Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [59]
Then he heard another sound, a clatter of movement to the side that drew curses from the bandits and pulled their attention toward the lad’s camp. Instantly Danyal understood what had happened: Startled by the flaring branch, Nightmare had pulled away from her tether. The lad could hear the black horse stumbling over the rocks, charging past Danyal’s hiding place.
“Look there! A horseman!” cried one of the bandits, pointing at the shadowy outline of the frightened steed.
Nightmare whinnied, the sound shrill and piercing in the darkness.
With a leap and a kick, the frightened black horse lunged along the steep slope above the roadway, slipping and sliding on the loose rocks. Many of the boulders rumbled free, rolling downward with rapidly building momentum.
In seconds, the sounds of the rockslide roared louder than the shouts of the men or the shrill neighing of the mare. Danyal saw a large stone bounce into the air, then crash into the blazing campfire, sending sparks and embers cascading through the area.
Men were screaming now, scrambling to get away. In the surges of light, Danyal saw the bandits, with swords drawn, looking wildly back and forth, seeking signs of their attackers. Another big rock thundered through the camp, knocking down one of the bandits, leaving the man thrashing and moaning in the middle of the road.
The leader knelt over the injured man, who cried out in pain. A short sword flashed in the firelight, and the wounded fellow’s cries swelled to a quick, feverish shriek before they died in a sickening gurgle of blood.
And then the bandits were gone, footsteps pounding down the road as the rockslide exhausted itself, loose stones and gravel still shifting, settling down the steep slope. Danyal smelled the powdered rock in the air, tasted the dust in his mouth, and tried to imagine what had happened to the lone traveler. His campsite was buried beneath a thick layer of rubble, and nothing seemed to be moving down there.
The lad gingerly picked his way down the slope, seeing that Nightmare had somehow reached the roadway. The black horse regarded him impassively as he probed through the boulders until he was startled by a voice from the shadows.
“Hello there,” said the traveler. He came forward, and Danyal saw that he had been sheltered by an overhang of the bluff-the same place he had been driven by the extended swords of the bandits.
“H-Hello,” the youth replied. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” said the man. “I’ll admit that was bad luck with the landslide.”
“Bad luck?” Danyal was amazed. “I think it just saved your life!”
“Oh posh,” said the fellow. “It only chased away those men. And I could tell that one of them was just about to tell me his name!”
The youth wanted to reply that, to his eyes, it had looked as though the bandits intended something other than an informative conversation. Still, the stranger seemed so sincere, even genuinely disappointed, that Danyal changed his tack.
“My name is Danyal Thwait,” he said tentatively. “Who are you?”
“Foryth Teel,” replied the fellow, tsking in concern as he picked up the book that the bandit had thrown against the rocks. “It’s not damaged,” he said to Danyal, as if he never doubted that the lad was terribly concerned about the condition of the tome.
“Good,” replied the youth. “But now, Foryth Teel, why don’t you come with me? I think we should find a new place to camp.”
CHAPTER 21
A Mind and Soul of Chaos
374 AC
On those instances when the essence of Fistandantilus became maddeningly, frustratingly aware, the archmage knew that he had languished within the kender host for scores of years. The spirit hungered for escape, craved the exercise of power that would bring him victims, souls that he could absorb, lives he would use to restore his unprecedented might. But always these desires went unsated, remained mere memories from a long-ago epoch of might and magic.