Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [89]
Warriors and merchants alike had swords and daggers and even stools in their hands as they ran.
Some hacked at everyone within reach, and others aimed wands or fists that winked with rings.
Shandril saw the sky suddenly vomit forth whirling blades in a short-lived swirl that shredded a man spurring a horse among the wagons, then diced the horse, too. A ghostly dragon's head as high as eight men reared up into the sky, jaws gaping wide – but then collapsed and blew away as two blades met in the chest of the wizard who'd spun it. Sudden pillars of flame struck from the sky to immolate screaming warriors, and a lone crossbow quarrel sprouted in a man's head and snatched him from his feet, sword and dagger spilling from dead hands as he fell from view.
Ignoring all this tumult, the man who'd hurled green flame bowed smoothly to Shandril.
"Lady Shessair," he said pleasantly, "you may have noticed me earlier as Nargalarr the pot-seller, a somewhat half-witted man. Know that I am in truth the wizard Praulgar, and I desire to defend you against all who would take spellfire from y – "
A dagger flashed end-over-end past the nose of one of Praulgar's guards, and burst into nothingness against an unseen shield – but the dagger that spun in its wake sped right through where the exhausted shield had been, and bit through the wizard's throat.
Praulgar staggered, choking on blood, clutched at his throat, and took a few helpless, failing steps, his face suddenly pleading with Shandril as he struggled to speak… and managed no more than a bubbling scream.
"You'll defend no one, Zhentarim," said the man who'd hurled the dagger, striding into view with a sword ready in his hand. There was a second man at his elbow, and together they glared at the wizard's guards.
"D'you want to die, too?" the newcomer asked them softly. The nearest guard shook his head, turned, and drove his sword firmly through the dying wizard.
Praulgar slid forward off that darkly glistening blade into a boneless heap on the ground.
"Nay," the guard replied, "not now you've rid us of this tyrant. We'll begone. Tymora smile on all!" He backed a few hasty steps away from the newcomers and then turned and fled, the other wizard's guards with him.
The two newcomers promptly buried their swords in the fallen Zhentarim, just to make sure, and gave Shandril smiles that were meant to be reassuring.
"Well met, lady," one said in a deep voice. "I'm Brasker, and this is Holv – "
Shandril sighed and fed them both spellful – short, swift jets, right at their eyes.
Her aim was improving. Screaming, they staggered back, blindly slashing empty air with their swords.
Brasker promptly tripped over fallen wagon gear, and Narm sprang up out of the wreckage, dagger gleaming, and pounced on the man. Setting his teeth, he stabbed down, hard.
Shandril struggled for breath, shuddering. She had almost no spellfire left, yet it tugged at her, calling for more of her, trying to pull her into oblivion in its wake.
Feeling empty and weak, she swayed, mastered herself, and sighed, "From the Zhentarim to the Cult of the Dragon. You were right, love – we should have gone on playing dead longer." She looked around the ruined wagon, largely so she wouldn't have to watch Narm clambering forward to gingerly slay Holvan, and sighed again. " 'Twouldn't have worked, though," she added sadly. "They've torn this wagon apart around us."
Narm came back toward her, pale-faced and gasping, bloody dagger in hand, and was promptly sick all over the split and splintered remains of a water-cask.
"I-I – sorry, Shan, I – "
"Don't ever be sorry you're not good at slaying," she told him gently. "I hate it just as much as you do. I'll never be good at battle-tactics and lures and being ruthless and all that – and still this fire Mystra gave me eats men I should