Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [154]
A slow nod was their only answer. The horses carried them past at a steady pace, and Shandril said,
"A moon elf, like Merith."
"A possible enemy, unlike Merith," Narm replied grimly. "We must watch our every step." He peered ahead. "The trees thin," he said. "We must be nearing Essembra. I can see fields."
A caravan rumbled toward them, then, a dozen wagons pulled by oxen. The wagons were surrounded by hard-eyed outriders who rode with crossbows at their saddles and short spears in their hands. The wagons bore no merchant banner, but passed without incident.
Well behind the caravan rode a family on heavily laden draft horses, leading strings of pack mules.
They were led by a single excited youth with a halberd that dipped and swung alarmingly as he rode forward to challenge them. "Way, there! Way, if you be not foes! Declare yourselves!"
Narm stared at him in silence. The halberd lowered upon them.
"Declare yourselves, or defend yourselves!"
"Ride on in peace," Narm replied, "or I'll turn your halberd into a viper and turn it back upon you!"
The boy recoiled, his horse dancing uncertainly as its rider waved about trying to draw his blade wrong-handed while keeping the halberd menacingly upon Narm. "If you be a mage," he said shrilly, backing away as Narm and Shandril rode steadily on, "give your name, or face swift death!"
Beyond him Narm saw small crossbows raised ready upon saddles, and calm, wary eyes above them. He could not hesitate longer. Beside him, Shandril rode serenely silent.
Narm drew himself up in his saddle. "I am Marimmar the Magnificent, Mage Most Mighty. I and my apprentice would pass you in peace. But offer us death, and it shall be yours!"
Beside him, Shandril burst into muffled giggles.
Narm kept his composure with an effort, as the boy cast him a frightened look and hastened by. Narm nodded pleasantly and then stared straight ahead as he rode past the other men and the mules behind, managing to hide a smile that kept creeping onto one side of his face.
"Sarhthor?" Sememmon asked aloud, peering into the depths of the crystal ball before him. Its magical telepathy was always difficult to focus at first. In its depths he could see flickering lamps and an expressionless, elegantly bearded face. Sarhthor looked back at him and sent his thoughts without speaking. Sememmon tried to hide his own irritation at the other mage's precise ease of art and apparent fearlessness.
"Well met, Sememmon. I have searched the dale.
Elminster and the knights have just returned, using the road south from Voonlar. The girl with spellfire and her consort mageling are not here, as far as I can determine."
"Not in Shadowdale?"
"Not. They may be here in hiding, but I doubt it.
None of the knights-or those Harpers I can observe in safety-have gone anywhere out of the ordinary or met with anyone. The folk of the tower know they left two nights ago."
"Two nights?" Sememmon almost screamed. "Why, they could be almost anywhere!"
Precisely why I'm returning to you, as soon as possible, Sarhthor thought flatly, then said aloud,
"By the way, who is that with you?"
"With me?" Sememmon asked, angry and startled.
"I am alone!"
"You are indeed-now. A moment ago there was an eye floating above your left shoulder-the ocular construction of a wizard eye spell. A spy, then.
Guard yourself, Sememmon."
Sememmon had already turned angrily away from the ball, to stare wildly about his chamber. "Show yourself!" he thundered, casting a detect magic spell.
Dweomer-the auras of familiar objects imbued with art-glowed all around him. The faint traceries of spells, too, shone in the field of revealed