Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [63]
Narm and Shandril had scarcely relaxed and started to breathe normally again when someone else, breathing hard, ran up and more or less fell into the far end of the wagon, where the chests and casks were tumbled into a wall of splintered, riven confusion. Someone else arrived almost on top of the hard-breathing man – who growled out an angry curse.
"Bones of the dead, Brasker, don't do that! I almost cut my hand off getting this blade around at you, to say nothing of what I would've done to you if I'd managed it!"
"Stop your whining," a heavier voice replied sourly.
"They're putting quarrels through everything that moves out there… and in case you've failed to notice, those're the big ones! Hit by one of those, and you'll be greeting the gods straightaway, not lying around cursing that this wagon's somehow yours. As I recall, this was the one the spellfire wench was riding."
"Have you seen her, since this -?"
"No, and if one of those blackswords have killed her on us, Gorthrimmon's going to be less than pleased.
Take her alive, he said, at all costs."
"What does the Cult want with one slip of a lass, anyway? So she knows a fire spell or two. Haven't we got mages enough already to fight Luskan to a standstill or scour out Darkhold if they're ever foolish enough to want to die screaming in spellbattle?"
"This spellfire, Holvan, is something special. It can cleave spells so fast it wipes the sneer off an archmage's face and makes him tremble! Whoever grabs it'll be able to slaughter the Red Wizards himself, chase the Blackstaff into hiding, and melt down old Elminster and the Seven Sisters, too!"
"Gods above," Holvan whispered. "So they expect us to take her?"
"No, they expect us to die trying – along with the other Followers we don't know about, who're also along on this caravan. As I see it, we'll do best to find out who the Zhents have sent along in these wagons and slit a few throats without getting caught at it! 'Tis going to end in spell-battle, see if it doesn't, and the fewer competitors around to hamper us of the Cult in taking her down, the better! I hear a Cult wizard called Lharass has found some ancient spell or other that can chain mages with their own magic!
I wonder if this Shandril can be held by chains of her own spellfire?"
"I like the sound of this less and less," Holvan muttered. "Whatever happened to putting daggers in merchants' backs and taking their coins to the nearest Lord of the Cult, for him to gather and present to some dread wyrm, while we trot safely off and find us some more merchants?"
"The world changed, Holvan. It always does. I prefer the old simple ways, too, but somehow the rulers and flying wizards of the Realms forgot to ask my opinion. They always do."
"The bolts've stopped, Brasker; should we -?"
"Bide just a bit. I'd be less than pleased to offer myself as the only target still standing, if they're just lying low… no, there's Voldovan coming back, and he's talking to that fool Nargalarr, the pot-seller. It must be over. Back to our wagon!"
"Shouldn't we -?"
"No! Brigands love to fall back and wait for everyone to get into the road and start tramping around talking about their great valor and who got away from them – then rake all the chattering heroes with another volley. So we run fast and low from wagon to wagon back to our own, and nowhere else!
If one of the guard wants to talk, he can do it running after us! Come on!"
There was a brief scrambling, a thud of boots, then relative calm.
"Brasker and Holvan," Shandril murmured.
"Remember those names."
"Done, love," Narm whispered. "I'm beginning to think every third merchant in this caravan is after us!"
Whatever reply Shandril might have made was lost in a sudden cacophony of shouts, screams, humming bolts, and the thudding of running feet – followed swiftly by a deafening chorus of clanging, singing steel. Brasker, it seemed, had been right. They heard Voldovan roaring something, and – "In here!" someone hissed, and coffers were flung aside in the upturned