He plucked out the brass-and-horn purse by its chain. The purse was ruined, twisted and scarred with the heat, but perhaps within all was well. He snatched out a certain ball wrapped in waxed paper, stepped past the guard, and faced the tree.

'Tell those men to stand back,' he snarled, fighting down the fit of coughing brought on by raising his voice. Without pause he plunged into the hissed words and quick gestures of a spell.

Men were still scrambling back when his fireball lit the night with fresh flames. With a crackle and roar the entire tree went up, blazing and black from end to end. Then, like a tired warrior who takes an arrow in the throat, it toppled slowly, still blazing, against the tree beside it. The guard tree.

'Oh, gods be cursed!' Kalassyn snarled weakly. He turned hastily back to the guard, fingers clawing through what was left of his components pouch. He found what he needed, and a sudden blast of ice struck the trees, the ground, and the air around with a hissing like the sound of a hundred wounded dragons. Smoke billowed up, tree limbs creaked, and branches broke off and fell to earth.

Kalassyn watched them for a moment and then matched their fall. The ground, when it rose up to hit him, was surprisingly gentle.

The Sword's moustache and beard were smoldering, stubby smudges. The man who spoke to him took care not to let his gaze rest on them for more than an instant.

'What now, sir?'

The Sword bared his teeth in helpless fury and said, 'Take the other end of this wizard and help me carry his useless carcass down to the barracks. The others can follow us. I want the four in best shape to sit in benches across the track, facing up this way to guard against anyone mad enough to come through the gate and powerful enough to survive the attempt. Spread the word and we'll flee together.'

In the space of four breaths the dell was empty of the living. Smoke curled and drifted for a time, and the burned tree shifted once and lost a few more branches. Through it all, the amber oval of light glowed and pulsed in patient silence.

'Your report is incomplete,' Nordryn said coldly. 'Foes deadly enough to slay a mage of Mrinden's power, hurl Kalassyn into the very jaws of death, and fell almost all of your command-and you turn tail from the field and flee back here, not bothering to even look for them? Tell me, Sword, however do you expect to live a single night through? If you were that lax in Zhentil Keep, you'd have the bed stolen from under you and wake up as you were falling to the floor, as someone put his blade in your throat to slit it!'

The Sword just looked at him, two eyes of cold, weary death staring hard out of a face blackened and burned beyond easy recognition. 'I didn't see you there, spell-hurler,' he said deliberately. 'Lacking a conscious commander, I followed the last orders I was given, which wisely took me to you. I now submit myself to your orders.'

The two men stared at each other in silence for a long breath. The one in fine robes moved first, shifting back a pace.

The Sword drew himself up in his scorched armor, put a hand on the hilt of his sword, and added with the same slow, cold deliberation, 'I trust, Lord, that your orders will be wiser than those Mrinden gave. He took us all into death we could not fight or avoid.'

Nordryn's hand went to his belt, closing over a wand that was sheathed there. 'And if I did the same,' he almost whispered, 'your task would be to obey me, without question or pause. Remember that.' Their eyes met, coldly and steadily, like blades crossed and locked by straining men who sought each other's death.

'Aye, Lord, we will.' The Sword's voice was cold and expressionless. 'We will.'

Nordryn held his eyes a moment longer before turning away and raising his voice. 'Hear my will, then. All still able to walk will wear and wield what they can, and assemble without delay in the road. I want each to carry two quarrel quivers and two crossbows, one loaded. We march to the gate. There we form a ring, under cover, and each man is to load his second bow and keep both ready. At my order, fire at any target I name. Expect an attack through the gate.'

He walked two paces and turned back to the room of silent men. 'I've sent one of the message boys to the castle. If Lord Longspear pleases, he'll send healing. I'm coming with you.'

He turned away again and walked on.

Behind him, one of the men muttered, 'Tymora willing, let him be more bloody use than the last mages we had with us.'

'He could hardly be less,' another voice agreed.

'It's as well,' a third voice cut in from afar. 'His life may depend on it.'

'Enough,' the Sword boomed, silently indicating the mage's back, reminding them that he could hear every word. Grim smiles answered him; they'd meant him to.

Unseen, Nordryn smiled at the wall ahead and went on his way. Warriors were like cattle. They died in head-high piles when you needed them to. They ate and drank too much but could be useful the rest of the time, if you knew how to treat them. Like dogs, they needed proper handling. He showed his teeth to the wall again and continued on into the darkness.

'Mages who walk in darkness,' went the old saying, 'cloak themselves in it and think themselves strong-until the day it swallows them, and they come not out again.' Nordryn remembered the saying wryly until memory told him who'd first said it: the Great Enemy, Elminster of Shadowdale.

Shaking his head and feeling anger building inside him again-a warmth in his chest rising into his throat- Nordryn went in search of a door that locked and a chamber pot beyond it. All goals in life should be so simple.

'The gods alone know where they are by now,' Storm said quietly. 'I think Elminster went west, but he could have a dozen or more gates nearby he's never told anyone about.'

'A cheery thought,' Jhessail observed sardonically. 'Shall I tell Mourngrym to revise our plans for defending the dale to include a dozen or more unknown, invisible backsides that invading armies may rush through?'

'Easy, wench,' Lhaeo told her gruffly. 'Have some more firequench.' He pushed one of the pair of decanters of ruby-red liqueur across the table. Storm made a silent grab for the bottle as it moved away from her, and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Jhessail. She returned it, with interest.

'Ladies, ladies,' Lhaeo sighed, shifting his feet down from atop the table. 'Must you spit and snarl like rival kittens?'

Jhessail shrugged. 'It's what we've always done before,' she observed with impish serenity.

Storm chuckled. A breath later, the others joined her, but the mirth in Storm's kitchen broke off abruptly as a bat as large and black as a small night-cloak flapped heavily in through the open doorway. It circled low over the table and seemed to twist and writhe in the air in front of the fireplace.

An instant later, the bat had become a tall, gaunt woman in a tattered black gown. Her hair and eyes danced wildly, and a fierce pride leapt in her face as she glided toward them.

'Sister,' Storm greeted her with a welcoming smile. 'Will you take some firequench with us?'

The Simbul nodded, sighed, and shivered all over like a cat after a fright. 'Perhaps later,' she said, taking a seat at the table, 'after I try to learn what we both want to know.'

'What all of us want to know,' Storm replied quietly. 'I've sent two good men out after them. Two who harp.' Across the room, the strings of her harp quivered by themselves for a moment, singing faintly.

The Simbul looked around, not smiling. She nodded to Jhessail and Lhaeo, then bent her head and began whispering words of Art.

A heavy tension grew in the room like dark green smoke, and all the candle flames shrank to steady, watching pinpoints. The Simbul sat at the center of her gathered power, dark and unmoving, and the tension rose to an almost audible roar.

Her shoulders shook, she gasped, and the candle flames leapt and flickered again. The room was somehow brighter. And yet, Lhaeo thought, looking at the Simbul's forlorn and ravaged face, it seemed no safer or warmer.

The Witch-Queen of Aglarond said simply, 'I'll need your help, all of you. Join hands with me and I'll try again.'

Without hesitation they leaned forward around the table, the decanters standing like frozen red flames

Вы читаете Shadows of Doom
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