Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [116]
When Narm burst out of the wagon with a yell, daggers in both hands, his lady was just landing after an angry (and futile) foe-seeking flight around the wagon and going to her knees to suck flames from its underside. The look on Arauntar's face as he came running up, sword in hand, was priceless.
So, Narm suspected, was his own.
*******
Sabran let fall the wagonflap and shook his head in the suddenly lonely darkness.
"Not so special after all," he remarked to the empty air. "Just like all the others."
He took a few restless but sure-footed steps in the lightless wagon, and asked the unheeding cargo around him softly, "Manshoon, when will you see Lord Fzoul's way is right? Belief and training and obedience – not ambitious hunger for great power, without delay!"
He stopped, wondering again if the Dread Lord of the Zhentarim had really whispered in the ears of Mhegras, ordering the attack that had just failed. Oh, someone in the caravan had, someone who'd come from the blandreth-dealer's wagon. But who had it been, really?
He whirled and strode back to the wagonflap, then stopped and shook his head. If it hadn't been Manshoon, it didn't matter now who it had been. If it was Manshoon, there was no need to go looking.
The Dark Master of the Brotherhood would quite soon find him.
"Sabran." The cold voice came from just beyond the wagonflap. Quite soon, indeed.
The priest caught his breath, and leaned forward to murmur, "Yes, Lord?"
The bowgun-bolt that took him in the face wasn't large – but then, it didn't have to be. It only had to be small enough to be readily hidden amid blandreths.
"So who d'you think 'twas?"
"A wizard," Arauntar growled angrily, “of course.
Just which jolly merchant that mage was I won't know until we go looking an' counting, come morn – I'm not doing it now. The lad' n' lass are safe, the wagon floor is charred but should hold if we lash a few beams under it, an' blast me if they didn't wait until I was bedded down, with you lot about forty strides off, an' race in to do their butchery.
Beshaba damn them!"
"Huh. Well, Shandril undoubtedly did," Beldimarr said dryly, pointing at the men shuffling uneasily around the fire he'd told them to stay by. "Well, you've seen our new blades. Impressed as much as I am?"
"As they all seem to be able to walk without falling over an' wear swords as if they know how to use 'em, I'd say about half of them'll be Thayan snakes under orders from the Red Wizard Thavaun," Arauntar grunted. "But we expected that. I distinctly remember you telling me we'd be up half the night talking over how to mount guards with so few blades, an' not a new one we can trust. What's really gnawing you?" Beldimarr cast a wary glance over his shoulder, and then muttered, 'Voldovan. He looked at me like he didn't recognize me for a moment, and when he talks his words are stiff an' somehow careful… something's not quite right."
"Was he out of your sight at all?"
"For a few breaths when a Harper I've never seen before signaled me and gave me a message for Twilight Hall; 'Soon the Three Laws will apply in every city.' Mean anything to you?"
Arauntar shook his head. "No doubt 'twill – in time to come, an' too late to save us any trouble."
He sighed, and shook his head again. "Gods above – Voldovan, too?"
Beldimarr scratched at some private itches. "You expected this life we've chosen to be easy?"
"No," Arauntar grunted, "but I was hoping the gods would serve up the worst entertainments no more'n three disasters at a time, if y'know what I mean. I'm not getting any younger."
Beldimarr shrugged. "If we don't handle this just right, my friend, we'll neither of us be getting any older, either."
*******
"Marlel," said the cold, calm voice out of empty air in front of him, "your patience impresses me."
The Dark Blade of Doom stood very still as icy terror gripped him, but he managed to keep his own voice soft and steady. "And so?"
"And so I believe I can use you in this little matter of spellfire, rather than destroying you right now. Sit