Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [129]
Nesger shook his head as if to rid himself of tiresome thief-lords and their heavy sarcasm alike, sagged against the doorway, and clutched at it for support with hands that left bloody marks behind.
The lips of the Master of Shadows thinned.
"Slaughter," Nesger told him bluntly. "The caravan torn apart and set afire. More wizards'n I’ve ever seen in m'life, all hurling spells… an' that wench torching them all, and their wagons too, with her spellfire.” He shook his head. "I'd back her 'gainst an army, or Manshoon of the Zhents himself, or both together. 'Slike she's a god, blasting everything that stands against her!"
Without waiting for reply or dismissal he turned and staggered out.
The Master of Shadows stared at the empty doorway where Nesger had been, interlacing his ringers and rubbing them back and forth together thoughtfully. It would probably be best to just forget about the whole affair, at least until Tornar's return.
If, that is, Tornar ever did return.
*******
The Zhentilar eyed the dead wizard and the lone, helmless woman standing over him, shouted, and surged forward as one, firing their bowguns.
Voldovan cursed and vaulted up inside his wagon, struggling to get out sword and signal-horn at the same time – as small but deadly bolts thudded home in Sharantyr's flesh.
She groaned and reeled back, dropping her blade to claw at Lhaeo's bag with the hand that hadn't stopped three bolts because she'd thrown it up to shield her face.
They were going to sword her, and she wouldn't have time. The ranger rolled frantically in under the wagon, and only one blade slashed fire across her ribs ere she got the bag open and found the right stone.
Ironguard again, but that meant one small bone knife against a handcount of large, angry, armored men.
Wonderful.
In the wagon overhead she could hear the muffled sounds of Shandril weeping – probably with her face buried in her bedding.
That was just about what Sharantyr felt like doing, right now, as she rolled over on her wounded arm, grunted at the pain, and snatched out the bolts. Their iron heads passed through her flesh like smoke, but blood spurted from the holes they'd made. There was one more healing gem…
The lantern light coming in under the wagon dimmed – and not just from all the men stabbing at her and cautiously squirming in under the wagon to reach her, either. This gloom was like a hungry shadow, gliding forward…
"Shan!" the ranger cried. "Get away from here!
There's something dark, that drinks magic!"
She heard a startled oath from Narm and a wild shriek of grief and fury that must be Shandril. It was followed by a louder oath from Voldovan in the instant before the wagon above her burst apart in spellflames that sent the Zhentilar scrambling back with curses of their own. The darkness swirled hungrily up from beneath the wagon, reaching for – Roaring white fire that crisped the shouting Zhentilar and the grass they stood in alike, in a single, terrifying instant, ere stabbing down at the darkness.
"Sharantyr!" Shandril shouted, from somewhere above and behind it. "Get clear – you can, can't you?"
"Yes!" the ranger shouted back, rolling for all she was worth. The darkness was swirling like leaves circling in a storm whirlwind, feeding on the flame that sought to destroy it. She had to warn Shandril about that, so the lass could – could… do what?
Dimly Sharantyr became aware, as she found her feet and, staggering, her balance, that the darkness was screaming. A shrill, high cry, words in an unfamiliar language that somehow reminded her of things she'd heard, down the years, then just pain again, shrieks that soared higher and higher.
There came a sudden coldness in Sharantyr's heart, and she looked down to see a swordtip emerging from under her breasts.
"Ye shouldn't have turned yer back on me," a voice whispered in her ear.
"And you," she snarled, as she whirled around and bruised her knuckles on Voldovan's nose and jaw in a solid punch that sent him flying, "shouldn't try to impersonate