Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [41]
"Ye just sit there, lass, for now," Voldovan growled.
“Your fool of a husband made the same offer, and I'm almost tempted to pair the two of ye together – or would be, if I wanted to watch a wagon crash into every tree and ditch along the way!" He turned his head. "Mulgar, cut yon horse. out of the harness, and do what ye must to quiet it, one way or t'other.
We're short, mind – cut it down only if 'tis too gone to save. Tarth, help him."
Thorst groaned and slumped against Shandril, and Voldovan promptly rode closer. "Report!" he snapped at the wounded man. Shandril gave him an angry glare. The caravan master gave it right back, leaning out of his saddle to thrust his chin close to hers, and better convey the full fury of his stare.
"I told her not to…" the drover gasped, blinking up at Orthil as if his eyes wouldn't work. "S-she tried to help… no treachery… tried to shield me…" His strength failed, and he turned his face into Shandril's side and went limp. She put a comforting arm around him, her eyes never leaving the caravan master's. There was no fear in her gaze, only something that might have been a challenge. Silence stretched between them for a long, deepening moment ere Voldovan stirred, lifting the hand that held the whip to point over Shandril's shoulder.
"In the wagon behind ye," Orthil growled at the maid of Highmoon, "seek ye three sorts of coffers with flasks painted on them. Yellow flask holds spoiled wine to wash clean wounds, fingerpots of sap to seal them where scarring doesn't matter, and old cloth to bind them. Red flask is merenthe to bring sleep whate'er the pain – but be sure folk swallow it and don't choke on it! Blue flask is painquench, but 'tis what's called 'dreamhappy,' mind: It leaves folk clumsy and slow-witted, not to be trusted with knives, beasts, or firetending. See to Thorst, and I'll send for ye when our search is done."
"Search?"
Not bothering to answer her, the caravan master turned his head and bellowed, "Arauntar!
Beldimarr!"
Swift hoofbeats were his answer, and in a matter of moments the two guards galloped up to him, armor askew and bloody swords in hand. Beldimarr had lost his helm and was bleeding from a cut across his forehead, but both men were grinning fiercely.
"We drove'em off; Orthil!"
"I slew three!"
"Very nice," the caravan master said crushingly. "Ye two come with me now. We leave Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar here, to watch the wench and the woods, in case they come back again. Starting with this readywagon, we search every last conveyance down the line to see who's survived and if anyone's lurking.
All undamaged wagons and unhurt folk, into the cleft. Call Varlamar to light yon braziers, and get Horlo an – "
"Horlo's dead," Arauntar said bluntly.
"Belmurl?"
"He's dead, too… or will be, by the time we get back to him."
Voldovan shook his head and pointed grimly at the ready-wagon. "Search it, and let's be going. Found any of those coffers yet, wench?"
"Easy, there," Arauntar growled. "She didn't attack our caravan."
"No, but she may well be why we were attacked,"
Orthil Voldovan said grimly. "I'd feed her and her lad merenthe and tie them to a tree together right now, if I thought there was some way of telling all Toril we'd left her behind and having them believe us. There isn't, so I'll use her fire magic instead… but look ye, Shandril Shessair: I have my eye on ye, and if ye set one foot down wrong, it'll be the swift sword or the bow for ye, and we'll see if all thy precious fire will save ye from the grave!"
Guards stared nervously at Shandril, where she knelt on the perch frozen in a sideways twist, half inside the wagon-curtain and half out, looking at the caravan master.
Beldimarr licked his lips. "Uh, Master, be this talk – wise?"
"Wisdom is something I've never had.and never found a need for," Orthil told him curtly. "I run caravans, remember?"
No one laughed at the savage jest. Into the little silence that followed Shandril said calmly, "I've not found