"Then stand back, Krostal! Thereafter, move not and say nothing," the dark-robed wizard snapped. "For the greater glory of the Dead Dragons, let him die now!"
The Cult thief nodded and retreated a few swift, smooth steps down the wagon before crouching to watch.
"Mystra guide me," Malivur breathed, and carefully began to cast one of his best spells.
Krostal's hands drifted to the hilts of both his throwing-knives, loosened them, and settled into comfortable grips-just in case.
He smarted from minor burns in a dozen places, and the roofless ruin of his wagon was afire, plumes of smoke rising all around him. "Aumlar Chaunthoun, mighty mage," he mocked himself in a whisper as he crawled to the small, nondescript coffer that held a precious healing potion-and his last and most precious items of magic.
He'd been saving them for a dark and dire time… like right now. This caravan was a-crawl with mages, sorcerers, fell priests, and the gods alone knew what else, and the demise of one Aumlar of the Zhentarim would give great satisfaction to many of them. His fellows in the Brotherhood would probably be the most delighted of all.
So it would not do to be noticed in his weakness just now. Not until The air behind him surged into a sudden, rising roar, and Aumlar flung himself forward in frantic haste, snatching up the coffer and diving out of the wagon without even looking to see what hostile magic had erupted. Pheldred, no doubt, returning to He hit the ground hard on an already bruised shoulder and rolled, kicking out to keep himself moving and letting his tumble carry him around to the left. If that spell flared out in a straight path…
He managed to cradle the coffer from damage and come to a twisted halt facing his wrecked wagon. Breathing hard against the coffer-clutched to his chest like a breastplate- Aumlar stared at a cloud of emerald radiance that was whipping through where he'd been in a rising, howling spiral. A whirlwind of bones-no, teeth, the fangs of myriad beasts-slashed and shredded cloaks, weather-covers, and chests alike inside that eerie glow.
The Cult of the Dragon! Well, it could be a Malarite spell, too, but what interest would the howling beast-lovers have in-never mind. The rotting Gamepiece Carvers Guild of Tharsult might put in an appearance working war against this caravan! Everyone was after spellfire, and The emerald whirlwind abruptly lifted from its slow, methodical destructive drift across the wagon floor and tumbled out its riven front, heading straight for him!
Whoever was behind that spell must be able to see him! With trembling fingers Aumlar tore open the coffer, hastily thrust the two wands it held through his belt, snatched out the stopper of the potion flask and drained it in choking haste, then plucked up the ring that should spin him a shielding to withstand all but… spellfire.
That thought was still bright and bitter in his brain as the keening of the whirlwind rose before him. the ring settled home onto his shaking middle finger. It crumbled away to nothing, its enchantment somehow fled.
For a moment Aumlar just stared at it, numbly unable to believe that his long-cherished magic was gone, now when he most needed it. The green glow fell upon him, dust stung his hands and cheeks, making his eyes water.
He was going to die! Here and now, not in his own richly appointed crypt in his own kingdom somewhere centuries hence when his last age-defying potion failed, but right now, unless The dream whisper! Yes!
He could use it as an anchor! Stumbling backward to buy himself the handful of seconds he needed, Aumlar closed his eyes and firmly forced his will down, down to the right reverie. Seize on the thoughts of those two, and snatch himself to them. 'Twould cost him the link itself and the most powerful of his long-prized stored magics and would take him not all that far from these whirling bones, but to remain here was certain death, and if he could run nimbly enough once he was face to face with young Lady Spellfire, perhaps he could…
Ah! He found and seized on the increasingly familiar "voice" of Narm Tamaraith's mind and rode a rueful thought about being grateful for Arauntar's arrival and at the same time wishing the Harper-Harper? Bane ride Mystra, but the watching gods above must be laughing themselves sick at all this entertainment! — had chosen some other time to wade in, just when Shan's lips were closing hungrily on his, and she was so soft and warm against him…
Well, it was nice to know someone besides the gods was enjoying themselves in this, Aumlar thought savagely as there was a flash of green radiance and the world around him changed.
He was standing in a ruined wagon that was nowhere more than waist-high-larger than the one he'd left, which should be right over there-yes, with an emerald whirlwind now tossing up ragged bodies of dead guards and merchants as it quested this way and that for him, in vain.
Here, smashed casks and coffers were everywhere, tumbled and fallen amid swirled cloaks and draperies. The magic of his own arrival and the dying dreamwhisper were snarling and crackling around him as short-lived, stabbing fingers of lightning.
The head of the guards, that great foul-mouthed swaggering brute called Rauntar or some such name, was standing amid the wreckage not three paces away-frozen in silence with eyes staring and mouth open wide, Aumlar's lightnings playing around his battered armor.
Aumlar snatched at his belt, trying to get out a wand. He wasn't going to be in time.
The man took one stride toward him, reaching out for Aumlar with a large, hairy hand. His eyes flickered and went dark, he let out a long, whistling groan, and toppled over into the wreckage with a crash.
The Zhentarim gasped with relief. The guard was lying quite still, sprawled on tumbled rope and hand-kegs. So where were the two lovebirds and the Harper?
Was Tymora going to be whimsical enough to let him get clear away?
No. Of course not. Something was stirring in the clutter beyond the fallen guard. Oh, gods-spellfire!
Aumlar spun around to flee and found his way blocked by a heap of casks that would undoubtedly crash down atop him and roll if he blundered into them. He turned back again in time to see a debris rise up like a wave, scattering pans and ladles in all directions. The whirlwind of fangs was moving nearer, and there was no escape from it except right through whoever was now clawing their way free of A man's hand! This must be Narm! Aumlar set his teeth and charged. If he could just bowl the lad over and keep going, to get clear before Shandril-wherever she was- scorched him, he could A last fold of cloak was wrenched aside when Aumlar was a bare running stride away, and he stared right into the wild eyes of a tousle-haired, alarmed-looking Narm Tamaraith. With a snarl, he kept right on going.
Narm flung himself aside, knowing that a tangle of lanterns and iron-shod lantern tripods lay behind him amid the tangled weathercovers. He wasn't quite sure why the usually smiling carver of pipes was charging at him, but it seemed likely that Norlaund the Finecarver was just one more wizard after spellfire.
The robed man smashed into the iron lanterns and tripod poles with a solid crash, winding himself and recoiling into a gasping stagger. Narm kicked the man's legs out from under him, and Norlaund slammed facedown onto the floorboards, bouncing dazedly nose-to-nose with Shandril, who was crouching under several cloaks close enough for him to touch.
Narm didn't give the man a chance to lay a finger on Shandril. He put his boot as hard as he could into the man's face, snapping the carver's head back and spattering blood in all directions from a shattered nose, and grabbed hold of the man's belt and tried to heave him away.
Aumlar was too heavy, and Narm overbalanced and crashed down on top of him, rolling over in time to see what was making Shandril gasp, "Oh, gods, I don't like the look of that!"