He'd fled from pain, lashed and hooked and scorched, out over wilderlands once more, drifting on from where a frantic flight from guardian-gargoyles had taken him in the painful aftermath of his last and worst attempt to snatch magic in Waterdeep. Wizards of Jethaere would never have spun spells in such a rough-and-tumble way, nor spent so much Art for clawing guardian beasts. Would every last mage's tower be girt with such fearsome sentinels as well as the more subtle, exacting, and expected wards? Such fastnesses should be out here, yes, far from Magic blossomed below, bright and sudden, and the shadowy thing that had been Rathrane of Jethaere smiled an unseen smile and sank swiftly toward that beckoning glow.
Mhegras of the Zhentarim groaned as he swam out of darkness and blinked awake. He lay still and silent on his back, hearing little rustlings in tangled and interwoven branches above him. He was weak and sore, and when he strove to lift a hand, it was some time before his quavering fingers rose into view. "Bane preserve me," he whispered hoarsely, watching them tremble.
"Pray indeed to our Dark and Dread Lord," a familiar voice said sourly from close by, "for by his will we're delivered from death." Sabran, no doubt lying here too. Those Harpers, a grip like iron…
Mhegras thrust away that frightening memory with a whimper, and weighed the priest's words. Bewilderment came. "H-he took direct interest in us?"
"Nay," Sabran snarled in low tones, "the spell that brought us back was mine, cast beforehand at the cost of a life for each of us, lives provided by those two idiot weavers in the squeaking wagon. Great Bane granted that spell to me. I didn't think much of your protective magics-rightly, as it turns out."
Mhegras scowled and tried to sit up. There was a moment of trees and sky whirling around, sickening weakness, and… he was lying on his back again, looking up at the sky, with fresh aches, and mists drifting through his thoughts. His neck…
He moved his head a little, to make the pain go away, but it got worse. He groaned again.
"Wait," Sabran hissed, "and be glad those two Harpers just broke our necks and threw us down in this ditch, that they didn't go chopping pieces off us or looting our pouches. If you give my magic time to finish its work, you'll be able to walk. If we can find something to eat, we'll soon feel as if nothing happened to us."
Mhegras felt his fingers itching. When he lifted them into view, he saw that they were twitching uncontrollably. Marvellous for casting spells! He let his hands fall back, clawed the ground beside him in sudden fury, and announced harshly, "When I get my hands on that Arauntar, he'll wish nothing happened, too-for the few moments I give him, before my conjured brainbore-worm burrows into one of his eyes and starts gnawing his brain!"
They were coming for him now, and the sky was darkening strangely ahead, almost as if it was growing greedy, long-fingered hands, reaching for his wand!
Besmer stumbled back as the armored men came lumbering down the hillside with growls of triumph and was struck by a sudden, chilling thought: What if that merchant had been a wizard, after all? Was this his ghost, come to claim his wand back?
Gods, yes! He could see a dark face, now, two dark twinkling stars of eyes in a shadowy head that had no jaw, on shoulders with no chest below, only a cloud of swirling shadows and those two reaching arms…
Screaming, Besmer Altuth thrust his wand forward and gave the wraith fire-flame that dwindled to nothing!
The wandfire disappeared as fast as it erupted, hissing to silence as the wand sputtered and the tingling cloud of shadows settled over Besmer like descending nightfall.
Despairingly Besmer waved the wand like a blade, slashing at shadows, and spat out its word for fire again and again. Nothing happened, as the first swordsman's slashing blade took Besmer's dagger out of his hand along with two fingers, and the man's second blow brought Besmer more pain than he'd ever felt before.
He lost the wand during his helpless, agonized stagger, trying to drag out his sword with his other hand even though he knew the life was leaking out of him. The blade had gone right through him, down low on his right side, and Another running swordsman arrived with a shout, and Besmer saw his blade come whirring up Now there was too much pain to see anything or do anything but fall into the greedily reaching darkness.
The thunder of hooves faded as Arauntar and Beldimarr spurred forward, scouting ahead for a campsite. Darhabran Windhome watched them go, spat thoughtfully to one side, and told the man on the perch beside him unnecessarily, "Triel, right enough."
Orthil Voldovan refrained from snapping something sarcastic. Windhome was old and loyal, a good man, and was carrying his wounds better than many guards far younger. All day the old guard had worked the reins of this mismatched team of beasts expertly with no betrayal of his pain but the odd grunt or growl, and kept the battered wagon on the much-rutted road.
He leaned closer to the caravan master now and muttered, "Master, wouldn't it be best if we just put a knife in the lass right now?"
He did not have to say who "the lass" might be.
"Don't think I haven't considered it," Orthil grunted. "If we didn't need her fire to defend us on the run past Dragon-spear, I'd do it right now."
"We can't trust her!"
"I know, but we have to-unless you can grow me a dozen crossbowmen and two dozen good swordsmen, all of them in quarrel-proof armor and on quarrel-proof horses!"
The old guard gave Voldovan a sidelong growl of disgust. "She's a blade at our backs, I tell thee!"
Orthil put a hand on his arm. "Easy, Darhabran. Twon't be for much longer; of that, at least, I can assure you. And if we have to dagger her in a hurry-well, I know who I can call on."
Rathrane hung close above the grunting, brutally thrusting men until long after they'd leaned panting on their swords around the sprawled, much-hacked figure in the trampled grass. The crumbling remnants of the wand he'd drained were plucked up, tossed aside with sighs, and the men wiped their blades and wearily began looting the body of the man they'd slain.
Not a spark of magic shone about any of them, so the wraith-wizard drifted on, heading away from the river now. Distant echoes of recent great magic roiled ever so faintly off to the northeast. That was as good a direction as any.
The taste of the wand had awakened fresh hunger in him. He was so close to being able to materialize fully, to have a body once more, to stride this changed Faerun as boldly as any of these swaggering fools who called themselves wizards. He could taste once more, smell again, and feel the cool breezes he was riding.
Evaereol Rathrane would be a name heard again in Faerun, a name feared and respected. A name that would be spreading soon… he needed but a trifle more, and if these echoes were good indication of what lay ahead, he'd shortly have more than enough, perhaps more might than ever before.
Greywings were honking in the distant backlands as Beldimarr waved them off the road close by the crude gates of Triel.
Obediently Shandril guided their groaning wagon along a palisade of huge, graying old tree trunks toward the distant figure of Arauntar, who stood atop some rocks, directing wagons. As they bumped across the grassy but much-rutted field, Narm frowned. "Why aren't we going into Triel?"
Shandril shrugged. "Ask him," she said, waving a hand at the grizzled Harper, so Narm did.
Arauntar swung himself up on the perch and growled, "Just along here… aye… right, halt! Tether and hobble, lad. I'll chock your wheels."