"I told her not to…" the drover gasped, blinking up at Orthil as if his eyes wouldn't work. "S-she tried to help… no treachery… tried to shield me…" His strength failed, and he turned his face into Shandril's side and went limp. She put a comforting arm around him, her eyes never leaving the caravan master's. There was no fear in her gaze, only something that might have been a challenge. Silence stretched between them for a long, deepening moment ere Voldovan stirred, lifting the hand that held the whip to point over Shandril's shoulder.
"In the wagon behind ye," Orthil growled at the maid of Highmoon, "seek ye three sorts of coffers with flasks painted on them. Yellow flask holds spoiled wine to wash clean wounds, fingerpots of sap to seal them where scarring doesn't matter, and old cloth to bind them. Red flask is merenthe to bring sleep whate'er the pain-but be sure folk swallow it and don't choke on it! Blue flask is painquench, but 'tis what's called 'dreamhappy,' mind: It leaves folk clumsy and slow-witted, not to be trusted with knives, beasts, or firetending. See to Thorst, and I'll send for ye when our search is done."
"Search?"
Not bothering to answer her, the caravan master turned his head and bellowed, "Arauntar! Beldimarr!"
Swift hoofbeats were his answer, and in a matter of moments the two guards galloped up to him, armor askew and bloody swords in hand. Beldimarr had lost his helm and was bleeding from a cut across his forehead, but both men were grinning fiercely.
"We drove'em off; Orthil!"
"I slew three!"
"Very nice," the caravan master said crushingly. "Ye two come with me now. We leave Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar here, to watch the wench and the woods, in case they come back again. Starting with this ready-wagon, we search every last conveyance down the line to see who's survived and if anyone's lurking. All undamaged wagons and unhurt folk, into the cleft. Call Varlamar to light yon braziers, and get Horlo an-"
"Horlo's dead," Arauntar said bluntly.
"Belmurl?"
"He's dead, too… or will be, by the time we get back to him."
Voldovan shook his head and pointed grimly at the ready-wagon. "Search it, and let's be going. Found any of those coffers yet, wench?"
"Easy, there," Arauntar growled. "She didn't attack our caravan."
"No, but she may well be why we were attacked," Orthil Voldovan said grimly. "I'd feed her and her lad merenthe and tie them to a tree together right now, if I thought there was some way of telling all Toril we'd left her behind and having them believe us. There isn't, so I'll use her fire magic instead… but look ye, Shandril Shessair: I have my eye on ye, and if ye set one foot down wrong, it'll be the swift sword or the bow for ye, and we'll see if all thy precious fire will save ye from the grave!"
Guards stared nervously at Shandril, where she knelt on the perch frozen in a sideways twist, half inside the wagon-curtain and half out, looking at the caravan master.
Beldimarr licked his lips. "Uh, Master, be this talk- wise?"
"Wisdom is something I've never had.and never found a need for," Orthil told him curtly. "I run caravans, remember?"
No one laughed at the savage jest. Into the little silence that followed Shandril said calmly, "I've not found your marked coffers yet, Orthil, but I will. Send for me when you need me."
Her level tone made the guards relax visibly. Both of the Harpers nodded approvingly and almost imperceptibly.
Orthil also gave her a nod, still glowering, and wheeled his mount. He pointed at Arauntar, then at Beldimarr, and then at Shandril's wagon in silent reminder ere he spurred his wearily foaming horse to the next upright wagon and roared at the night, "Varlamar! Torches in those braziers, for the love of all the gods!"
Arauntar and Beldimarr rode up to Shandril with muttered growls of "Sorry, lass," and swung down from their horses, handing her the reins.:
As they shouldered past her into the gloom, bloody swords first, she murmured, "Show me what to do for Thorst, will you?"
Thoadrin of the Cult reined in under the dead duskwood tree, looked around the half-seen circle of men who'd already gathered there, and then glanced back down the road. The moon was rising; he could see the distant prow of Face Crag against the sky, and the kindlings of many tiny flames thereabouts. "Report," he ordered, not bothering to keep the smile off his face. "Curthryn, you first."
"We lost Jaskel, and I think Murbryn. Others, too. The Dark Blade of Doom yet lives. He's posing as the blandreth-dealer in the maroon wagon with the yellow star on its side."
"Leave him for now," Thoadrin said. "There'll be plenty of time for a slaying to befall him later, if his next attempt to capture the lass fails. Enough of losses; what gains?"
"Three guards, and as many fat, shrieking merchants, or more."
"I slew one, and four merchants. One of them crashed his wagon," another Cult warrior said eagerly.
"I wounded a guard and two merchants-one should die soon," put in a third.
The reports continued, brief and unboasting. Thoadrin smiled in the darkness, well pleased.
He said as much to his men before asking if any of them were hurt. This had been a good harrying. He'd called them off the moment things started to turn against the Cult blades, when most of their lances and bolts were gone and the caravan guards had gotten over their shock and were seeking to strike back.
Let them wait, and lose sleep for another night where no attack would come. Untrammeled by wagons, Thoadrin's band could take the Two Pools overland trail, probably buy more bolts from the traders at Dowan Pool, and be waiting for Voldovan's caravan two nights hence to do it all again. Yes, it had been a good harrying.
There was plenty of time yet for the caravan to be stripped down to one spellfire-wielding wench, frightened and alone, trying to race a wagon to Waterdeep ere her wounded man, lying in the back, died of his wounds.
Thoadrin's smile broadened. Yes, his men were good enough to bring things to that.
The first needle broke, but Marlel wasted no time on curses. His left boot always carried three needles and goodly lengths of thread and stout waxed cord. The latter would do for this quick stitching, to gather the gaping lips of the slashed false belly together under a hastily donned new robe from Olimer's best chest. He slashed off the trailing end of cord, let the robe fall back into place, and stowed the needle back in his boot just as the heavy boots of Voldovan's trained hounds landed upon the perch outside the curtain.
Marlel turned, blinking, as the curtain was roughly plucked back and the brute Beldimarr thrust a lantern inside, with the tip of his drawn sword glimmering beside it. A second grizzled veteran guard-Arauntar, that was the name, as much a lout as his sword-companion-brandished another ready blade a pace back, his eyes leaping here and there across the interior of Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths wagon.
"How fare ye?" Arauntar asked bluntly. "Hurts? Goods damage? We've orders to search every wagon."
Haransau Olimer waved an airy hand. "I live, unscathed by the grace of Tymora, and so am at peace with Faerun-so long as ye guard me well when I must sleep, as must soon befall. Wherefore search away, my bold protectors-search diligently, and the watching gods shrewdly guide thee!"
"All right, all right," Beldimarr muttered. "Yer enthusiasm ' grates nigh as much as it overwhelms. Just stand aside for a trice, and we'll-anything, Raunt?"
Arauntar was wading gingerly among hoop-topped open chests of cargo. "Blandreths look all too much like crouching men in armor," he growled back. "Good merchant, tell me: Why d'ye carry these pots uncovered? Strikes me they'll rust!" Warily he thrust his blade close to one suspicious-looking heap and stirred it with his hand.
Haransau Olimer smiled. "Ah, good warrior, 'tis precisely 'gainst rust that my best pots travel bared to the world-when the air can reach them, they rust not! A good blandreth, know you, must be special, lest the coals or fires its three feet stand in scorch it and ruin what cooks within it!"