"You make it hard to bear in mind," Narm told her with a smile, as Shan wormed her way into his arms and made herself comfortable. They lay together and listened to the sounds of men dying all around them.
"Whose wagon's this?" an unfamiliar voice gasped suddenly, startlingly close.
"Voldovan's-one of his ready-wagons. Hmmph! I guess the fire-witch wasn't such a world-searing menace after all."
'This was hers? Gods! Thender told us half Faerun is after her!"
"Not any more. Not unless they're the sort of crazed robe-wearers who hunt folk down after they're dead, to twist them into unlife to menace us all for an extra lingering lifetime or two! There's Voldovan-see? All the bolts'll be flying his way, now. Come on! Back to…"
The voice faded so swiftly that the sounds of frantically sprinting men drowned out the rest of the words.
Narm and Shandril had scarcely relaxed and started to breathe normally again when someone else, breathing hard, ran up and more or less fell into the far end of the wagon, where the chests and casks were tumbled into a wall of splintered, riven confusion. Someone else arrived almost on top of the hard-breathing man-who growled out an angry curse.
"Bones of the dead, Brasker, don't do that! I almost cut my hand off getting this blade around at you, to say nothing of what I would've done to you if I'd managed it!"
"Stop your whining," a heavier voice replied sourly. "They're putting quarrels through everything that moves out there… and in case you've failed to notice, those're the big ones! Hit by one of those, and you'll be greeting the gods straightaway, not lying around cursing that this wagon's somehow yours. As I recall, this was the one the spellfire wench was riding."
"Have you seen her, since this-?"
"No, and if one of those blackswords have killed her on us, Gorthrimmon's going to be less than pleased. Take her alive, he said, at all costs."
"What does the Cult want with one slip of a lass, anyway? So she knows a fire spell or two. Haven't we got mages enough already to fight Luskan to a standstill or scour out Darkhold if they're ever foolish enough to want to die screaming in spell-battle?"
"This spellfire, Holvan, is something special. It can cleave spells so fast it wipes the sneer off an archmage's face and makes him tremble! Whoever grabs it'll be able to slaughter the Red Wizards himself, chase the Blackstaff into hiding, and melt down old Elminster and the Seven Sisters, too!"
"Gods above," Holvan whispered. "So they expect us to take her?"
"No, they expect us to die trying-along with the other Followers we don't know about, who're also along on this caravan. As I see it, we'll do best to find out who the Zhents have sent along in these wagons and slit a few throats without getting caught at it! 'Tis going to end in spell-battle, see if it doesn't, and the fewer competitors around to hamper us of the Cult in taking her down, the better! I hear a Cult wizard called Lharass has found some ancient spell or other that can chain mages with their own magic! I wonder if this Shandril can be held by chains of her own spellfire?"
"I like the sound of this less and less," Holvan muttered. "Whatever happened to putting daggers in merchants' backs and taking their coins to the nearest Lord of the Cult, for him to gather and present to some dread wyrm, while we trot safely off and find us some more merchants?"
"The world changed, Holvan. It always does. I prefer the old simple ways, too, but somehow the rulers and flying wizards of the Realms forgot to ask my opinion. They always do."
"The bolts've stopped, Brasker; should we-?"
"Bide just a bit. I'd be less than pleased to offer myself as the only target still standing, if they're just lying low… no, there's Voldovan coming back, and he's talking to that fool Nargalarr, the pot-seller. It must be over. Back to our wagon!"
"Shouldn't we-?"
"No! Brigands love to fall back and wait for everyone to get into the road and start tramping around talking about their great valor and who got away from them-then rake all the chattering heroes with another volley. So we run fast and low from wagon to wagon back to our own, and nowhere else! If one of the guard wants to talk, he can do it running after us! Come on!"
There was a brief scrambling, a thud of boots, then relative calm.
"Brasker and Holvan," Shandril murmured. "Remember those names."
"Done, love," Narm whispered. "I'm beginning to think every third merchant in this caravan is after us!"
Whatever reply Shandril might have made was lost in a sudden cacophony of shouts, screams, humming bolts, and the thudding of running feet-followed swiftly by a deafening chorus of clanging, singing steel. Brasker, it seemed, had been right. They heard Voldovan roaring something, and "In here!" someone hissed, and coffers were flung aside in the upturned chaos of the wagon. "Hurry!"
A chest fell heavily, an already riven cask groaned, and suddenly the tangle of coffers at Narm's feet were thrust aside, and a face peered in at them. A stranger's face with a drawn and bloody sword beside it, and another unfamiliar face at its shoulder. "This'll do," one of the men said, not yet seeing the young couple lying motionless ahead of his boots. "There's space enough to hide back here. We can-ho!"
The brigand's blade drew back as he saw Narm and Shandril, ready to stab-and his companion shouldered aside an untidy heap of coffers, and joined him in staring.
"Well, well, two lovebirds," the first brigand said in delight, as his blade swept down. "Greet you the gods together!"
Narm raised a hand to cast a hasty spell-but Shandril's spellfire was swifter. The man's blade melted to nothing ere it could touch them, and his head followed, leaving a wavering, headless thing of ashes. Wide-eyed, the second brigand hacked desperately at the deadly lass lying at his feet, blade flashing down…
"Sar tha," Narm said crisply, his fingers spread. Magic roared out of him in a fistlike thrust of force that smashed brigands, coffers, wagonboards and all before it, so that there was suddenly nothing but air beyond their feet.
Air filled with the broken, tumbling fragments of coffers and blades and brigands.
Narm and Shandril sprang up together and ran to the opening Narm's magic had smashed through the end of the wagon… in time to see the debris he'd sent flying bounce, tumble, and roll to various small halts on a scarred road.
Right beside a pair of worn and rather familiar boots. Boots that were still on the widely planted feet of-yes- Orthil Voldovan, who stood with his hands on his hips. He held a bloody sword in both of those hands, and a grim and ragged group of guards had gathered behind his shoulders.
He looked at the young couple standing in the shattered end of the wagon, and they looked back at him, wisps of spell-fire still licking up like tiny flames from Shandril's fingers.
"Well met," the caravan master said sarcastically. "I was wondering where ye'd gotten to. In case ye haven't noticed, we're fighting a small war out here!"
Shandril stared at him, then down at something writhing and flopping on the ground behind one of the guards. Peering at it, she strode out of the ruined wagon and right past Voldovan, never even noticing the hard look he gave her, nor his slow pivot on one boot heel to give her the full weight of his glaring disapproval as she hastened past. Narm trotted after her, trying an apologetic smile on Master Orthil. It was ignored.
The flopping thing proved to be Beldimarr, half-sitting on the road with crossbow quarrels standing out of his left arm and leg. The latter wouldn't hold him, and he was dragging himself along on knuckles and knees, his left arm pinned to his side by the heavy warbolt, with dark red blood streaming down over his battered armor. In one hand was clenched his belt flask, and in the other, a dagger. He was trying to get to Arauntar.