Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [106]
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Panting, Besmer risked a look back. They were still plodding after him, red-faced and scowling, swords out.
It had been a mistake, aye, but – a firespitting wand that anyone could use! How often in a life did one get the chance to snatch one of those?
Perhaps just once, if those bully-blades caught up to him. Pounds of heavy armor they were wearing, and still closing! Catching up despite the miles he'd loped, then walked, and now staggered since stabbing the merchant.
Most traders had guards who were only too glad to plunder the baggage and be gone when you slew their masters, but… most merchants didn't wander the Chionthar-bank trails with wands thrust through their belts, either.
He didn't need to see the face of the Master of Shadows to know all too well that the lady with the sword – gods, what a beauty! – had been right. He had to get out of Scornubel in haste or die.
Following the Chionthar couldn't get him lost but wasn't a road the Master's Eyes could ride swiftly along, seeking him. West it led, to Baldur's Gate, where he could take ship for Water deep to hide amongst the throngs.
Besmer knew better than to take a barge downriver.
If he was spotted, signals could race to Scornubel and back, and his execution could be ordered without any warning to him.
What he hadn't known better than to do was put his dagger through the throat of that boastful merchant, after the man's pack-train had come out of nowhere to the pool Besmer was drinking from. Who'd have thought a dead man could command such loyalty?
Perhaps they just wanted the wand as much as he did. 'Twas a beautiful thing, a massive and smoothwrought metal grip that fit the hand beautifully, mated to a jewel-studded carved wood shaft. As he staggered on, his hand went to its reassuring comfort time and time again. More like a royal scepter than a wizard's wand. Those were usually plain sticks of wood, but this gaudy thing was real enough. He'd seen that merchant blast a boar and clearly heard the muttered word that unleashed a ball of fire. It had streamed across the pool, trailing sparks, and cooked the boar before it could even begin its charge.
A dinner none of them would ever enjoy, now. He'd had the man's throat open and the wand in his own hand in a trice and been off through the tall grass before a single bodyguard had even shouted. They'd set off after him like hounds, not hesitating a moment, and not giving up as the miles passed and hills rose and fell under their boots.
None of them had turned back even after he'd given the two swiftest the wand they so wanted – or at least its fireballs, two air-shattering blasts that turned hard-striding men to whirling ashes. The surviving bodyguards had been careful to keep well apart from each other after that.
He touched the wand again. He'd never had magic at his command before, and gods, now he knew why wizards swaggered so! What power! Look at someone, point your wand, say a word, and wham!
Knight or lord, priest or mage, they went down, gone in smoke at your whim.
Oh, he could see why they wanted this wand, all right. He didn't want to use it too often, lest there be some limit to the fires it held… particularly if he used it all before getting away from these doggedly pursuing men. His feet felt like two heavy-laden coffers, his lungs burned, and he was starting to slip and stumble. He had to catch his breath, win time to rest – Blarrrgh! Besmer fell on his face, slid to a stop and hopped upright again, his ankle shrieking protest. He hobbled on, downslope, and had to look back. One of them was cresting the height he'd just left already, teeth bared in an angry grin.
Tymora claw Beshaba for me now! Nothing could stop that man from catching him before he reached the bottom of the slope. Besmer assumed a look of despair, drew the wand and held it concealed, close to his body. He waited until the man's thudding boots were growing loud behind him, then whirled, said the word, and pointed.
The blast of flame