Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [126]
Both of the Zhentarim drew daggers and threw them.
The ranger shifted her blade coolly, and both hurled knives clanged away harmlessly into the night.
She smiled grimly, took another step toward the men – and Arauntar came around the side of the wagon with a roar and hurled himself on Sharantyr.
"No!" Shandril screamed. "Arauntar, no! She's a friend!"
Sparks flew as whirling blades met, two very swift steel-wielders twisted and darted and lunged. Over them, Korthauvar of the Zhentarim smiled tightly and flung another dagger.
Narm caught this one in his arm, deep and quivering.
He snarled, and before Shandril could stop him, sprang out over Arauntar in a furious leap that carried him right onto Korthauvar's toes.
As the wizard roared in pain, tried to leap back, and lost his balance as his pinned feet were freed unevenly, Narm snatched the man's dagger out of his own arm and gave it back to the Zhent as he fell on top of him. Twice, hard and deep, in the neck and throat.
Korthauvar Hammantle gasped, gulped, choked, and could not stop choking. He convulsed, flopping about on the ground like a fish cast up out of the water with his own blood like iron in his mouth… an endless flood of it. Frantically he reached up to Hlael for aid… and died seeing Hlael Toraunt shaking his head grimly and pitilessly and backing away.
19: A failing Hand of Flames
Even the mightiest wither and falter. It just takes longer for them to be laid low than those unfortunates they can send warriors to harvest for them. Hold this thought as consolation when the King's blades burst through your door.
Malivur Stonecastle
Fallen From Grace: A Cormyrean Noble's
Year of the Dracorage
Hlael Toraunt ran as he'd never run in his life before.
Even that young Tamaraith fool might be able to scorch him with a spell, and if the guard Arauntar caught up with him… well, he didn't want to ever get to know what a few feet of hard, cold steel sliding through his guts felt like.
He needed warriors – men sworn to the Brotherhood and as good with blades as these ragtag caravan guards. The Zhent magelings had some, and he needed them, now. If he had to blast a few Brother wizards to ashes to get them, well… it wasn't as if the Brotherhood lacked a surplus of such dolts…
Panting, Hlael rounded the wagon that held Deverel of the Zhentarim, masquerading as a dealer in cheeses from Elturel. He skidded to a halt as the point of a ready sword thrust up almost into his face.
"Yes?" its owner asked coldly. "You have business with Master Rinthar?"
Hlael drew in a deep breath, met the Zhentilar's cold regard with ice of his own, and said, "Yes. Tell him it's his brother – the one called Deverel. I've come from Manshoon, and I'd like to buy some cheese!"
*******
"Stop!" Shandril yelled, into the storm of steel.
"Stop, or you'll kill each other!"
She spat a tiny line of spellfire between their snarling faces, to make them heed – and it worked.
Arauntar reeled back, blinking, and risked a quick glance in her direction. "Well, aye, Lass, when you take steel to someone, that's the usual aim," he growled.
"Gods, no," the maid of Highmoon cried. "Not you two!"
Sharantyr and Arauntar stared at her, and then at each other over their blades, blinked, and asked more or less in unison, "So who by Leira the Deceiver are you?"
Arauntar lurched up to the wagon, waved a weary arm back at the pole-lanterns flickering behind him – one of a small legion of such that now lit the camp with their glows – and growled, "That's the last of 'em lit. Order reigns. I doubt there's a man or maid in camp still asleep, but most of 'em are back in their wagons an' not running around burying blades in each other any longer… for now."
"Good," Orthil Voldovan grunted." 'Now' is all I'm worried about, until morning. Why by all the drunken dancing gods every man along on this run feels the need to butcher the next man every chance he gets, I know not, but – "
He fell silent and strode past Sharantyr and her raised and ready blade to glare