Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [121]
Narm and Shandril traded more glances, in which eyes were rolled expressively.
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The dust cloud ahead was coming her way, fast.
Sharantyr watched it with narrowed eyes, then sighed, hurried down into the deepest part of the ditch, and flattened herself against the ground in the lee of a large rock. A coster caravan, coming fast.
They'd ride her down with barely a shrug or put a quarrel through her at first sight for fear she might be some brigand lure.
The cloud grew, and with it a rumble that swiftly grew louder, shaking the ground her cheek was pressed against. She closed her eyes against the dust and waited for the din to simply pass over and leave her – in the dust, of course. She'd be choking on it for some time, as she walked in the wake of the harddriven wagons.
"Shan, Shan," she asked the stone in front of her wryly, "couldn't you just have settled down in Shadowdale and endangered us all there?"
Then the Knight of Myth Drannor shut her mouth tight, for the storm was upon her. Close by her head plunging hooves and wheel after wheel thundered, the tumbling dust so thick that it stung her skin, the rattling of loose cargo and wagon-chains briefly deafening. The tumult lessened as it left her behind, roaring on south toward Triel.
She'd almost caught up to Voldovan there but she'd had to get water and walk far enough beyond Triel that the inevitable lurking outlaws wouldn't decide she'd be easy prey while she slept. When at last Sharantyr found bare rock to leave the road on and cover beyond, she simply had to sleep. She was still weary now, but she was no longer staggering and finding her eyes drooping shut at every third stride.
It would be so easy to just lie here, and sleep…
Aye, and be dined upon by the first night-prowling beast that followed her scent along the road.
With another sigh the ranger rolled over and up – and found herself staring at the still-quivering wreckage of a freshly crashed wagon. A wounded horse was thrashing in the road, others were trying to kick their way clear of their harness and away from the bodies of their dead fellows, and the brigands who'd wrought this were darting down from the rocks a dozen strong, or more.
"Kisses upon you, Tymora!" Sharantyr gasped. She'd been only a few strides from walking right under their noses – and by the looks of all the coster outriders sprawled in the road with quarrels standing up out of their backs, she'd have died wearing enough bolts to look like a porcupine.
Three surviving outriders were spurring desperately past her and away, one wearing a quarrel in the shoulder. The brigands wasted no time chasing them. They were already swording the kicking, twisting horse that had gone down – and the drover struggling to get out from under a tangle of harness beside it, too.
Other brigands plunged into the wagon and came out again with blankets and cloaks to toss over the heads of the horses they judged salvageable. There was a brief tumult of wrestling with frightened beasts, swearing, rolling away from deadly hooves… then the hooded horses quieted down to stamping and snorting where they stood, still harnessed. The brigands got down to serious looting. Nigh everyone charged into the wagon, and there were crashings, blows, and shouts of pleased discovery. Sharantyr sidled up behind the one man still outside and hastily ducked away behind the horses when he finally decided to turn and look down the road to make sure no one was coming back from the caravan for their missing wagon.
Calmly, as if she'd every right to be there, Sharantyr cut horse after horse out of harness, taking calm measure of each as she did so. When she'd settled on the one that looked the strongest, she sprang up onto its back. As it reared and bugled its surprise,