Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [98]
Mhegras shook his head again and burrowed among their things for his fourth travel-flask of ieirith-wine.
Sabran watched him drink deeply of the black, salty stuff – and how does a mage of the Brotherhood come to prefer a vintage of hot, savage Mhair, anyway? – and waited for his partner's next outburst.
Mhegras wiped his mouth, restoppered the flask with a sigh, and said quietly, "Well, if they are, they're likely dead. A lot of them, anyway. That little minx is flying around on her spellfire right now, melting down every wagon and rock she looks at! There aren't going to be many guards or merchants left for them to guard, if this goes on."
"So?" the priest asked calmly.
Mhegras gave Sabran a dark look. "You were right.
We take no part in this battle and go right on playing happy heads-down merchants until we've a better chance to take this Shandril." His eyes strayed to a particular coffer.
Sabran smiled. "The drugs to make her sleep are fine. The full array's unscathed; I've just checked. I doubt nightfall will bring us a good chance. Even if all this burning people wearies the maid, there'll likely be Voldovan and his two head dogs everywhere, growling and prowling. Perhaps in Triel."
Mhegras nodded, then gave Sabran a sudden grin.
"After she's cooked another dozen of our rivals, hey?"
The priest shrugged. "As tempting as I find that idea, we should do a little prowling of our own tonight.
Voldovan's sure to hire guards in Triel, and Thay and the Cult both have their own eyes and ears there, awaiting our arrival."
"I've full spells ready right now," Mhegras muttered.
"Tonight it is, then." He reached for the wine flask again.
*******
"Hand of Talos!" Thoadrin swore, as another rock was suddenly smoke and dust, spellflames raging through where it had been to sear away stunted felsul trees and thornbushes alike. If there'd been any better forest here, the wench would've had it all afire already, blazing away to the horizon and choking everyone with its smoke. Instead of just strangling his warriors.
Shaking his head in grim disbelief, Thoadrin of the Cult scrambled a little way farther down from the spellfire-scorched height of rocks. He'd watched spellfire melt away most of that rampart of stone as easily as it turned Cult warriors to ashes. Even a glancing lick of spellflames had been enough to turn armor to bubbling ruin and leave the leg beneath it scorched.
Wherefore Thoadrin was limping now, and his every breath was burning pain. He dared not try to cross the road to the rocks on the other side of Haelhollow again, but there'd been no one left alive there the last time he'd checked, not unless they'd fled a good way into the wilderlands… where the leucrotta and wolves and ore raiding bands were no doubt lurking and watching the fun.
Another few ridges along this side, and he'd be sure of the fates of the rest of his men. Ashes, most of them – he knew that already. Was he the last? Of all the hardened Dragon warriors he'd led out here?
Gods above, that one girl could deal all this death…
Someone blackened rose up from a tangle of firescorched branches in front of him, sword in hand, and Thoadrin felt for his own blade.
"Easy," the man gasped." Tis me, lord: Laranthan."
Thoadrin stumbled forward, managing a grin.
"You'll forgive me if I don't embrace you," he gasped, almost falling over.
Laranthan shot out a hand to steady him, and gasped,
"We're the last. Spellfire comes expensive, it seems."
He coughed, then, a raw, rasping anguish that would not stop as he doubled over, shaking.
Thoadrin threw his arm around his best warrior – by the Dead Dragons, his only warrior, now! – and held the man, helpless to do more, until at last the coughing ended. Laranthan went to his knees, spat out a lot of blood onto the fire-scorched rocks, drew in a few long, gasping breaths, and asked, "Could we … get away from this place?"
"Come," Thoadrin