are!'
'Master!' a guard called ere Shandril could reply, dragging a body by the boots toward Voldovan and trying hard not to look as if he was staring at the unclad fire-wench at every third step. 'You should see this! By how we found him, he seems to have been warlord of this… the attack on us. Look familiar?'
The caravan master strode forward almost defiantly to glare down at the corpse.
'Bluthlock,' he snarled. 'Rendilar Bluthlock of Scornubel, scourer of alleys… and hurler of-' he waved a hand around at the ruined wagons, crossbow quarrels, blood puddles, dead horses, and sprawled men-'shakes and rats and mad dogs at all the rest of us. Well, that's one Scornubrian no one will mourn, least of all me.'
Voldovan spat onto the slack, staring face of the corpse, then turned and stalked away, snapping, 'Salvage all the wagons we can, reload, and let's be going! To me, all!'
The guards obediently trotted toward the caravan master from all directions, Narm and Shandril among them.
Orthil Voldovan looked around the ring of reassembled faces with a sour expression on his face, caught sight of his fearful surviving clients drawing nearer, and lowered his voice to a mutter.
'This run really is cursed. I want strict, leap-to-me obedience and alertness every instant ye're awake. Don't hesitate, don't argue my orders, and don't do anything stupid.' He looked grimly around at them and added. 'I know ye've heard this a time or thousandscore before, but I mean it. If we slip up again, with this few of us left and hounds coming at us from behind every tree, it's likely well never reach Waterdeep-or anywhere else, ever again-alive.'
'Korthauvar, I don't want to be blasted to cinders by Drauthtar or anyone else,' Hlael said angrily, 'or forced into some helpless beast-shape to be maimed and left to be devoured, either! We must do something to snatch this spellfire, not just watch and gloat! What if someone else gets to her first, and-'
'Let them. I want them to.'
'You what?' Hlael almost screamed.
'Let someone who's not the two of us snatch spellfire and be pounced upon by someone else. We watch and wait as all the hounds on this trail snarl and snap at each other… and when we're at the last hound, or almost so and the best opportunity presents itself, then we make our own little pounce.'
'While Drauthtar does what, awaiting our reports?' Hlael snapped.
'Considers our strategy as clever as every last mage of the Zhentarim should be,' Korthauvar said firmly. 'Why fight someone and reveal yourself as a foe, thereafter to stand in danger when you can get your enemy to do what you want him to, by manipulating this and hinting that? All of these young, ambitious fools seem to think that striding out to hurl spells up Elminster's nose is how you show your power. All that does is show you a welcoming grave-and your own stupidity in the few seconds it takes you to reach it. Why do the swordheads always judge we who work magic by how many towers we can topple? Why do they never appreciate how we can make a gentle suggestion and have an entire village leap to our bidding for fear of what we might do?'
'Old Kaummorth's 'smile and walk softly and be greatly feared' speech,' Hlael said wearily. 'I remember it, too, Korthauvar. I only hope Drauthtar took those same teachings, and thought as highly of Kaummorth as you do.'
'I'd rather be alive to face his fury than dead by spellfire or at the hands of these vultures falling all over each other right now to get at Shandril Shessair,' Korthauvar replied. 'Now find me that mindriding spell! We need more eyes in that caravan than the paltry pair we have already. Some of the Cult swordheads and even ambition- blinded mages of our own Brotherhood along on that run are likely to slaughter anyone who stands in their path. There're others along, too: that blandreth-dealer, for one, isn't the same man who was in that wagon earlier! 'Twould not do to have a lone view of all the tumult and lose it at some crucial moment.'
'No,' Hlael Toraunt said thoughtfully, eyeing Korthauvar. 'No, 'twould not do at all.'
'A small step shy of thievery,' Thoadrin growled, almost perfunctorily. In truth, the price was about what he'd expected: five times what would be asked in a back room in Dock Ward and about thrice what quarrels could be had for in Scornubel or in most places where competition wasn't fierce, The supply was better than he'd hoped for, too: twice the crossbow bolts they'd set out with, in full score-and-one quivers. Four quivers each, if he bought them all.
