"So I'll have you all to myself," he said lightly, as he stepped forward with a sword in each hand and blue fire snarling silently between them, "to teach you true pain."
Sharantyr stepped away from him, taking care not to trip over any of the bodies. No, let him try to stalk her over them. "My," she replied more calmly than she felt, "that should be fun."
"Oh, yes," he purred. "You'll find I'm a very good teacher. I ran my own school of the sword in Athkatla for twelve seasons."
"Until they caught you at something, I've no doubt," Sharantyr replied coolly, circling away from him again. His smile broadened. They both knew who was better with a blade and who was swifter and stronger-and it wasn't the lady ranger. Flamewind stamped and made a small sound of fear and irritation well behind the man, but he never so much as let his eyes flicker. Carefully he advanced, blades out and ready.
Something burned Sharantyr's foot, and she looked down and saw another brigand's blade, alight with blue fire. The swordmaster rushed at her, but she managed to snatch up the fallen blade before his swords could quite touch her, and flung it right at his face.
Gods, but he was fast! The Athkatlan's swords caught the spinning steel and struck it aside, so it only sliced a lock of hair from him as it whirled away-but blue fire burns brigands, too, and he cried out, blinded for a moment.
A moment was all Sharantyr needed. She took the sickening, searing pain of his blade through her breast and left side for the gasped breath that she needed to lean in and hack the side of his neck. He crumpled, clutching at the wound as blood flew, letting go his second sword and leaving bare his remaining swordhand all at once. Sharantyr chopped his blade out of his fingers, leaving him staggering back and staring at her in pain and dawning despair. "You teach well," she murmured. "Behold: true pain, as promised."
His hand darted down from his neck to where she'd known it would go, to snatch and throw a dagger. One of three, if her eyes had served her as they should…
No, she was in no mood to taste three or even one dagger, just now. She threw her sword into his face and sent him reeling, dagger falling away harmlessly. She was on him like a hunting cat pouncing, her stonemaiden out and around his throat before his body had finished bouncing. He struggled, but she stomped on both of his hands and then sat down hard on his head… and it was too late.
His face was purple and his eyes were staring their last when Sharantyr murmured almost gently, "Yes. 'Twould have been fun. Go now to Tempus, or whoever among the gods runs a better sword-school."
When the swordmaster's last breath had rattled out and his stare was frozen, she retrieved her weapons, wincing, and went back for Flamewind. The horse snorted at the smell of blood on her and pawed the road but did not run- for which Sharantyr was heartily grateful. She was too tired and too ravaged by pain to chase a horse through the Blackrocks just now.
Something bayed in the hills to the east, not far off. The lady ranger collected three glowing blades without peering to see what might be howling and caught up Flamewind's dangling reins. The ranger and the horse left the bodies behind without another glance and walked together down the road to Face Crag.
Sleek, shaggy things with long fangs snarled and slunk away from the wrack she found there, leaving gnawed bones in their wake. Fresh, bloody skulls lay shattered underfoot amid ruined wagons, dark bloodstains, and broken lances. There were rustlings in the trees on both sides of her as Sharantyr peered this way and that, seeking any sign of a certain young mage or his lady… and thankfully finding none.
Flamewind snorted at those sounds and danced restlessly at the end of his reins. She held him firmly, plucked up two fallen skins of water to lash at his saddle, then strode on along the road, day drawing down or not.
As they went, the rustling sounds kept them company. Sharantyr smiled mirthlessly and walked on, seeking death or spellfire.
A popular quest it seemed, these days.
Mere Memories of Mages
I try not to remember dead wizards, and I write of them, as tersely as possible. Even the memory of some mages can be dangerous. Some have the power to awaken again when folk think or talk too vividly of them. Best be careful what tales of magic you tell around fires by night… or you may end up sharing your fire with unexpected guests.
Shandril stared around at all that could be seen in the flickering torchlight-bare rocks and the stunted branches of long-dead trees-and wrinkled her nose. "So this is Orcskull Rise," she murmured. "I can't see why all the fluster and hurry to reach it, myself."
Narm grinned at her and nodded at the Rise, a ridge of smooth bare stone that rose out of the ground like the back of some great sleek monster, to break off in a jagged face of stone overlooking the Trade Way. The old mining trail could be seen winding down out of the hills along its flank. Arauntar was already waving and yelling and pointing, getting wagons parked in a neat row along it.
"A defensible height, Voldovan said," he explained, watching guards moving around atop the knoll. It was smaller than Face Crag, but higher than the rockpiles around it.
"Hunh," Shandril grunted, swinging down from the perch to clip leading-reins to the bits of the lead horses. "A good place to catch arrows or flee from snarling jaws and fall screaming from, more like."
"You," Narm said with mock disapproval, "listened to too many minstrels at the Moon."
"I suppose so," Shandril agreed wearily. "Adventure was all I craved then-and they brought me adventure, in vivid handfuls I could thrill to beside a familiar fire."
"Regretting it all?" Narm asked softly, taking the rein she handed him, and walking with her toward the shouting windmill that was Arauntar.
"Not all," Shandril said with a smile, patting his shoulder and leaning close to brush against him as they walked. "Not all."
"'Don't fall over on me, fire-witch!" the grizzled guard roared at her, as if she hadn't snatched him back from choking, agonized death earlier or ever exchanged even a smile with him. "Get along here! I haven't got all night, ye know!"
"Earlier today you didn't, so much was sure," she murmured to herself, with a wry grin. "Do you mean me, Arauntar?" she called cheerfully. "Or have you a secret collection of fire-witches I don't know about? To warm your tent of nights, perhaps?"
The guard gave her a dark look, and growled, "That's not something to joke about, lass. I've been to Aglarond, ye know-and Rashemen."
"Have you now?" she replied softly, as she led their horses along his pointing arm. "I doubt I'll live to see either of those lands. Stop by our fire and tell me about them some night, if you've time and inclination. Please."
Arauntar gave her another hard look but made no reply.
Narm looked at Shandril anxiously as they helped to hobble the horses and unharness them, but she gave him a wordless smile and a kiss as if nothing was bothering her at all.
Which meant, Narm knew as he frowned his way to the creek to fetch water in the wagon's two old, battered buckets, that something was. Very much.
Thoadrin reined in and nodded to Laranthan to scout ahead, where their trail joined the Trade Way. Wordlessly his best warrior nodded, slipped from his saddle and handed his reins to Thoadrin.
In a few very quiet moments Laranthan was leading four men forward in the moonlight like eager shadows, down to where the rocks gave way to the countless wagon ruts.