Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [94]
The day might belong to raging Tempus the Wargod, but Mystra certainly seemed to be listening attentively today.
15: Fierce Magic Beyond
Withstanding
We warriors burn and pillage and plunder what we can reach, but when wizards make war, all Faerun stands in harm's way.
Ortharros of Zazesspur
Bright Banner Above Me: A Swordlord's Life
Year of the Turning Wheel
"It's past time for pretending to sell spices," Malivur said softly, his green eyes gleaming back the blazing fire of the scene in the depths of his scrying-whorl.
The ginger-bearded seller of clockworks nodded. "In this, we're agreed. He's weak and not looking to see who strikes at him while those flames rage. There'll be no better time. 'Tis best for the Cult, and us two – and all civilized Faerun – if Aumlar Chaunthoun goes down into dust and darkness right now."
"Then stand back, Krostal! Thereafter, move not and say nothing," the dark-robed wizard snapped. "For the greater glory of the Dead Dragons, let him die now!"
The Cult thief nodded and retreated a few swift, smooth steps down the wagon before crouching to watch.
"Mystra guide me," Malivur breathed, and carefully began to cast one of his best spells.
Krostal's hands drifted to the hilts of both his throwing-knives, loosened them, and settled into comfortable grips – just in case.
He smarted from minor burns in a dozen places, and the roofless ruin of his wagon was afire, plumes of smoke rising all around him. "Aumlar Chaunthoun, mighty mage," he mocked himself in a whisper as he crawled to the small, nondescript coffer that held a precious healing potion – and his last and most precious items of magic.
He'd been saving them for a dark and dire time… like right now. This caravan was a-crawl with mages, sorcerers, fell priests, and the gods alone knew what else, and the demise of one Aumlar of the Zhentarim would give great satisfaction to many of them. His fellows in the Brotherhood would probably be the most delighted of all. So it would not do to be noticed in his weakness just now. Not until – The air behind him surged into a sudden, rising roar, and Aumlar flung himself forward in frantic haste, snatching up the coffer and diving out of the wagon without even looking to see what hostile magic had erupted. Pheldred, no doubt, returning to – He hit the ground hard on an already bruised shoulder and rolled, kicking out to keep himself moving and letting his tumble carry him around to the left. If that spell flared out in a straight path…
He managed to cradle the coffer from damage and come to a twisted halt facing his wrecked wagon.
Breathing hard against the coffer – clutched to his chest like a breastplate – Aumlar stared at a cloud of emerald radiance that was whipping through where he'd been in a rising, howling spiral. A whirlwind of bones – no, teeth, the fangs of myriad beasts – slashed and shredded cloaks, weather-covers, and chests alike inside that eerie glow.
The Cult of the Dragon! Well, it could be a Malarite spell, too, but what interest would the howling beastlovers have in – never mind. The rotting Gamepiece Carvers Guild of Tharsult might put in an appearance working war against this caravan!
Everyone was after spellfire, and – The emerald whirlwind abruptly lifted from its slow, methodical destructive drift across the wagon floor and tumbled out its riven front, heading straight for him!
Whoever was behind that spell must be able to see him! With trembling fingers Aumlar tore open the coffer, hastily thrust the two wands it held through his belt, snatched out the stopper of the potion flask and drained it in choking haste, then plucked up the ring that should spin him a shielding to withstand all but… spellfire.