That belly parted like ripping cloth, leaving no blood or cry of pain in its wake-and the brigand barely had time to gape in astonishment ere the merchant whipped a long, slender dagger from somewhere under that slashed paunch-and drove it up under the outlaw's jaw, snatching the man's sword out of his hand even before he started to sag.
A solid kick sent the corpse plunging to one side to vanish under the wheels of the wagon-which promptly crashed and shuddered their way over him-and the merchant quickly sat down on the perch again, leaving his seized sword pinched in the slashed guts of his false belly, crosswise across his knees, ready to be hauled forth and used in an instant.
"Not so elegant a victory as the Dark Blade of Doom is famous for," the lone merchant murmured to himself, feeling behind him for the shield he'd found in the wagon earlier, "but 'twill do, for now. Must change this robe before someone sees me in good light, too."
Marlel shook his head, wondering how well the man he'd supplanted had been known by others along on this caravan… and therefore, how much of this disguise could quietly be dispensed with when this fray was over.
Another brigand spurred past, threw him a look, and turned with drawn sword and unlovely smile to greet the merchant properly. He slowed his horse to get within easy reach of the cowering man at the reins-and Marlel sprang up with perfect timing to put his new-won sword in the man's face, slashing across brow and nose to blind the man with his own blood.
Shrieking curses, the brigand fell away behind the rumbling wagon, and Marlel sat down again, humming a merry tune.
"Shan!" Narm snarled and suddenly ducked away from Narbuth, springing down from the wagon perch. The guard grabbed at the young mage but missed. With a curse he leaped off the wagon after Narm, leaving it unmanned and unsteered in the tumult.
"Shan, I'm coming!" Narm shouted, darting ahead into the chaos of plunging horses, hurled lances, and running, reeling men.
Narbuth wasted no breath on cries but put his head down and grimly sprinted after the younger, slimmer wizard, hoping to catch up with him ere he made his escape or blasted them all with his spells. Deadly young bastard! Storstil's slayer, too, no doubt!
Ahead of him, Narm turned his ankle, hopped with a cry of pain, stumbled, and almost fell. Narbuth made another grab for him-then Faerun was suddenly full of a rearing horse as big as all the sky and a whooping brigand leaning down from his saddle with a glittering blade sweeping nearer-nearer A bright blue magical radiance crackled from behind the brigand, and that sweeping sword tumbled past Narbuth harmlessly as the horseman threw back his head, flung up his arms, and fell from his saddle with a crash.
"Sorry," Narm panted. "I almost didn't see him in time- are you-?"
Narbuth growled, got both hands on the young mage's throat, and hauled him down to the ground by main strength. They were still there when rough hands tore them both apart and Orthil Voldovan and another of his guards glared down at them.
"Luckily, lad, I saw that," the caravan master growled, "so you'll live-for now,"
Something very cold and hard struck the side of Narm's head, and the last things he perceived, as everything swam and started to plummet, were Narbuth's grimacing face and Orthil's snarled words: "Tie his hands ere he wakes!"
Horsehair sizzled and stank right under her nose as stray spellfire licked along manes. The snorting horses made sounds very like a human's frightened sob and bolted.
Shandril sighed and wasted spellfire on a huge roiling cloud right in front of them that brought them to an abrupt, rearing halt-just long enough for her to snatch Thorst's nearest dagger out of its sheath and bring its point stabbing down on one tight-stretched harness strap.
Worn leather parted like damp parchment, leaving one file of horses nearly free. Side-straps and lead reins still held the two beasts to their fellows, but only one harness-root was still attached to the wagon. It slewed around sharply as those still-tethered horses tried to turn away from the, flames and run hard away.
A few crossbow bolts came leaping out of the flames roiling in the air around her, and one of them thudded into the flank of a horse. It shrieked, bucked, and tried to twist away from the sudden fire in its side. Shandril's world became a confusion of flying reins and frightened horses.
Snarling, she stood up and determinedly aimed spellfire down both sides of the road, as low among the tree trunks as she could, seeking to slay or drive away whoever was firing at her. Leaves melted away into ash, and charred branches crumbled and fell into dying flames.
There were shouts from the trees and a scrambling of men. Shandril hurled fire wherever she saw movement, her flames momentarily outlining men convulsed with pain and clawing at the air, ere they screamed and fell.
"Around!" she gasped in Thorst's ear. "We must turn the wagon around!"
"What?" he gasped faintly, clawing at reins that were no longer there, "have you no spells for that? You do fire well enough!"
Shandril growled wordless frustration at him and clung to the rail as the horses kicked and bucked, dragging the ready-wagon a little farther around to the left. The maid from Highmoon peered this way and that into the trees, but saw no more lurking men. As she risked leaning out of the wagon to look back at the cleft and the confusion of wagons and running men there, a horn called, close and loud, in the trees. It was promptly answered by another back down the road, on the far side of the crag.
Galloping hooves thudded briefly, receding back to the south, and a lot of the shouting suddenly stopped. No more lances or bolts came streaking through the air, and after all the screaming and clang of steel, things seemed very quiet. Here and there charred and smoking wood snapped as it cooled, men and horses groaned… and a distant torrent of words drew swiftly nearer.
It was Orthil Voldovan, still riding hard but now with three grim guards beside and behind him. His whip was doubled in one hand, and there was a long, notched and bright-scarred sword in the other.
"Nameless whoreson dogs of outlaws, to despoil and slaughter and snatch away the work and coin of hardworking folk! Pox and pestilence upon them, Talona's claws rake their vitals, Talos send them storms so they sleep not, and Beshaba make their every adventure go awry, and their every chance be lost and ruined! Ho, fire witch! Hast left me any forest, ahead? Or a blaze to smoke us all out and send us fleeing for our skins back south into the toils of those carrion wolves?"
"Hail and well met, Orthil," Shandril said grimly, standing up on her perch. "We've a horse that took a bolt here! Can you do anything for it-talk it to sleep, perchance?"
One of the guards snorted back a guffaw, and the others visibly relaxed, one of them lowering a crossbow that Shandril hadn't even noticed.
"How's Thorst?" the caravan master barked.
"How's my Narm?"
"I asked ye a-he's fine, he's with Narbuth; we stopped him running through the battle to find ye. He'll be along soon. Now, how's Thorst?”
"Not good," Shandril told him. "Shoulder torn open one side, his hand the other… I guess I'm going to have to learn to be a drover, too."
"Ye just sit there, lass, for now," Voldovan growled. 'Tour fool of a husband made the same offer, and I'm almost tempted to pair the two of ye together-or would be, if I wanted to watch a wagon crash into every tree and ditch along the way!" He turned his head. "Mulgar, cut yon horse. out of the harness, and do what ye must to quiet it, one way or t'other. We're short, mind-cut it down only if 'tis too gone to save. Tarth, help him."
Thorst groaned and slumped against Shandril, and Voldovan promptly rode closer. "Report!" he snapped at the wounded man. Shandril gave him an angry glare. The caravan master gave it right back, leaning out of his saddle to thrust his chin close to hers, and better convey the full fury of his stare.