By then, Sharantyr had sworded another swordsman, leaving only the one who'd thrown his knife. He eyed her, took a pace back, raised his blade warningly, and acquired a sudden look of wild pain.
A moment later he came crashing at her, running right onto her blade and hurling her aside.
The swordsman smashed into the perch like a Waterdhavian street-puppet, loose-limbed and dangling, and fell aside, already dead. Behind him stood the two mages who'd driven him forward, the talons of a huge spell- spun claw floating in the air before them. Sharantyr tugged at her sword, trying to fend off the deadly thing, but even as she snarled and hauled it free of the dead man, a darkness fell upon the claw and it faded. The two wizards stepped back in alarm.
The crash and skirl of swords from the rear of the wagon told of Arauntar's battle with the men who'd been attacking there. As if avoiding that fray, Narm and Shandril came again to the wagon-mouth and saw Sharantyr advancing on the two wizards.
Both of the Zhentarim drew daggers and threw them. The ranger shifted her blade coolly, and both hurled knives clanged away harmlessly into the night.
She smiled grimly, took another step toward the men- and Arauntar came around the side of the wagon with a roar and hurled himself on Sharantyr.
'No!' Shandril screamed. 'Arauntar, no! She's a friend!'
Sparks flew as whirling blades met, two very swift steel-wielders twisted and darted and lunged. Over them, Korthauvar of the Zhentarim smiled tightly and flung another dagger.
Narm caught this one in his arm, deep and quivering. He snarled, and before Shandril could stop him, sprang out over Arauntar in a furious leap that carried him right onto Korthauvar's toes.
As the wizard roared in pain, tried to leap back, and lost his balance as his pinned feet were freed unevenly, Narm snatched the man's dagger out of his own arm and gave it back to the Zhent as he fell on top of him. Twice, hard and deep, in the neck and throat.
Korthauvar Hammantle gasped, gulped, choked, and could not stop choking. He convulsed, flopping about on the ground like a fish cast up out of the water with his own blood like iron in his mouth… an endless flood of it. Frantically he reached up to Hlael for aid… and died seeing Hlael Toraunt shaking his head grimly and pitilessly and backing away.
A Failing Hand of Flames
Even the mightiest wither and falter. It just takes longer for them to be laid low than those unfortunates they can send warriors to harvest for them. Hold this thought as consolation when the King's blades burst through your door.
Hlael Toraunt ran as he'd never run in his life before. Even that young Tamaraith fool might be able to scorch him with a spell, and if the guard Arauntar caught up with him… well, he didn't want to ever get to know what a few feet of hard, cold steel sliding through his guts felt like.
He needed warriors-men sworn to the Brotherhood and as good with blades as these ragtag caravan guards. The Zhent magelings had some, and he needed them, now. If he had to blast a few Brother wizards to ashes to get them, well… it wasn't as if the Brotherhood lacked a surplus of such dolts…
Panting, Hlael rounded the wagon that held Deverel of the Zhentarim, masquerading as a dealer in cheeses from Elturel. He skidded to a halt as the point of a ready sword thrust up almost into his face.
'Yes?' its owner asked coldly. 'You have business with Master Rinthar?'
Hlael drew in a deep breath, met the Zhentilar's cold regard with ice of his own, and said, 'Yes. Tell him it's his brother-the one called Deverel. I've come from Manshoon, and I'd like to buy some cheese!'
'Stop!' Shandril yelled, into the storm of steel. 'Stop, or you'll kill each other!'
She spat a tiny line of spellfire between their snarling faces, to make them heed-and it worked. Arauntar reeled back, blinking, and risked a quick glance in her direction. 'Well, aye, Lass, when you take steel to someone, that's the usual aim,' he growled.
'Gods, no,' the maid of Highmoon cried. 'Not you two!'
Sharantyr and Arauntar stared at her, and then at each other over their blades, blinked, and asked more or less in unison, 'So who by Leira the Deceiver are you?'
Arauntar lurched up to the wagon, waved a weary arm back at the pole-lanterns flickering behind him-one of a small legion of such that now lit the camp with their glows- and growled, 'That's the last of 'em lit. Order reigns. I doubt there's a man or maid in camp still asleep, but most of 'em are back in their wagons an' not running around burying blades in each other any longer… for now.'
'Good,' Orthil Voldovan grunted.' 'Now' is all I'm worried about, until morning. Why by all the drunken dancing gods every man along on this run feels the need to butcher the next man every chance he gets, I know not, but-'
He fell silent and strode past Sharantyr and her raised and ready blade to glare at a man who staggered as he approached. 'An' what by Beshaba's bright smile befell ye?'
Beldimarr managed a grin that would have been more handsome if blood hadn't bubbled from between his teeth and leaked in a long stream out of the corner of his mouth.
'Jus' a lucky thrust,' he panted, as he reeled up to them, clutching his side with a hand whose fingers were slick with blood. 'I took him down, mind-an' he was a Zhentilar, or I'm a dead man.'
'I hope he was a Zhentilar,' Arauntar said grimly, running to guide his friend to the wagon-perch. They didn't make it before Beldimarr went to his knees.
The head guard looked up from where he knelt beside his sagging comrade to ask Shandril roughly, 'Lass?'
Shandril stared down at Beldimarr, then at Arauntar's grim gaze, and at the guards gathering around as if by magic, and all the color slowly went out of her face. 'No,' she gasped, shaking her head. 'Oh, no!'
The wizard Rathrane drifted away from the lanterns, writhing and shuddering in pain. Sometimes he seemed almost solid, a dark man in dark robes, cloak billowing out impossibly long from his shoulders. More often he was but shifting, batlike shadows, roiling in pain around something bright and flickering in his midst, something tnat hurt, mm but that he cradled as if it was precious.
Such agony, unending… but he had to have this. How could he not hunger for such power? He must learn from these last few wisps of spellflame, as they flickered out in his grasp, how to adapt himself so as to drain this peerless might without harm… like so. Yes! Thus! This was the way.
The caravan master glared at the slip of a girl kneeling on his wagon-perch and growled disbelievingly, 'Ye won't heal him? Why not? Ye did before!'
He took an angry step forward and found himself facing Sharantyr's swordtip.
'Dare to use that on me, Lady Whomever-Ye-Be, an' ye'll end up a mite diced by yon blades,' he snarled, waving at the gathered guards.
'Dare to menace Shandril Shessair, and you'll be dead, and it'll be a mite late for you to take comfort in whatever may happen to me,' the ranger replied coolly, lifting her blade to-almost-kiss his throat.
Voldovan jerked back as if he'd burned himself in a suddenly flaring fire, looked up at the wagon-perch, and found himself meeting Narm Tamaraith's furious glare. The caravan master swallowed whatever he'd been going to say and took another pace back.
'Bel,' Shandril said pleadingly, 'I daren't try to heal you. My spellfire is out of control! I could end up killing you!'
'I trust you, lass,' he gasped, blood bubbling forth with every word.
'You shouldn't,' Shandril wept, shaking her head violently. 'Oh, Bel, you shouldn't!'
'Heal him!' one of the guards snapped. 'Aye, try it,' another echoed. 'Y'did it before!'
