Now, if the wind would just hold off and none of the guards not already in his purse raised the alarm too soon…
He strolled back to his wagon as if nothing was amiss- and indeed, to his lungs there was no spell-spun gas at all- and waited there, drawn dagger hidden in his sleeve. No one cried out, no errant breeze arose. This was going to work!
A guard took two bored steps away from a wagon, then crumpled and fell headlong to the ground. Over yonder, another.
Yes. Soon, now…
Two guards turned their heads, hearing the thump of another hitting the ground. They peered, shrugged and sagged in unison, muttered banter forgotten.
The wizard stepped cautiously to where he could look across the camp. The spellfire wench was in Voldovan's wagon, and it sported four guards at its corners, one of them taking Red Wizard coins.
There was no point in slitting throats here, there, and everywhere across the caravan. The two head guards and Voldovan himself should be his first victims, then anyone not asleep or trying to cast a spell-Shandril's mate last, in case he should be needed as a hostage to her good behavior.
One of the guards by the wagon fell over, then another. The third asked them sharply what was wrong before falling on his face, so walking openly across the field toward that wagon might not be the brightest tactic, now.
Ah, but who was left?
The Red Wizard drew in a deep breath and started on his journey, heading for another wagon well off to one side. From there he could turn toward the one he sought. As he went, he kept a sharp watch for other men on the move in the spell-smoke. The camp was entirely enveloped by his magic now.
He reached the wagon-dark, still, and silent, with three bodies sprawled about its perch amid dragondroon cards scattered where they'd fallen from nerveless hands. He recognized a guard who'd been along since Scornubel. Not one of the two battered veterans, but a longtime rider with Voldovan. He drew the man a new smile across his throat, stepped hastily back to keep clear of the welling blood, wiped his dagger on the man's jerkin, and went on.
On toward Voldovan's own wagon, where spellfire waited. Along the way he passed a fallen guard who'd been hired in Triel-not one loyal to Thay, but who'd probably not leap to defend a caravan patron in battle, either-and left the man lying, unharmed. He might not have very long to strike if someone had resisted his spell or shaken off its effects. Some folk always did.
His spell had driven down the last of the dew, and the trampled grass was wet and slippery underfoot. The Red Wizard walked as carefully and quietly as he knew how, dagger hidden in his sleeve again, hardly daring to hope it was going to be this easy.
Yet no one stirred as he reached the first of the guards and turned the man over with his foot. The man of Thay. He went to the next and slit that guard's throat with quickening excitement. Now, around to the front… spellfire must lie less than a dozen feet away, his for the taking. -..,, "A spell, yes, but what? Not a cloudkill, surely!" Korthauvar frowned, peering over the rocks.
"Whatever 'tis, I'm not letting it touch me" Hlael muttered. "Not while I have the means to break-ho! Look there!"
"Falling… dead or asleep," the taller Zhentarim said slowly, backing away from the rocks. "Slumbering men are easy enough to slay… and we could walk right in and take spellfire, with all of them snoring."
"Someone's trying that already and will be ready for us or anyone," Hlael hissed fiercely, "and that's if yon spell doesn't take us down!"
He retreated until he stood in a clear, level area on the very lip of the drop to the road below. There he shook out his sleeves and announced, "Stand back, Kor. I'm going to break that spell. Look, it's spilling over the rocks at us already!"
Korthauvar nodded. "Do so, without delay, or spellfire may be snatched from under our very hand after all."
Hlael nodded grimly. "Not something I'd like to have to explain to Hesperdan, if he isn't watching us right now." He raised his hands, and began his casting.
"He is," Korthauvar of the Zhentarim muttered to himself, casting a quick look around at the night. "Oh, he is."
The dagger plunged in, the Red Wizard winced and pulled, and another throat bled. He shuddered. A good fireball, now, or lightning to hurl men shrieking, left them just as dead, but not this… this… boarlike butchery… He set his teeth as his gorge rose, shook his head, and went on.
There was but one guard more, draped over a corner of the wagon-perch, Voldovan's boots beside him. The caravan master had fallen back inside his wagon where all was dark and still. The Thayan eyed that dark gap cautiously. Dare he hope the spellfire-wench and her mate slept, too?
Best stick to the plan. The guard first, then Voldovan- then truss the young mage and have him out of the wagon and away into the night. If she awakened while he was still out hunting the two veteran guards, he'd have a hold over her… and even if the caravan went on, she'd stay to search for her Narm. 'Twould just be a matter of waiting, as she clambered and peered and called in vain, until exhaustion took her into real slumber, and he could enspell her at will.
The Red Wizard smiled, stepped forward, raised his dagger-and the guard's eyes snapped open! The armsman growled, "What the-?" Around them, the camp erupted into life and sound-a chorus of curses and bewilderment.
The guard glared at the mage with the knife and bellowed, "Attack! Voldovaaaan!"
The Red Wizard sprang back, snapped out a hasty incantation as the guard's sword rang out, and was gone, back beside his own wagon before he'd even had time to curse. He made up for that now.
"Beshaba spit on all!" he roared, charging up its steps and inside. The camp was in an uproar, the guard couldn't have failed to recognize him. The thud of pounding, running feet was rising in his ears already. He had to get his spellbooks and begone, before A sword slashed open the cloth across the wagon windows, and a furious voice shouted, "There he is!",
Men in the worn leather and rusty chain of caravan guards came boiling through the mouth of the wagon, and the Red Wizard turned with a snarl on his lips and a wand in his hand and gave them death.
The front of the wagon burst forth in a bright flood of flame and broken bodies that brought Arauntar running, and other men, too, with drawn swords in their hands. "Magic!" someone shouted. "Always bloody magic!"
Another merchant who was also a wizard saw his chance and hurled lightning, but Arauntar wore more leather than steel, and one of Voldovan's recent hires took the crackling bolt instead. That guard staggered, clawed the air, and went over on his back, outlined in spitting blue-white sparks.
The Zhentarim cursed and threw up his hands to cast another spell, but Arauntar ducked behind a snorting group of hobbled, frightened horses, and bellowed, "Guards! To me! That wagon-have the man out of it, and down dead! 'Ware spells!"
Men were shouting all over the camp now, and running with swords and daggers out. Shandril Shessair came to the mouth of Voldovan's wagon white to the lips and fire-eyed in fury.
Another Zhentarim hurled a fireball at her from his own wagon. Shandril saw the tiny streak of flame hurtling toward her and smashed it back with spellfire.
A great burst of flame shot up into the night where spell and spellfire met, spitting streamers in all directions like a Lantanna firework, and billowed up in a plume of brilliance that lit the tilted field as bright as day.
In its radiance the Red Wizard could be seen fleeing the smoldering wreck of his wagon, trotting away downslope.