking amid trees, with a dwarf, a wizard of about my age, and a fat man in floppy old boots. They're just walking, not seeing me or anything-but they're always heading this way, straight toward us… 1 walked to the cliff over there-you saw me-and it seemed the same; straight toward me. It's-I've never known anything like this before."
Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr regarded him coldly for a moment, and then said very softly, "Who has spoken to you of such a band of travelers?"
Ramath looked startled. "No one, Dread Master. I've not heard of or seen any of these folk before-I was hoping you'd know what spell or ghost was affecting me."
"I think I do," the Dread Master replied. "Go down to the Zhentilar swordmaster by the fire and tell him to come up to me. And pay close heed to these images you see. When you return, I shall want a full and detailed account of anything new that you 've seen. Hasten."
Obediently his apprentice scrambled away along the path. Stroking his sharp-pointed chin thoughtfully, Ghaubhan Szaurr watched him go.
The wind flung the wizard's cloak out behind him like a black sail. Ghaubhan stood on the rocky height feeling its tug and listening to it flapping as excitement rose within him: Ramath had some sort of magesight, the gift of Mystra or Bane or some other dark power-and Shandril of Highmoon was coming this way.
Spellfire would be his soon; Ghaubhan could almost taste it. He thought how best to place the warriorsstupid brutes all, but useful against the maiden's companions for the battle to come. It was even more crucial to use his magelings so they stood no chance of tricking or turning on their Dread Master. Best if they all died at the maid's hands-men turned to ashes by spellfire could tell no tales to seeking magic, and could not whisper against him. If one ashen corpse wore Ghaubhan's cloak and ring, in fact, they d think Ghaubhan Szaurr fallen.
And given time to master spellfire while in hiding, this lowly tutor of magelings would become a Dread Master indeed! Then the high lords of the Keep had best look to their Art, for the Zhentarim would soon have a new master… If that book he'd found in old Asklannan's spell library spoke truth, any man whose blood joined with one who wielded spellfire stood a chance of gaining it himself. that joining, moreover, would be a pleasure…
Ghaubhan grinned wolfishly in the dark, and waited for the hurrying steps of Ramath to announce the magelings return. He'd bear watching, that one… such sight does not come from empty air; how came he by it? Fzoul and his upperpriests thought Ghaubhan Szaurr served the Cult of the Dragon; Only Manshoon and a few senior wizards knew lie in truth worked for the Zhentarim… Was this Ramath a spy for Fzoul, then? Was he sent by someone in