He glared at the sky. "A crazy woman with spellfire! Mystra, forgive me, but I really don't recall doing something so bad to you that I deserved this!"
The heap of wreckage surged with wild, redoubled laughter, and this time, helplessly, a second, slightly deeper voice joined in.
Shaking his head and growling, Arauntar waded forward into the hulk of the ruined ready-wagon.
"Dead Dragons preserve!" Thoadrin cursed softly, watching spells flash and men hack at each other-and more than one wagon cartwheel up into the sky, almost lazily shedding goods and merchants and harness. The ground shook as spell-blasts spat men and horses away into the Blackrocks like so many torn and dirty rags. More men came boiling out of nigh every wagon with wands leveled or rings winking on their hands or spells snarling from their lips.
The few Cult warriors who'd survived Shandril's attack to cower behind spellfire-scorched rocks with Thoadrin all gaped at the spellstorm below. Not a few of them drew back and cast him quick glances, as if judging the best time or chance to flee.
"We retreat when / give the order," he told them softly and held up a last cocked and loaded crossbow where they could see it. "Fleeing the Way can be so dangerous…"
One of his men looked at him, then at a knob of rock where spellfire had melted away a height like a small turret, leaving nothing of the four men who'd been crouching behind it but dark, greasy smears on stone. "So dangerous," he echoed, and laughed bitterly.
Thoadrin gave him a stony look but put the crossbow down again, unfired.
When the cursing priest of Bane ducked into the shelter of the dark, silent, horseless wagon bearing the sign that said "Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths," a quick glance was enough to reassure him that it stood empty. Any number of black-armored men might be lying still and flat on their faces amid all the blandreths, of course, but nothing moved, and he could hear no breathing but his own-great loud gasps that told the watching world Stlarakur of Bane was terrified, unaccustomed to hastening anywhere, and in need of a little time to catch his wind before hastening anywhere else.
Stlarakur of the Zhentarim wasted a little of his precious wind in a muttered, heartfelt flood of curses that branded Bane the cause of the bloodshed, affray, and ruin raging all around the wagon-and Bane's response to such an insult was swift and sure.
The shadows behind the wagon-curtain grew an arm with a blandreth clutched on the end of it-an arm that swung around in a vicious arc.
The dull, wet thud of Stlarakur's skull shattering was echoed by just as damp a splattering of Zhentarim brains on the wagon wall. The priest fell heavily to the floorboards, writhed in a momentary convulsion, and fell limp forever.
"Well met," the shadow murmured, bending down to wipe the blandreth clean on dark robes. "Rejoice in the holy thought, priest, that you are but the latest victim of the Dark Blade of Doom."
Marlel snorted in wry amusement at his own ridiculously overblown words and started to nudge the corpse off his wagon with the toe of his boot. He thought better of it and left the Zhent lying with one arm dangling over the edge, to discourage others from seeing the dark wagon entrance as a handy refuge..
With his horses gone in someone's dark necromancy and slaughter everywhere, it was a good time for Marlel to lie low, awaiting a better, later chance at snatching spellfire. He dragged Olimer's most comfortable seat to a better location for watching the battle outside the wagon," uncorked another bottle of Olimer's best firestorm, and sat down to enjoy the rest of the show.
"Are you well, lord?"
Aumlar Chaunthoun bit back a sudden wild urge to shriek at the man-of course he was a dolt; he was a Zhentilar guardsman, wasn't he? — and said curtly, "I fare very well, and require only privacy. Just the two of you see to keeping everyone out of this wagon, so that interruptions disturb me not!'
He lay back down on his improvised bed of blankets and closed his eyes again, trying to pay attention to the whispering thoughts in his mind. His spell seemed to be yielding snatches of both Narm's and Shandril's thinking, but with all mind-images, the remembered faces and places and what items looked like, leached out…
Drifting down to the murmuring… yes, here…
[elation] Mystra's blessing flowing back into me need it soon sure [alarm] what if it drowns my control, takes me over? what then? Oh gods what then?
[contentment] Shan happy again even in all this just to hold her just to feel her close warm soft that lovely smell love you lady love you
[worry] less control each time now but they don't stop attacking they'll never stop attacking
[apprehension] she's tense again she's worrying I wish she'd rest easy but no mayhap she feels something I can't knows something's coining feels a foe near "Shan?"
The mageling was speaking again-and as dreamwhispers always did, the mind-murmurs went thunderous, echoing, and distorted when someone spoke aloud. Aumlar winced and tried to endure through the shouting without letting go his attention and losing hold of the interwoven thoughts.
Bah! He'd lost them again. His spell wasn't ended, but he'd fallen out of the right reverie, his awareness thrust back to the here and now of Aumlar Chaunthoun lying flat on his back in this wagon, with spells still whistling and roaring and bursting outside, men screaming, and a single floating eye regarding him from the darkness above, near the wagon ceiling. A floating eye staring at him?
Aumlar thrust himself up, snatching at the hilt of his best enspelled dagger, trying to reach the spying orb before it — winked out, that white glistening regarding him one moment and utterly gone the next, the gloom of the wagon roof unbroken again, defying him with its own dark mockery.
Panting with fury, his dagger drawn with no one to thrust it into, Aumlar glared around at the empty darkness, saw nothing at the entrance but the lazily leaning shoulders of his two helm-headed guards, and slashed wildly at the air where the eye had been, knowing as he did it that his attack was futile. He should burrow into his lockchest, get out the right tome, and cast a tracing spell-but 'twas already too late, and he'd have to let the dreamwhisper go, and…
"Blood of Mystra!" he cursed, snatching up his blankets and stalking to a far corner of the wagon, in case whoever had been spying on him sent a spell from afar to stab down at where he'd been lying. Who could it have been, anyway?
Hmmph! In this caravan, who couldn't it have been?
Shaking out his blankets in a savage temper, he kicked aside chests and coffers to clear space enough to lie down again, wondering darkly just which rival might be lurking near. Perhaps if he spun a spell-disguise and got himself to somewhere safe where he could watch who came calling on this wagon while still listening to the thoughts of the spellfire-wench and her ma There was a sudden flash from the wagon entrance, a high, thin scream, and the head of the worst dullard of his two guards came bouncing wetly down the wagon toward him.
With a snarl of revulsion and fear Aumlar whirled to face — the light, springing sideways out of long habit as he did so.
His feet came down in a hard yet slippery confusion of chests and coffers even as his shoulder slammed bruisingly into the wagon side-but the stabbing blade of shimmering magic drove through nothing but air where he'd been and faded before it could sweep sideways and reach him.
His attacker cursed softly and asked, "You weren't particularly fond of these Zhentilar, were you? I'd hate to upset you unduly, Chaunthoun. Your clear head and unfettered judgment are such assets to Manshoon's little Brotherhood of tail-biting vipers."