Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [80]
"The Cult warriors lie in wait, and the caravan has almost reached them. Whatever befalls, our tarrying is almost at an end. It won't be long now."
Hlael Toraunt threw up his hands with a loud sigh.
"Cult warriors!" he echoed. "Swordheads who serve the Dragon-worshipers, not us! Drauthtar's not going to like this!"
"Pray let me be the judge of what Drauthtar does and does not like," a voice said crisply and coldly out of the tall, half-empty decanter hard by Korthauvar's elbow. The two Zhentarim wizards stiffened in unison, knowing all too well who they were hearing.
"D-drauthtar?" Hlael asked faintly. "You – you approve, then? Or desire us to act differently?"
"I've desired the two of you to act differently for years," was the curt reply, "but I entertain similar desires for most lesser mages of the Brotherhood. I see far too much wild, ruthless ambition and far too little obedience to orders and diligence to decreed strategies – too much treachery and too little teamwork. Yet my patience outstrips Korthauvar's as the sun outshines a candle. Manshoon himself – dragonriding, no less – went boldly after spellfire and was forced into flight. Many, many more Brotherhood mages after him made their own reckless snatches at spellfire and paid with their lives. If you have more success than they did, I'll overlook the time you took."
"And if we don't?" Hlael managed to ask through a very dry throat.
"The time for overlooking will then be past," the decanter replied. "Both on the part of your superiors in the Brotherhood and of this Shandril who hurls spellfire at annoying mages."
Hlael Toraunt started to tremble so violently that the decanter rattled on its tray, but the voice came no more. Even after Korthauvar let his spell collapse to snatch up the decanter and hurl it into bursting shards and wet-spraying wine against the nearest wall, neither mage felt any the less watched.
Zhentarim wizards seldom do.
*******
"They've moved swiftly," Thoadrin said approvingly. "Better light for us to shoot and scramble in, and even more weariness for their beasts!" He looked up and down the men ranged along the rocks, and growled, "Remember: no man looses a quarrel until my signal!"
Not waiting for their nods and muttered replies, he peered across the gulf of air to the rocks that rose on the far side of the Trade Way – straight into the eyes of Laranthan, who gave him a reassuring nod and the fist-on-chest gesture that warriors use to mean "All is ready, and I await your signal."
Good. He wanted no one to have time to turn and flee or rush off out of bowshot and then scramble up into the rocks to come creeping along after his men.
Let them all rumble right into his trap. If his men downed enough beasts of the first few wagons, they'd doubtless crash or stop in disarray, forming a barricade for the rest to crowd up behind. The road would become a shooting-gallery – hopefully long enough to reduce Voldovan's guards to nigh-none.
The Cult of the Dragon might not have the fell reputation of all these high and mighty wizards, these Zhents and Thayans and Arcane Brotherhoods, but their claws were real enough – and one of them, now smiling grimly at the approaching dust-cloud and thunder of wagons, was named Thoadrin.
Soon it would be blood time, and they'd send their bolts hissing down. Thoadrin crouched behind his rock smiling in satisfaction. A near-perfect ambush; slaughtering Voldovan's men would be a trifling amount of trouble.
"In fact," he said aloud to the heedless air, "no trouble at all." He raised his hand, making sure both Laranthan and his own line of men could see it, and held it high as the first caravan guards trotted past below him. Tense, he awaited just the right moment to bring it down and unleash hissing death.
*******
"I don't like the look of this," Narm said suddenly, snatching up the shield from its hooks. "Look at Beldimarr – and Arauntar, too! They're – "
"I can see," Shandril