Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [87]
Corpses toppled, trailing plumes of smoke, unregarded in the shout-filled confusion of tiny, dying lightnings crackling across the ground like restless claws, spiraling swords fraying away into drifting plumes of smoke, and spheres of snarling flame bouncing and tumbling out of the sky.
The brightness overhead died away swiftly, lashing out in a few parting surges. Floods of ruby and blood-pink radiance washed over trees and wagons and running men, and left strange things in their wakes.
One stunted tree tore itself up by the roots and spiraled up into the sky every bit as enthusiastically as the vanished spell-blades had been coming down.
Another turned to ice and promptly began to shed branches in singing, bouncing clatterings. A third became water, crashing to the ground in a foaming flood that spat short-lived, licking flames at the air as it drained away. A wagon turned bright green and glowed. The trader on its perch stared down at his green-glowing hands in disbelief, then fled in howling terror.
Like a frantic wind he raced past a merchant frozen forever in mid-stumble, a motionless body turned to something akin to sparkling stone. It changed again as Shandril scrambled up to stare at it, becoming a man-shape made of coiled and hissing groundsnakes.
The pillar of writhing, thankfully harmless creatures promptly collapsed into slithering chaos, causing several guards to snarl fearful, astonished oaths and flee from the wriggling, hurriedly dissipating groundcarpet of snakes.
"Down, Shan!" Narm snapped, catching hold of Shandril's arms, hurling himself to the floorboards and swinging her up and over him as he fell. With a startled mew she tumbled into the depths of the ready-wagon as the perch exploded into deadly splinters and sight-searing brightness. Narm bounced down the wagon on his back and elbows, lacking the breath to even hiss curses, as the spell that had sought their lives died away – and the wagon was rocked by another blast that was very loud and very near.
Something bloody that had been alive a moment ago tore through the fabric above the wooden wagonsides and on out through the cloth on the other side of the ready-wagon, slowing not a whit.
"What -?" Shandril demanded a little dazedly, as she slithered down a collapsing heap of tarpaulins and small kegs of axle grease, to join Narm on the littered floor. "Who's trying to kill us now?"
"Nay, nay – who's not trying to kill us now?" Narm snapped, cradling her in his arms. "They've all gone battle-crazed out there! I don't know who tried that spell of blades or who broke it with that cloud of lightnings that went all wild, but every last merchant with a wand and every hiddencloak wizard in this caravan is trying to deal death this very Mystrablessed moment!"
A weird high singing sound was rising over his words, pierced by many screams and shouts, and through the gaping hole where the perch had been Shandril saw an entire wagon whirling up into the sky. Vicious cracklings and flashes of light marked the unleashings of other magics all around them, and the thuds of running boots sounded on all sides, peppered with oaths and the occasional clang of sword upon sword.
"Narm," Shandril said, struggling free of her husband's grasp, "I've got to see." She rolled over beneath him to crawl to where the perch had been.
"Nay, lady love," Narm protested, catching her by the elbows and throwing his full weight onto her back, to pin her to the floorboards again, "stay down, and quiet – and mayhap alive, hey?"
Shandril sighed, growled at him, shook her head to get a tangle of hair out of her eyes, and said firmly,
"Look, every last masked Zhent wizard along on this run knows exactly which wagon we're in, and – "
The world erupted just outside to their right, and the ready-wagon was suddenly turning over around them, raining down rope-ends and hand-kegs and any number of small, hard, pointed things