Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [69]
As he spurred away from Dowan Pool with his men riding at his heels, trailing the easy laughter of men laden with food, heavily armed, and eager to launch their next attack, Thoadrin murmured aloud the same unfortunate saving that the trader was probably mouthing about now, too: "One fate befalls fools who stand out."
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Marlel smiled softly as he peered out of his wagonflap. The man with the heavy coffer was just setting it down behind Narm Tamaraith.
The spellfire-lass mattered, but her lad did not. Of course, if this clumsy hireling – of Thay, if he had his rogues right – succeeded, the Dark Blade of Doom would have to move swiftly. Even the stupidest Zhent could figure out that a lone, grieving lass would have to sleep sometime…
The Thayan turned and rose from the coffer in a single smooth movement, the knife in his hand a soot-blackened, unglinting fang that he drove viciously up – Into empty air, as Narm spun away from him, kicking the back of the man's knee. As the Thayan stumbled, Narm's own knife flashed out and found a home in the man's left eye.
As the Thayan fell, Marlel saw all the color drain out of the young lad's face. Narm promptly threw up all over the corpse.
Marlel leaned forward for a better look and hastily ducked back from the flap as one of Voldovan's veteran dogs – Beldimarr – came hastening to Narm, casting a look in Marlel's direction as he did so.
The man who was not Haransau Olimer cradled a cold belt-flask of thrusk – brewed this morning, and doubtless as bitter as a winter storm by now – and smiled in the dimness.
So the young lad had grown claws, had he? A pity he was trapped facing a small forest of wise and deadly fangs.
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Four of them, magic leaping between their blades like blue fire as they charged her. Sharantyr bit her lip. This was going to hurt. Ironguard spells stopped metal, not magic.
The one protecting her now was the variant that left her hands solid to metal, so she could wield her own blade but could also lose fingers or swordhand to hostile steel.
Two foes coming straight at her, the other two circling wide to her flanks… now!
She'd taken a wary step or two back, shifted her sword to point at one rushing brigand, then another, and put an expression of fear onto her face. Now, without any warning, she burst into a sprinting run, right at the gap between the man running to her right and the two coming head-on.
She was tired. She'd have to end this quickly or have it ended for her. Despite her weariness, she was faster than any of these lumbering men, and one of them stumbled as he tried to turn too swiftly and almost pitched over on his side. Cursing and hopping on a turned ankle, he was far behind her, and she'd timed her move perfectly.
A blade reached for her, slid past her shoulder as she leaned gracefully away from it. She passed the rightmost of the two straight-ahead chargers and made her own leap to the left. She landed, spun, and leaped again, turning more quickly than any runner could, and found herself right behind the leader. He was whirling – straight into her blade as it swung through his throat. He hadn't even time for a shout as he choked, looked startled, and toppled, still swinging himself hard around.
Sharantyr took the man who'd been running beside him next, the man she'd outflanked. He was still turning to follow her runs and leaps, with his back to her, and slaughtering him was hideously easy.
Throat again, from behind as he turned into it, then a leap away to face the nearest surviving brigand, the flanker who hadn't hurt his ankle.
His sneering smile was gone, replaced by anger and rising fear, as the lady ranger of the Knights of Myth Drannor – a title given her by folk of Shadowdale to distinguish her from Florin, who was the closest thing the Knights had to a leader; gods how she missed his easy smile and swift blade beside her now! – ran right at him, charging hard to stay ahead of the last, hobbling brigand.
Their blades met, and she had to duck away and leap straight up