Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [67]
At the sound of his voice Shandril shook herself, as if coming out of an unpleasant dream, and then blinked, saw Narm, and kissed him.
There were chuckles from the guards around, and even a faint cheer, as Nairn's and Shandril's arms tightened around each other.
After a long, blissful moment, the maid of Highmoon drew back her head to look anxiously at Beldimarr and then at Arauntar – and saw smiling thanks and awe on both guards' faces. Then her eyes flickered as she remembered the ring of watching men.
Rather than blushing or trying to hide herself in Narm's embrace, she looked up at them, directly at face after face, then asked, "What? Why d'you all stare at me so?"
" 'Tis like something of the gods," a guard said hoarsely. "I know not whether to worship ye, Lady – or sword ye, to save us all."
"Why? Do you pray to Arauntar, or try to cut him up, because he swings a good sword? Do you hack at a cobbler, or go on your knees to him, because he mends a boot you thought couldn't be mended, and makes it look as new? Or so treat a master archer?
This is but a skill the gods gave me. Why such awe over it?"
"Lady," another guard said slowly," 'tis magic."
There was a murmur of agreement, but Voldovan rubbed his chin and said firmly, "The lass has the right of it! The best way to see spellfire is as some strange sort of sword that can slay or heal." Then he raised his voice gruffly. "Right! Show's over! We're not getting any nearer Orcskull Rise, standing here watching a little fire and a lass rolling around losing her clothes in it! Let's move, men!"
Amid the general groan and stir that followed, the caravan master added slowly, "Oh, and Lady, too."
He raised his hand in a sort of salute, and said almost grudgingly, "I'll not soon be forgetting this day."
Shandril stood up, hands on hips, and wrinkled her nose at him. ''I'm not wearing armor again."
Voldovan grinned, shook his head, and growled in mock rage, "Defying me again!? Some loyal guard ye are!"
"Master!" a guard called ere Shandril could reply, dragging a body by the boots toward Voldovan and trying hard not to look as if he was staring at the unclad fire-wench at every third step. "You should see this! By how we found him, he seems to have been warlord of this… the attack on us. Look familiar?"
The caravan master strode forward almost defiantly to glare down at the corpse.
"Bluthlock," he snarled. "Rendilar Bluthlock of Scornubel, scourer of alleys… and hurler of – " he waved a hand around at the ruined wagons, crossbow quarrels, blood puddles, dead horses, and sprawled men – "shakes and rats and mad dogs at all the rest of us. Well, that's one Scornubrian no one will mourn, least of all me."
Voldovan spat onto the slack, staring face of the corpse, then turned and stalked away, snapping,
"Salvage all the wagons we can, reload, and let's be going! To me, all!"
The guards obediently trotted toward the caravan master from all directions, Narm and Shandril among them.
Orthil Voldovan looked around the ring of reassembled faces with a sour expression on his face, caught sight of his fearful surviving clients drawing nearer, and lowered his voice to a mutter.
"This run really is cursed. I want strict, leap-to-me obedience and alertness every instant ye're awake.
Don't hesitate, don't argue my orders, and don't do anything stupid." He looked grimly around at them and added. "I know ye've heard this a time or thousandscore before, but I mean it. If we slip up again, with this few of us left and hounds coming at us from behind every tree, it's likely well never reach Waterdeep – or anywhere else, ever again – alive."
*******
"Korthauvar, I don't want to be blasted to cinders by Drauthtar or anyone else," Hlael said angrily, "or forced into some helpless beast-shape to be maimed and left to be devoured, either! We must do something to snatch this spellfire, not just watch and gloat! What if someone else gets to her first, and – "
"Let them. I want them to."
"You what?" Hlael almost screamed.
"Let someone who's not