Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [32]
"Why an illusion, but to draw us away?" Rathan said in a low voice.
"Yes," Torm replied softly, "but into a trap, or to get us off the trail and away from someone who wants to pass without meeting us?"
"Hmmph," Rathan said and rose in his saddle again, holding his holy symbol aloft. His hands traced empty air around the disc, following its curves. First he used one hand, while the other held the disc, and then he switching hands, all the while chanting gently, "Tymora! Tymora! Tymora! Tymora!" The disc began to glow, faintly at first, and then gradually more brightly, until at last it shone with a bright silver radiance. Torm scanned the woods ceaselessly, blade ready. Abruptly Rathan released his hold upon the glowing disc. It did not fall, but hung silently in midair. Rathan said to it:
"By Tymora's power and Tymora's grace, Be revealed now wherever I face, All lives and things that evil be Unveiled truly now before me!"
The cleric took hold of the disc as his words ended; the disc flared with silvery light, and then the radiance slowly faded away. Rathan, holding the disc before him, was already peering ahead down the path, eyes keen. "Aha!" he said, almost immediately.
"Six creatures on the trail, moving this way!" He dragged a long, heavy mace from his belt and whacked his armored knee lightly, swinging his arm to limber up his shoulder. "Ready, Torm?" he asked.
"Narm, watch the rear, will ye?"
"Six?" Narm asked. "What if they're devils?"
Rathan Thentraver stared at him blankly for the space of a breath and then shrugged. "I do worship the Lady of Luck," he replied, as if to an idiot child.
"Torm?"
The slim thief slipped back into his saddle, and grinned. "It's your head, oh smeller-of-evil. The mules are hobbled."
Rathan nodded briefly and jerked his horse's reins.
His mount reared, pawing the air. The cleric clipped the disc onto his shield with practiced ease, mace held in the crook of his arm. When the horse came down, the mace was in his hand and he leaned forward, bellowing, "For Tymora and victory! The Knights of Myth Drannor are upon ye! Die!"
Narm gulped as the horse and the roaring man atop it tore away through the trees at full gallop. Torm was right at Rathan's heels, waving his longsword in circles. Far ahead he heard yells echoing in the forest and then the slash and skirl of steel upon steel. There was a short shriek, quickly cut off, much thudding of hooves, more steel, and then a few scattered yells.
Narm wondered uncomfortably what he should do with the mules if the two were slain. He had no wish to be thought of as an enemy of Shadowdale, or a thief, but…
He heard crashing on the trail ahead, nearer than the sounds of battle, and he nervously drew his dagger.
"Ho, Narm!" Term's voice came floating through the trees cheerfully. "Haven't the mules eaten all the leaves on that stretch yet?" The thief rode into view with a cherry wave, eyed the dagger Narm was sheathing without comment, and swung lightly down from the saddle to see to the mules. "Adventurers out of Zhentil Keep-priests of Bane, and a worker-of-illusions out to make a name for himself," he explained briefly.
"Dead?" Narm asked.
Torm nodded. "They weren't willing to surrender or flee," he said mildly, holding the reins of the mules firmly as he thrust the hobble-ropes through his belt and swung up into his saddle again. Narm shook his head. "Eh? Why so?" Torm asked, eyeing him. Narm grinned weakly.
"Just the two of you," the ex-apprentice said, "and Rathan bellowing war cries… and three breaths later you come back and tell me they're dead."
Torm nodded. "It's what usually happens," he said, deadpan.
Narm shook his head again as they walked their horses forward. "No, no," he said. "Mistake me not…
How can you just ride forward like that, knowing you face six foes, and at least one a master of art?"
"The war cries and all? Well, if you're risking death, why not have fun?" Torm replied. "If