down from the rocks a dozen strong, or more.
'Kisses upon you, Tymora!' Sharantyr gasped. She'd been only a few strides from walking right under their noses-and by the looks of all the coster outriders sprawled in the road with quarrels standing up out of their backs, she'd have died wearing enough bolts to look like a porcupine.
Three surviving outriders were spurring desperately past her and away, one wearing a quarrel in the shoulder. The brigands wasted no time chasing them. They were already swording the kicking, twisting horse that had gone down- and the drover struggling to get out from under a tangle of harness beside it, too.
Other brigands plunged into the wagon and came out again with blankets and cloaks to toss over the heads of the horses they judged salvageable. There was a brief tumult of wrestling with frightened beasts, swearing, rolling away from deadly hooves… then the hooded horses quieted down to stamping and snorting where they stood, still harnessed. The brigands got down to serious looting. Nigh everyone charged into the wagon, and there were crashings, blows, and shouts of pleased discovery. Sharantyr sidled up behind the one man still outside and hastily ducked away behind the horses when he finally decided to turn and look down the road to make sure no one was coming back from the caravan for their missing wagon.
Calmly, as if she'd every right to be there, Sharantyr cut horse after horse out of harness, taking calm measure of each as she did so. When she'd settled on the one that looked the strongest, she sprang up onto its back. As it reared and bugled its surprise, she plucked the cloak from over its head and dropped it over the astonished face of that last brigand, following it with a hard kick to his jaw that almost unhorsed her. She got a good fistful of mane, and as the horse reared again she kicked out at other horses. One promptly bolted, and that set them all off, Sharantyr using her utmost strength to get the head of her chosen mount around the way she wanted it to go.
By the time the brigands inside the wagon had finished shouting profane queries and emerged from their plundering, Sharantyr of Shadowdale was riding hard along the road. North, in pursuit of Shandril Shessair-and spellfire.
It had evidently been years since this large thunderhooves had felt a rider on its back, and though she undoubtedly weighed less than the wagons it pulled, she was less than welcome. It tossed its head and tried to reach around and* bite her almost ceaselessly as the hills rose and fell beneath its hooves. Its ungainly gait started out weary and progressed through plodding to staggering until eventually Sharantyr tired of its plaintive snorting and tottering progress and swung herself down from its back.
She patted its flank as it tried a half-hearted kick in her direction and told it, 'Sorry, old bones. Take your ease… until the wolves find you, I guess. Still, you'd soon be — roasting over a brigand fire if you weren't free now.'
She ran a few steps to get clear of its hooves and teeth, then resumed walking.
When the ranger glanced back at it, the wagon-horse gave her a choice look and started plodding along after her. Sharantyr smiled, grinned, and led the way. North, toward spellfire-and trouble, if she knew anything about Shandril.
The horse sighed heavily, saving her the trouble.
The merchant who was really a Red Wizard knew he was working alone now, and the farther he got from Triel, the less aid he could call on. The time was as right as it would ever be. He also knew just which of the guards hired in Triel could be relied upon to see nothing when he emerged from his wagon at night to cast a spell, such as the one he was weaving now.
The plateau resembled a gigantic tilted coin, high side nigh the road and low side to the west, so all he'd had to do was get himself to the row of rocks overlooking the road and the slumber-gas created by his spell would drift down over the entire camp. Sleeping men stop few wizards, and men unable to awaken stop even fewer. Put a dagger through the right throats, and spellfire might be his very soon.
'Asarandu? he said carefully, ending the incantation, and spread his arms wide. From them flowed a greenish, purplish gas, billowing like smoke from a quickening fire, but heavy, tumbling to the ground in front of him. It built back up to above his head before it started to drift west, downslope, toward the wagons.
Now, if the wind would just hold off and none of the guards not already in his purse raised the alarm too soon…
He strolled back to his wagon as if nothing was amiss- and indeed, to his lungs there was no spell-spun gas at all- and waited there, drawn dagger hidden in his sleeve. No one cried out, no errant breeze arose. This was going to work!
A guard took two bored steps away from a wagon, then crumpled and fell headlong to the ground. Over yonder, another.
Yes. Soon, now…
Two guards turned their heads, hearing the thump of another hitting the ground. They peered, shrugged and sagged in unison, muttered banter forgotten.
The wizard stepped cautiously to where he could look across the camp. The spellfire wench was in Voldovan's wagon, and it sported four guards at its corners, one of them taking Red Wizard coins.
There was no point in slitting throats here, there, and everywhere across the caravan. The two head guards and Voldovan himself should be his first victims, then anyone not asleep or trying to cast a spell-Shandril's mate last, in case he should be needed as a hostage to her good behavior.
One of the guards by the wagon fell over, then another. The third asked them sharply what was wrong before falling on his face, so walking openly across the field toward that wagon might not be the brightest tactic, now.
Ah, but who was left?
The Red Wizard drew in a deep breath and started on his journey, heading for another wagon well off to one side. From there he could turn toward the one he sought. As he went, he kept a sharp watch for other men on the move in the spell-smoke. The camp was entirely enveloped by his magic now.
He reached the wagon-dark, still, and silent, with three bodies sprawled about its perch amid dragondroon cards scattered where they'd fallen from nerveless hands. He recognized a guard who'd been along since Scornubel. Not one of the two battered veterans, but a longtime rider with Voldovan. He drew the man a new smile across his throat, stepped hastily back to keep clear of the welling blood, wiped his dagger on the man's jerkin, and went on.
On toward Voldovan's own wagon, where spellfire waited. Along the way he passed a fallen guard who'd been hired in Triel-not one loyal to Thay, but who'd probably not leap to defend a caravan patron in battle, either-and left the man lying, unharmed. He might not have very long to strike if someone had resisted his spell or shaken off its effects. Some folk always did.
His spell had driven down the last of the dew, and the trampled grass was wet and slippery underfoot. The Red Wizard walked as carefully and quietly as he knew how, dagger hidden in his sleeve again, hardly daring to hope it was going to be this easy.
Yet no one stirred as he reached the first of the guards and turned the man over with his foot. The man of Thay. He went to the next and slit that guard's throat with quickening excitement. Now, around to the front… spellfire must lie less than a dozen feet away, his for the taking. -…, 'A spell, yes, but what? Not a cloudkill, surely!' Korthauvar frowned, peering over the rocks.
'Whatever 'tis, I'm not letting it touch me' Hlael muttered. 'Not while I have the means to break-ho! Look there!'
'Falling… dead or asleep,' the taller Zhentarim said slowly, backing away from the rocks. 'Slumbering men are easy enough to slay… and we could walk right in and take spellfire, with all of them snoring.'
'Someone's trying that already and will be ready for us or anyone,' Hlael hissed fiercely, 'and that's if yon spell doesn't take us down!'
He retreated until he stood in a clear, level area on the very lip of the drop to the road below. There he shook out his sleeves and announced, 'Stand back, Kor. I'm going to break that spell. Look, it's spilling over the rocks at us already!'
Korthauvar nodded. 'Do so, without delay, or spellfire may be snatched from under our very hand after all.'
Hlael nodded grimly. 'Not something I'd like to have to explain to Hesperdan, if he isn't watching us right now.' He raised his hands, and began his casting.