'Acceptable,' he added. 'We'll take them all.'
'All?' the trader echoed, his surprise too strong to leave his customary stoneface intact. 'Waukeen praise you, warrior!'
'Ah, but she does,' Thoadrin grunted, with a minimum of enthusiasm, 'and the tax collector conies trotting right behind her gifts, with his hand out to fondle my purse and more!'
The trader chuckled politely, signaled with one finger- and his assistants took up a quiver each and held them out to the nearest of Thoadrin's men.
The Cult warrior shook his gauntlet off his hand and drew forth the leather snake of coins from along his forearm, under the armor. He let its river of gold spill into the trader's bowl and had the satisfaction of seeing the trader shake his head and murmur, 'Waukeen does smile upon you, lord.'
'True enough,' Thoadrin agreed, noting-without appearing to look-his men checking the quivers they received by drawing random bolts forth, ere settling them in saddlebags and on baldrics. 'Yet other gods call on me all too often and interrupt the time I'd fain spend with the Lady of All Coins.' He nodded as the last coin fell into the bowl, then plucked another from a slit in his swordbelt and tossed it in, too. 'Mention me to her in your prayers,' he said, turning his horse away.
'I shall,' the merchant said, as they exchanged nods of respect. 'What name shall I tell her?'
Thoadrin smiled. 'She knows me well. Just say, 'the dragonbone fool on the horse' and she'll know.'
The trader frowned. 'Dragonbone?'
The warrior shrugged. 'Paerun holds a lot of fools on horses. A word to make me stand out.'
As he spurred away from Dowan Pool with his men riding at his heels, trailing the easy laughter of men laden with food, heavily armed, and eager to launch their next attack, Thoadrin murmured aloud the same unfortunate saving that the trader was probably mouthing about now, too: 'One fate befalls fools who stand out.'
Marlel smiled softly as he peered out of his wagon-flap. The man with the heavy coffer was just setting it down behind Narm Tamaraith.
The spellfire-lass mattered, but her lad did not. Of course, if this clumsy hireling-of Thay, if he had his rogues right- succeeded, the Dark Blade of Doom would have to move swiftly. Even the stupidest Zhent could figure out that a lone, grieving lass would have to sleep sometime…
The Thayan turned and rose from the coffer in a single smooth movement, the knife in his hand a soot- blackened, unglinting fang that he drove viciously up Into empty air, as Narm spun away from him, kicking the back of the man's knee. As the Thayan stumbled, Narm's own knife flashed out and found a home in the man's left eye.
As the Thayan fell, Marlel saw all the color drain out of the young lad's face. Narm promptly threw up all over the corpse.
Marlel leaned forward for a better look and hastily ducked back from the flap as one of Voldovan's veteran dogs-Beldimarr-came hastening to Narm, casting a look in Marlel's direction as he did so.
The man who was not Haransau Olimer cradled a cold belt-flask of thrusk-brewed this morning, and doubtless as bitter as a winter storm by now-and smiled in the dimness.
So the young lad had grown claws, had he? A pity he was trapped facing a small forest of wise and deadly fangs.
Four of them, magic leaping between their blades like blue fire as they charged her. Sharantyr bit her lip. This was going to hurt. Ironguard spells stopped metal, not magic.
The one protecting her now was the variant that left her hands solid to metal, so she could wield her own blade but could also lose fingers or swordhand to hostile steel.
Two foes coming straight at her, the other two circling wide to her flanks… now!
She'd taken a wary step or two back, shifted her sword to point at one rushing brigand, then another, and put an expression of fear onto her face. Now, without any warning, she burst into a sprinting run, right at the gap between the man running to her right and the two coming head-on.
She was tired. She'd have to end this quickly or have it ended for her. Despite her weariness, she was
