"So?" the priest asked calmly.
Mhegras gave Sabran a dark look. "You were right. We take no part in this battle and go right on playing happy heads-down merchants until we've a better chance to take this Shandril." His eyes strayed to a particular coffer.
Sabran smiled. "The drugs to make her sleep are fine. The full array's unscathed; I've just checked. I doubt nightfall will bring us a good chance. Even if all this burning people wearies the maid, there'll likely be Voldovan and his two head dogs everywhere, growling and prowling. Perhaps in Triel."
Mhegras nodded, then gave Sabran a sudden grin. "After she's cooked another dozen of our rivals, hey?"
The priest shrugged. "As tempting as I find that idea, we should do a little prowling of our own tonight. Voldovan's sure to hire guards in Triel, and Thay and the Cult both have their own eyes and ears there, awaiting our arrival."
"I've full spells ready right now," Mhegras muttered. "Tonight it is, then." He reached for the wine flask again.
"Hand of Talos!" Thoadrin swore, as another rock was suddenly smoke and dust, spellflames raging through where it had been to sear away stunted felsul trees and thornbushes alike. If there'd been any better forest here, the wench would've had it all afire already, blazing away to the horizon and choking everyone with its smoke. Instead of just strangling his warriors.
Shaking his head in grim disbelief, Thoadrin of the Cult scrambled a little way farther down from the spellfire-scorched height of rocks. He'd watched spellfire melt away most of that rampart of stone as easily as it turned Cult warriors to ashes. Even a glancing lick of spellflames had been enough to turn armor to bubbling ruin and leave the leg beneath it scorched.
Wherefore Thoadrin was limping now, and his every breath was burning pain. He dared not try to cross the road to the rocks on the other side of Haelhollow again, but there'd been no one left alive there the last time he'd checked, not unless they'd fled a good way into the wilderlands… where the leucrotta and wolves and ore raiding bands were no doubt lurking and watching the fun.
Another few ridges along this side, and he'd be sure of the fates of the rest of his men. Ashes, most of them; he knew that already.
Was he the last? Of all the hardened Dragon warriors he'd led out here?
Gods above, that one girl could deal all this death…
Someone blackened rose up from a tangle of fire-scorched branches in front of him, sword in hand, and Thoadrin felt for his own blade.
"Easy," the man gasped." Tis me, lord Laranthan."
Thoadrin stumbled forward, managing a grin. "You'll forgive me if I don't embrace you," he gasped, almost falling over.
Laranthan shot out a hand to steady him, and gasped, "We're the last. Spellfire comes expensive, it seems." He coughed, then, a raw, rasping anguish that would not stop as he doubled over, shaking.
Thoadrin threw his arm around his best warrior-by the Dead Dragons, his only warrior, now! — and held the man, helpless to do more, until at last the coughing ended. Laranthan went to his knees, spat out a lot of blood onto the fire-scorched rocks, drew in a few long, gasping breaths, and asked, "Could we… get away from this place?"
"Come," Thoadrin said quietly, lifting him to his feet. "'Tis the Blackrocks for us, north and west as fast as we can go." Laranthan looked at his lord. "North and-Waterdeep?" Thoadrin nodded. "Seeking spellfire is a fools' game, but those well above us in the Followers may not believe that, from where they sit safe and distant. So to Waterdeep to hide until the time's right to seek our masters and admit our failure."
Laranthan nodded, looked back at the drifting smoke where a long ridge of ancient and weather-scoured rocks had been, shivered, and started walking northwest.
The flying lass and her storm of all-consuming flames dwindled down behind the smoking, melted rocks along one side of the hollow. Orthil Voldovan shook his head in awe and then bellowed, "Arauntar! Beldimarr! All swords-to me!"
Was anyone left to answer his rallying?
Ah, Arauntar, lumbering forward, and someone else, past yonder wagons… Voldovan stared around in mounting horror at the smoldering ruins of his caravan, muttering all the curses he could remember. A dozen wagons, at least, and probably more than twice that many clients…
All the work of some brigands and one girl.
Distant trees crackled as spellfire roared on. Voldovan looked in that direction and growled, "Gods above, how am I going to slay her? And if I don't, how soon before that devours all the Realms?"
In the gathering dusk, Sharantyr of Shadowdale saw the flash and glow of mighty flame in the distance ahead a moment or two before the ground shook beneath her boots.
"Shan, Shan," she muttered, climbing onto Flamewind's saddle and urging the weary horse into a trot, "couldn't you have waited until I got there?"
Somewhere nearby in the Blackrocks, a wolf howled.
Her mount faltered under her, saddle leather creaking with the break in stride. Sharantyr kicked her feet out of the stirrups and murmured, "Slow, then, Flamewind. Go as slow as you want to."
The horse faltered again under her and fell.
Sharantyr sprang free, cursing softly, and watched the ground rush up to meet her like a hard-driven fist.
Her bright spellflames first began to falter just as Narm was starting to stagger from weariness, every breath burning his lungs. He'd run a long way up and down loose rocks and over tangled thorn-vines and half-fallen, leaning trees. He had lost count of the number of small, snarling things that had scurried away from beneath his pounding boots.
He felt as if he'd run halfway to Waterdeep, but when he'd slipped, caught hold of a tree to keep from falling down a dark cleft between rocks, and ended up wrenching himself back the way he'd come from ere he could halt, he could still see the fitful glows and rising sparks of the burning wagons in Haelhollow, not all that far off.
Shandril was flying lower now, struggling in the air as if wrestling with some invisible wraith, and the jets and bursts of flame were becoming fitful as her spellfire ran out or she won her battle for mastery over it. It had been some time since she'd burned a clear trail through the Blackrocks brush. Only the occasional gout of flame set anything below her to smoldering now.
Narm caught hold of another tree, clung to it while he threw back his head and drank in deep, shuddering breaths of cool twilit air, then ran on again. She wasn't far ahead now. One last sprint just might…
Shan suddenly put her hands down at her sides-balled and shaking fists, at once achingly beautiful and pitiful- and soared straight up into the sky. Windmilling his arms wildly to slow down, Narm ran right underneath her, managed to get himself stopped with the aid of a particularly thorny wintanberry bush, and wrenched himself around to face her.
"Shan!" he shouted. "Shan, I'm down here!"
The bright thing of fire wriggled in the swiftly darkening sky above him, writhing strangely against the brightening stars like a sandsnake he'd once seen burrowing into river mud, and made a horrible sound. A soft and yet harsh sound that went on and on.
Narm gaped up at his lady for a long, fearful time, wondering if the spellfire was turning Shan into some sort of monster, before he realized he was hearing bitter, mirthless laughter. She was choking out the last of her spellfire. He saw it billow from her nose and mouth like horse-breath on a cold day. Slowly she sank back to earth again, shuddering amid the last crackling, spitting eruptions of flame.
"Believe it or not," she gasped, turning to face him with eyes that blazed with spellfire, "I'd noticed you crashing along, down below. Oh, gods, Narm, I love you!"
Narm reached up his hands for her. "And I love you, Shan!"
"Do you?" She shuddered, hunching over in midair and spitting forth flames as if vomiting up a sickening meal. "Still?"