Crusade - James Lowder [28]
Everyone, John realized, except a lone man, who stood next to the fat baker. He was tight-lipped and rigid, as if immobilized. Thin, almost emaciated, the man stood silently, his hard gaze locked on the stage.
The fletcher stared at the man for a moment, mesmerized by the contradiction he presented in the wildly screaming crowd. The rigid, greenclad man didn't notice John's gaze, though, as he stiffly pulled his tattered forest-green cloak a little tighter around his shoulders. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the king on the stage.
"Will we let the horsewarriors take our lives?" Razor John heard Azoun cry.
A unified reply went up, and people raised their fists into the air. The fletcher glanced back at the platform and saw that the crowd again mirrored the king's stance. When John returned his gaze to who seemed to be the one silent person in the gardens, he saw that the ragged man had pulled a rolled, yellowing piece of parchment from under his tattered cloak.
He held the scroll up quickly, and his lips began to move. Because of the shouting, John couldn't tell if he was actually speaking. No one else seemed to be paying attention to the tight-lipped man, so John was the only one who saw the parchment he held in his bony fingers begin to glow with a pale red luminescence.
For a moment, the light puzzled the fletcher. Then the realization dawned on him: The man was casting a spell.
"I challenge every able-bodied citizen of Suzail," Azoun continued from the stage. "Citizens from any part of Cormyr. Be prepared to help me to defend our country."
The crowd roared, and John looked quickly from the glowing paper to the platform. "No!" he cried.
Shoving Mal out of his way, the fletcher lunged toward the assassin. He was too late. A second before Razor John touched the man's torn and threadbare surcoat, the parchment disappeared in a gout of red-orange flame.
Three things happened at once.
Azoun had just told the crowd that they should report to the city watch to sign up for the crusade. The king was about to inform them that several churches devoted to gods of Good were ready to enlist volunteers, too. He never got the chance.
A pinpoint of red light arched from the crowd and sped toward the stage. As it got closer to the king, it grew larger and larger, until, at last, it resembled nothing less than a miniature sun, blazing toward the platform. The ball of fire singed the hair of those it passed over and blinded those foolish enough to look directly at it. It left a trail of smoke and the smell of burned skin in its wake.
Razor John saw none of this as he slammed into the assassin, knocking him to the ground. The fletcher rolled on top of the man and grabbed him by the shoulders. Only after the assassin's elbow smashed into John's ribs did he realize that the ragged man was far stronger than he looked. That blow was the only one struck, as the fletcher's work-hardened muscles were enough to pin the man until help arrived.
"The city'll thank me," the man rasped over and over.
After the incident earlier that morning, the fletcher was only slightly surprised when the man's tattered green cloak flew back and revealed the bear trap badge of the Trappers' Guild bound to his thin arm.
On the platform, Azoun had only a second to react to the fireball rushing at him. Turning toward his wife, the king made what he knew was a futile effort to shield her from the blast. A few guards stepped toward the king and queen, but no one was fast enough to block the doom that hurtled toward the stage.
For his part, Vangerdahast seemed riveted with fear. In truth, he was reciting a brief but sincere prayer to the Goddess of Magic that the wards he'd placed on the stage held.
The fireball struck the front of the platform. All the king, the queen, or the others on the stage could see was a splash of brilliant red, though they could faintly feel the heat from the blast. Still, the flames never touched them. The magical attack struck the invisible wall Vangerdahast's wards created