Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [71]
"You teach well," she murmured. "Behold: true pain, as promised."
His hand darted down from his neck to where she'd known it would go, to snatch and throw a dagger.
One of three, if her eyes had served her as they should…
No, she was in no mood to taste three or even one dagger, just now. She threw her sword into his face and sent him reeling, dagger falling away harmlessly. She was on him like a hunting cat pouncing, her stonemaiden out and around his throat before his body had finished bouncing. He struggled, but she stomped on both of his hands and then sat down hard on his head… and it was too late.
His face was purple and his eyes were staring their last when Sharantyr murmured almost gently, "Yes.
'Twould have been fun. Go now to Tempus, or whoever among the gods runs a better swordschool."
When the swordmaster's last breath had rattled out and his stare was frozen, she retrieved her weapons, wincing, and went back for Flamewind. The horse snorted at the smell of blood on her and pawed the road but did not run – for which Sharantyr was heartily grateful. She was too tired and too ravaged by pain to chase a horse through the Blackrocks just now.
Something bayed in the hills to the east, not far off.
The lady ranger collected three glowing blades without peering to see what might be howling and caught up Flamewind's dangling reins. The ranger and the horse left the bodies behind without another glance and walked together down the road to Face Crag.
Sleek, shaggy things with long fangs snarled and slunk away from the wrack she found there, leaving gnawed bones in their wake. Fresh, bloody skulls lay shattered underfoot amid ruined wagons, dark bloodstains, and broken lances. There were rustlings in the trees on both sides of her as Sharantyr peered this way and that, seeking any sign of a certain young mage or his lady… and thankfully finding none.
Flamewind snorted at those sounds and danced restlessly at the end of his reins. She held him firmly, plucked up two fallen skins of water to lash at his saddle, then strode on along the road, day drawing down or not.
As they went, the rustling sounds kept them company. Sharantyr smiled mirthlessly and walked on, seeking death or spellfire.
A popular quest it seemed, these days.
12: Mere Memories of Mages
I try not to remember dead wizards, and I write of them, as tersely as possible. Even the memory of some mages can be dangerous. Some have the power to awaken again when folk think or talk too vividly of them. Best be careful what tales of magic you tell around fires by night… or you may end up sharing your fire with unexpected guests.
Omnur Harlbraeth, Lord of Rolls and Records
A River of Gold: How I Served Bright Amn
Year of the Weeping Moon
Shandril stared around at all that could be seen in the flickering torchlight – bare rocks and the stunted branches of long-dead trees – and wrinkled her nose.
"So this is Orcskull Rise," she murmured. "I can't see why all the fluster and hurry to reach it, myself."
Narm grinned at her and nodded at the Rise, a ridge of smooth bare stone that rose out of the ground like the back of some great sleek monster, to break off in a jagged face of stone overlooking the Trade Way.
The old mining trail could be seen winding down out of the hills along its flank. Arauntar was already waving and yelling and pointing, getting wagons parked in a neat row along it.
"A defensible height, Voldovan said," he explained, watching guards moving around atop the knoll. It was smaller than Face Crag, but higher than the rockpiles around it.
"Hunh," Shandril grunted, swinging down from the perch to