He ducked back out of the way of a cursing knot of men being dragged behind pikes buried deep in a rider who did not slow or fall from his saddle. The rider clung to the upswept forecantle with one hand while he swung a futile blade back and forth with the other. The horse struggled on under the weight of them all.
Undead. The attackers must be their own men, raised and sent back from Mistledale. Amglar stared around at Essembra, cursed with loud feeling, and started a perilous run toward the red-lantern house the mages had taken as their own. He hoped he'd make it there alive… and in time.
He was still running hard, dodging blackhelms who should be dead and frantic quarrels from his own terrified men, when Ondeler appeared at the close-curtained balcony of the Bold Banners and stared at the battle below. There was no hint yet of dawn, but the torches in their tripods still blazed, and in the dancing radiance they cast, the Zhentarim wizard could see the street was choked with struggling men.
"Bane's hand!" Ondeler cursed, amazed and fearful. Who could be attacking them here, in the heart of Essembra? Behind him, a lass appeared on the balcony and gasped. He turned and snapped at her, "My robe! Be quick!"
Scared eyes met his for a moment, and she was gone. Ondeler turned back to the street, crouching low behind the balcony rail, and watched the carnage below. Swordlord Amglar, still a distance off, ran toward the red-lantern house, and then Ondeler heard anxious breathing at his shoulder.
"Lord?" the lass whispered.
He reached out without looking, felt the familiar fabric of his robes, grasped it firmly, and said, "Go now and awaken Myarvuk-the mage with the curling black beard, who came in with me. Bid him come here; Ondeler commands. If he seems unwilling, tell him the seven talons await. Haste, now!"
"Lord, I will," she hissed, and was gone.
Ondeler smiled wryly as he felt for what he'd need. Why was it that ladies of the evening obeyed faster and more willingly than any of the Zhents under him? Perhaps he should take all the women of this house with him, to be his swordcaptains and envoys-if he still had any command at all, after this attack.
He gave up groping for the secret pockets and rose into a cautious crouch to put the robe on. Once it was around him, his fingers knew the places where this and that were stored, and came up with them.
He rose up to his full height, made the pass that touched the two crumbling substances together, and chanted:
"By dung of bat and sulphur's reek. And mystic words I now do speak-Ashtyn ortkruu angcoug laen-Let empty air burst into-flame."
As the components dwindled and left his hands empty, one end of the street below obediently erupted in ravening flame, in an explosion that hurled blazing bodies against walls in a gruesome chorus of thuds.
In the flickering aftermath of the fire, Ondeler could see some armored men fighting on despite the flames rising from their bodies. He felt a chill of fear; how-?
Undead. Ah, of course. Most were ashes, but a few were horses and men, bare-boned or burning, still moving, fighting…
Through them stumbled a man with a drawn sword, who wore only boots and a furious expression. Swordlord Amglar had finally reached the red-lantern house. He was heading for the door beneath Ondeler and glaring up at the balcony as he came.
"Crimson curtains, wizard! Are you trying to burn all Essembra down, and us with it?"
"It does seem to work, Swordlord," Ondeler replied with a serenity he did not feel. "Nice uniform, by the way…"
Amglar made a certain rude gesture with his sword, but the wizard sneered and raised his hands as if to cast a spell. The Zhentilar snarled and hastened out of view, in under the railing, heading for the door.
"I am here, Ondeler," Myarvuk said from the chamber behind the balcony where the wizard stood.
"Good," said his Zhentarim master. "Did you bring my envoy with you?"
"Envoy?"
"The woman who came for you… Belurastra."
"The-?" Wisely, Myarvuk swallowed his astonishment and replied levelly, "She stands beside me, master."
"Get her some riding breeches, boots, a dagger-you know," Ondeler said, eyes still on the street below. "She'll be riding with us."
"Lord?" Belurastra asked in a low, cautious voice, as the apprentice mage hurried away
"Aye, envoy?"
"I–I am unused to war. Are you sure you want to do this?"
"I am," Ondeler said flatly, watching a dozen men-at-arms hacking undead limb from limb across the street. An attacker rode toward them, and the wizard swept a stone from another hidden pocket, whispered a word over it, and held it out to make an intricate gesture.
An instant later, a boulder the size of a small cottage appeared above the undead mount and rider and crashed to the cobbles, crushing them both into a tangled, bloody mass. Ondeler nodded in satisfaction. "Another fireball may not be necessary," he announced..
"That's good news, wizard," the sour voice of Swordlord Amglar grunted from the room behind. "Your last fire spell sent at least seven of our swords to their graves… and a few more bid fair to join them before the day is full."
"Their surviving swordbrothers might just be able to deal with a few zombies," Ondeler said sarcastically. "Weight of numbers and all that."
Amglar ignored this, refusing to rise to the challenge. It was not the first time this arrogant Zhentarim had likened loyal troops of Zhentil Keep to pitiful inferiors not able to match wits or swords with the walking dead. He wondered idly if Ondeler would have dared to act thus if he'd known that Amglar was under orders to report regularly to Draethe, steward of the Inner Circle, on the wizard's performance. Well, no matter; one such report was soon going to be the last, featuring the sorrowful news that Ondeler's own incompetence had brought about his death in battle. Amglar had been considering elegant ways of wording that missive for some time now.
But enough; it was time to play the stone-skulled soldier again. "I've ordered all the troops awakened, fed, and made ready to march," he said heavily. "As soon as the last undead ones are hewn down and burned, we go north. They're probably laughing in Mistledale now, thinking they've the whole day to dig in and await us… I'd like to take most of that preparation time away from them."
"All the troops?" Ondeler turned, raising an eyebrow. "Even"-he gestured expressively at the boudoir around them, taking in the entire red-lantern house in his meaning-"the rest of the magelings?"
Amglar set his jaw. "The whole host," he said flatly, and held up his sword hilt, the black hand of Bane gleaming in obsidian on the pommel, in silent reminder that he held overall command of the Sword of the South, supreme even in dealings with Ondeler.
The wizard shrugged. "I am ready, as always." As Myarvuk returned with a bundle of clothing, his master said coldly, "Rouse the 'prentices in as much haste as is seemly. Our swordlord is impatient to find other battlefields than this town."
Myarvuk nodded in silence and withdrew, leaving Lady Belurastra curiously eyeing the belt, boots, breeches, and tunic.
"Put them on," Ondeler ordered her as Belurastra stood stroking one of the smooth-carved balls that surmounted her wooden bedposts. She wore a slightly bewildered expression, and made no move to take up the small sheathed dagger that lay atop the heap.
"If you ride nude," Ondeler told her coldly, "you'll be raw before the sun is bright, and of no use to me."
Belurastra raised large, dark eyes to meet his and asked, "Lord, you are determined to do this?"
"Of course-and if I must tell you again, young Landras of my 'prentices will have the use of your backside to practice his firewhip spell tonight."
The lady escort sighed-it was almost a shiver-and said, "Very well," in a small voice as she undid the lace and let her shift fall to the floor. Ondeler watched it form a puddle of cloth around her feet and turned his head away in satisfaction to glare at the swordlord once more. Amglar had raised his own blade as if to stare at its edge critically, but the wizard saw his gaze dart to the woman, and smiled. Brains in their codpieces, all of these swordswingers. 'Twas a pity that they were needed at all, to hold what the wizards of the keep won…