would be perfectly reasonable for him to chop an exit in the rear wall and avoid the rest of it. He doubted anyone would blame him. As he'd already observed to himself, when necessary, retainers were supposed to sacrifice themselves to cover their lord's retreat. Still, now that he finally had a weapon, he found he couldn't quite bring himself to decamp.
'I have to go help Escevar,' he said.
He noticed that the gelding was still present. He'd always heard that horses were rather stupid beasts, and perhaps the palfrey had lacked the wit to find its way back out the exit, or perhaps it had been as afraid of the commotion outside the shop as of the troll within. Whatever the reason, Tamlin was glad the steed was still available for his use. He crossed the room, grabbed the balky animal by the halter, and dragged it toward the exit.
'Who's going to pay for all this damage?' the hatter called after him.
Scrambling backward, wishing fervently that he hadn't squandered his ball of flame on the wizard atop the roof, Brom snatched two small vials and a tiny speaking trumpet fashioned from the tip of a ram's horn out of his pockets. He anointed the horn with the contents of the vials, swirled it through an intricate mystic pass, lifted it to its lips, and shouted.
The blast of sound that erupted from the trumpet's bell was far louder than any voice augmented by mere mechanical means. It jabbed painfully into Brom's ears, and the troll that was scuttling after him, and at which he had aimed the magical noise, fared worse. The creature clutched at its ears, swayed, and collapsed.
Mystra grant the ugly thing would stay down for a minute or two before rising to menace him anew. Wheezing, mentally reviewing which of the spells he'd prepared had already been cast and which were still available, Brom surveyed the battlefield.
One troll, its upper body crisscrossed by long cuts presumably delivered by Vox's bastard sword, lay crumpled in the snow, and the black-bearded bodyguard was furiously battling another.
His chest and thigh bloody, Escevar strove to defend himself from half a dozen bravos. Evidently some of the ruffians had overcome their wariness of the trolls and advanced up the street to reinforce them.
Tamlin was nowhere to be seen.
Moving in a leisurely way, the masked wizard raised his arms to commence another spell.
Brom suspected that if he and his companions didn't escape this trap before the enemy wizard completed his next conjuration, they were going to die. Which meant he had to create a way out. It took priority over everything, even locating Lord Uskevren's missing heir or assisting the hard-pressed Escevar.
He turned his back on the battle to face the wall of gleaming, translucent ice. He was half deaf from the shouting magic, and now he was glad, for with the clamor of the battle muted, he would find it that much easier to concentrate.
It had become apparent early on that the man in blue was an accomplished wizard, and nothing he'd created would be easily dispelled. But, Brom told himself, if he performed the abjuration perfectly, it could be done. Refusing to hurry, he stood tall, recited the incantation with impeccable clarity and cadence, and swung his arms apart with perfect timing.
The ice vanished.
'Run! This way!' Brom called.
Vox drove his troll back with a two-handed sweep of his sword, then wheeled his destrier and rode for the open path. Escevar looked as if he understood and was likewise trying to break free, but the bravos kept him hemmed in.
Intending to cast a spell to help his fellow retainer, Brom reached into his mantle for a small iron bar. Before he could fish it out, Tamlin led his horse out of a shop entrance, looked wildly about, and swung himself into the saddle. Shouting a war cry, the young aristocrat charged his friend's assailants and scattered them with strokes from a gory axe. Tamlin, Escevar, and Vox raced on out of the broken killing box toward safety. Leaving Brom afoot and alone.
As the enemy advanced on him, he wondered if any of his companions had even realized he was still alive, his horse was dead, and they were abandoning him to die. With his most potent magic already spent, he couldn't fend off all these attackers alone. He preferred to believe that none of them had known, although Vox and Escevar might well have felt that their first duty was to escort their master safely away, while Tamlin, Brom suspected, was rather too fond of himself to risk his skin for a retainer whom he'd only known a short time.
A grinning troll slunk toward him, claws poised to rip. Bubbles of violet light swelled as the masked wizard summoned new minions, though Brom couldn't believe that the conjuror truly thought he needed them. Then, though with his abused ears, he couldn't hear it, through the soles of his buskins he felt the rhythmic shocks of something pounding up behind him.
Brom spun around. Tamlin was racing toward him, evidently guiding his mount with his knees, for he had one hand outstretched and the woodcutter's axe grasped in the other. The dappled gelding's flanks were bloody from his spurs, and its hooves threw up puffs of snow.
The nobleman wheeled the horse, slowing of necessity, but not stopping. Brom scrambled forward, clutched at Tamlin's hand and the tooled red leather saddle, and tried to hoist himself up onto the moving animal. His right hand fumbled and slipped away from the pommel, and he felt himself begin to fall. Grunting with the strain, Tamlin held him in place until he achieved a firm grip. The gelding ran back up the street with the wizard half draped across its neck and half dangling beside its shoulder.
Brom looked back. Their enemies were sprinting after them, and the troll in the lead was nearly close enough to reach out and grab the palfrey's streaming tail. Certain the pursuers were going to catch up, the wizard wondered if he could possibly cast a spell from his present precarious position, and whether he should drop back into the street and let the gelding race on unencumbered by his awkward and unbalanced weight. Then Tamlin dug in the spurs, shouted encouragement, and somehow the horse found the strength to gallop even faster than before, leaving their foes behind.
They rounded a corner and almost collided with Vox and Escevar hurtling back in the other direction. 'I've got him!' Tamlin cried. 'Follow me!' The retainers turned their steeds around.
They kept galloping until, Brom judged, there was no danger of their adversaries catching up with them, at which point Tamlin called for a stop in a spacious plaza. At the other end of the square, urchins were flinging snowballs at one another and any passersby unwary enough to wander into range.
Brom gratefully abandoned his uncomfortable perch and peered up at his companions. Though a troll's claws had twice shredded his armor and lightly scored the flesh beneath, Vox was as stolid as ever. The more seriously wounded Escevar, however, was pale and shaky, in marked contrast to his exuberance earlier on. Ruddy-faced and breathing heavily, Tamlin was clearly having difficulty calming down, although whether he was seething with anger or fear, Brom couldn't tell. Probably a mixture of the two.
'I didn't mean to abandon you,' said Tamlin to the wizard. 'I just lost track of you in all the chaos. I rode back as soon as I realized you weren't with us.'
Or else you did intend to forsake me, but had a change of heart, thought Brom, but even if that was true, he wasn't inclined to hold it against Tamlin. In the end, the aristocrat had risked his own life to rescue him, and that was all that mattered. 'Thank you,' the wizard said.
Vox tapped his massive chest with his forefinger.
'I know,' Tamlin said, 'I should have told you to go. But I was excited, and I figured every second counted. Are you all right, Escevar?'
The redhead gave him a jerky nod. 'We'll get you to a healer as soon as the horses have had a moment to rest,' Tamlin said, and then a quaver of agitation entered his voice. 'Ilmater's tears, it just came home to me that Honeylass is dead! The other birds are lost. And the poor greyhounds! I forgot all about them until this second. Did anyone see what happened to the dogs?'
'No,' said Brom. 'As you said, all was confusion. I'm afraid it's likely they're slain or run away for good.'
'Curse it!' With trembling hands, Tamlin extricated his glass blade from the loops on his golden sword belt. The ornament had miraculously emerged unscathed from the battle, but now its owner lashed it against the wall of a vendor's kiosk, shattering it into tiny fragments. 'Did that make you feel better?' Brom asked. Tamlin smiled. 'A
