Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [83]
It was time. Tarry any longer, and Waterdeep would be too close – near enough to flee to, and close enough that ambitious Waterdhavians could ride out and launch their own snares and ploys and outright attacks. Now was the time.
If he did it deftly, no one would know who'd launched the spell that started it. She'd rend it, of course, so all it had to be was large, overblown, and spectacular.
The second spell slicing in behind it was the one he wanted to reach her – the one that might give him a whisper-link to Shandril's mind, or failing that to the thoughts of her husband, the weakling Narm. A way to hear and see snatches of what they were thinking, and murmur the occasional suggestion into their dreams. A hook in the mouth of the most prized fish in Faerun, a hook the fish hopefully wouldn't even know was there.
Now! Bane above, the lass had just stopped hurling spellfire and fallen. If it hadn't been for her man, she'd have gone right off that wagon and been trampled! She must be drained or wounded! Now!
On his knees in the wagon, Aumlar snatched the sack of horsebones. Slipping his arm through a safety-sling to keep from falling, he thrust candles in through the little door of the swaying, dancing lantern that hung from the roof-tree. They seemed to take a very long time to catch alight, and he was hissing a steady stream of heartfelt curses against Mystra and Tymora ere he was able to sit down again, with blazing candles dripping hot wax all over his fingers, and ram them into the waiting iron prongs of his floor-brazier.
Kneeling behind it, he was tall enough to see out over the perch into the chaos of wagons sideswiping each other – and keep his eyes on Shandril. "Stay where you are!" he roared to his two Zhentilar bodyblades. They both made quick the double-slaps on their biceps that signaled they'd heard and would obey.
Aumlar glared between them as he chanted the incantation and held ends of horse bone in both candle flames, keeping his eyes and will fiercely fixed on Shandril. The spell ended, the bones fell to dust in his hands, and the smoke became heavy green floor-crawling death-gas.
Outside the slowing, rattling wagon, horses all around suddenly collapsed into clattering, bouncing bones, and dark streams of spell-smoke whirled up from where they'd been.
One of his guards cursed under his breath, knowing just who'd spun this dark magic, and Aumlar grinned savagely as it took shape – perfectly. He'd only dared practice this stolen Mulhorandi spell once before, but it was coalescing faultlessly. A darkening, swiftly growing cloud was expanding above the knot of wagons, the life-force of dozens of horses snarling up into it like so many tiny cyclones feeding the same lord of storms overhead…
As Aumlar bent his will on it and shook out of his sleeves what he'd need for his second spell, the cloud rose up like a dark castle tower, leaning over Shandril Shessair like a watchful hawk in the last moment ere it arrowed down to strike at her.
The wizard thumbed open both small coffers. In one were a few hairs he'd watched Shandril snag on a rough wagon-board, before tearing herself impatiently free. In the other were a few Narm had tugged out of his own head with impatient fingers.
From them, Aumlar would with a few muttered words spin a darting thing of stealthy silence to race along in the wake of his Doom of Swords spell. It would do the real harm to the lass that some capricious god or goddess had seen fit to bestow spellfire upon.
"Is it you, Mystra?" he whispered aloud, as he held up a hair in each hand and called the right incantation to mind. "Are you testing us all, once more?"
Blue fire flashed through the dark corners of his mind, just for an instant, and for the first time in months Aumlar Chaunthoun tasted real fear, like cold iron in his mouth. What else could this be but an answer from the goddess?
She was watching him, by the Weave!
"Oh, Mystra," he whispered, voice quavering, and then found himself casting his second spell before he'd quite decided