Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [81]
"The wench's fire has burnt out for now," the high lord said as lie strode across the sward to pluck a jack of hot wine-and-mushrooms broth out of the hand of a startled soldier. He drained it, tossed it back, and added. "She'll be easy prey." The soldier nodded uncertainly, not speaking.
Manshoon turned. "Beluard? Where are you?"
"Here, Lord." His latest apprentice trotted hastily up to the master, wiping broth from his lips with the back of one hand. Manshoon favored him with a wolfish smile.
"You recall my discussions with Sarhthor about arranging shortages of pork and sugar in Sembia?"
"To drive prices up just before our caravans arrive, ford?"
Manshoon nodded. "Do it,” he said, and vanished. The last thing Beluard saw was his cold smile.
For a moment the apprentice stared at the spot where Manshoon had stood, and then looked fearfully at the zombies standing all around. They stood in a gray, putrid, unbroken ring-the thin passage he'd threaded through them moments earlier seemed to have disappeared.
Beluard took a deep breath, looked into undead eyes that stared back at him with hundreds of dark, glassy stares, and wondered if tie dared to walk through them. The stench of death was very strong, and he stood there a long time licking his lips, face paling, trying to decide.
The ring of stones was old, old beyond the eldest ruined towers Manshoon had seen in Myth Drannor.
Perhaps elves had raised it in the dim past-or men who worked magic before Netheril was proud.
The builders had certainly commanded great magic. Down long ages, through gale and blizzard and lightning crashing from the sky, the stones large as giants floated in a ring above the turf and never fell.
Some power kept even the smallest birds and wild things away from the silent ring. There was something comforting in such titanic strength of Art-something that awed even Manshoon. He came here when he needed to think, to be alone, and to feel comforted.
It was also the place he knew best in the Stonelands-a sure destination to teleport to. Out of habit, Manshoon put a hand on one of his magical rods as he stepped out of the teleport spell's swirling mists and into the stony ring. From here it would be only a short walk to a height Shandril and her companions would have to pass.
He stiffened. Men were standing by the cliff edge, just beyond the ring. Men in robes, and others in familiar dark armor. Manshoon relaxed just a little. What were mages and soldiers of the Brotherhood doing here?
They had seen him. Swords slid out, and one sorcerer reached for a wand. Manshoon recognized him;
Ghaubhan Szaurr, his double agent. Another traitor who wanted spellfire for himself.
"Unhand that wand, or die," Manshoon said coldly. He waited until the sounds of surprised recognition had died and the Zhentilar who were readying crossbows had set them down again. Then he favored them all with a wintry smile-and struck.
Lightnings crackled white and terrible from the rod he held, and men died. He lashed out again at the shouting, running then of the Brotherhood. Warriors scrambled for cover, but their armor cooked them, lightnings dancing around the dark metal like swarms of angry insects, and, screaming, they died. A few magelings were robed in the shimmering cloaks of protective spells, and still lived. They made the pitiful beginnings of spells. shouting and stammering incantations so sloppily in their fear that Manshoon winced at the sounds-and then he worked more powerful magic and they died too, jerking and gasping and falling.
So perish all traitors. Manshoon strode forward, plying the rod with cold precision, until only one man was left. Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr stood trembling in his black cloak at the edge of the cliff, one hand on his wand again. The fading, darkening shimmering of a failing protective spell hung around him.
He did not dare draw forth the wand he held