Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [156]
Gods aid me, Shandril thought. What will become of us? There are no knights here to rescue us, now.
Malark's cold chanting ended in a sudden squealing, gurgling sound. Shandril, waiting to absorb his spell, froze and then rolled over in breathless haste. If that rock fell on Narm…
But Narm was safely to one side, in the grip of a grinning Rathan. Malark stood staring at her, black eyes very dark and very large, and over his shoulder Torm was grinning.
In the thief s hands were the ends of the waxed cord that had choked off Malark's spell in mid-word.
Malark was hanging from the cord now, face terrible, frantic fingers clawing at the cord about his throat growing feeble. Malark's eyes rolled up into his skull, and he began to sag. Torm held the cord tight as he lowered the mage slowly to the ground.
"Well met," the thief said cheerfully as he rolled the body over, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion, and beckoned Rathan over with a jerk of his head.
"His purse, quickly, before he is fully dead… these damned mages all have spells set to trigger all manner of mischief at their deaths."
Rathan bent to work obediently. "Ho, Shandril-thy lad's all right," he said quickly. Shandril stared at the boulder, now sunk into the grass nearby, and shuddered. "Nothing but a bit of rag and a handful of coppers," Rathan told Torm.
"His boots," Torm directed, still holding the cord tight. Malark's face looked so dark and terrible that Shandril turned away.
"Is-is he dead?" she asked weakly.
"Nearly. I'll cut his throat in a moment… Then, lady, it would be best to burn the body completely, or some bright-minded bastard of the cult will raise him to lurk on your trail." Torm turned professional eyes upon the boots. "Try that heel."
"Hah!" Rathan said in satisfaction a moment later, holding up six platinum pieces. "Hollow, indeed!"
"Hmmph," Torm said, wrinkling his nose. "No magic? Scarce worth all this trouble. Have off his robe, Rathan, and we'll cut his throat and be done with it."
"His robe?"
"Aye, his robe. Where he conceals the components for his spells, a few extra coins, and the gods know what else… which we'll soon learn. Come on-my arms grow weary!"
"They do? Pretend they're around a wench, and ye'll have no trouble at all," Rathan told him gruffly, tugging off the mage's robe. He stepped back, looked at the body as Torm laid it down with both ends of the cord in one fist and a dagger gleaming long and wickedly in the other, and then grinned at Shandril.
"Not unimportant, are you?" he said. "Malark, one of the rulers of the Cult of the Dragon. An archmage in his own right. You watch out, now. There are lots of other rats like this one in Sembia, mind, and there's one in Deepingdale, too..-.."
"Yes," Shandril said. "Korvan."
Rathan nodded. "Aye, that's the name! You've been warned, then? Good. Well, you're doing fine thus far!"
"Fine," said Shandril bitterly, looking at Malark as Torm freed his cord at last and slashed with cruel speed. Her gaze fell next on Narm, who still lay silent in the grass. "Oh, yes. Fine indeed." She burst into tears.
Rathan sighed and went to her. "Look, little one," he said awkwardly, "Faerun can be a cruel place. Men like this have to be slain-or they will kill thee. Nor is there any shame in defeat at his hands-this one could have slain any of us knights, in an open fight.
He was an archmage." He enfolded her in a bear hug.
"Ye wouldn't be thirsty, perhaps?"
Shandril's shoulders shook helplessly then, as tears were overwhelmed by laughter. She laughed for a long time, and a little wildly, but Rathan held her tight, and when at last she was done, she raised bright eyes and said, "Are you finished, Torm? I think I'd like to wield a little spellfire."
Torm nodded and stepped back, and Shandril raised a hand and lashed the body with flames, pouring out her anger. Oily smoke arose almost immediately, and the horses snorted and hurried off in all directions.
Torm and Rathan let out brief despairing cries and ran after the horses, just as Narm rolled over and groaned,