Again spellfire flared blinding-bright, the crossbow quarrels blazed up into nothingness, and a man roared in pain. This one, however, wasn't as sorely wounded as Arauntar had been, and lay beneath the searing healer and so was able to involuntarily thrust Shandril up and away, as a parent holds a child aloft.
She stared down at him, hair stirring around her as if it, too, was made of flame. Sparks leaked from her eyes, and tiny tongues of flame gouted from her mouth as she looked down at him and gasped, "Beldimarr, don't you want to be healed?"
"Gods, yes, lass, but it hurts!"
"Oh, you've noticed," she replied weakly, causing Arauntar to chuckle. "Let me down, Bel," she pleaded, "and hurry. I can't-I can't-"
The light in her eyes fled, and she went limp. Hastily Beldimarr clasped her tightly to him, embracing her tightly as spellfire flared one last time around them… and died away.
Beldimarr grunted in amazement and cradled the nude woman in his arms as carefully as he might hold a precious thing made of glass as he slowly got himself to a sitting position.
Narm knelt to help, biting his lip. Shan was asleep or senseless, her head lolling limply. He looked up and around at Voldovan and all of his guards and said almost pleadingly,
"You see, I hope, that this isn't something endless, or easy. Don't all get wounded unto death and expect to be healed at once, now!"
At the sound of his voice Shandril shook herself, as if coming out of an unpleasant dream, and then blinked, saw Narm, and kissed him.
There were chuckles from the guards around, and even a faint cheer, as Narm's and Shandril's arms tightened around each other.
After a long, blissful moment, the maid of Highmoon drew back her head to look anxiously at Beldimarr and then at Arauntar-and saw smiling thanks and awe on both guards' faces. Then her eyes flickered as she remembered the ring of watching men.
Rather than blushing or trying to hide herself in Narm's embrace, she looked up at them, directly at face after face, then asked, "What? Why d'you all stare at me so?"
" 'Tis like something of the gods," a guard said hoarsely. "I know not whether to worship ye, Lady-or sword ye, to save us all."
"Why? Do you pray to Arauntar, or try to cut him up, because he swings a good sword? Do you hack at a cobbler, or go on your knees to him, because he mends a boot you thought couldn't be mended, and makes it look as new? Or so treat a master archer? This is but a skill the gods gave me. Why such awe over it?"
"Lady," another guard said slowly," 'tis magic."
There was a murmur of agreement, but Voldovan rubbed his chin and said firmly, "The lass has the right of it! The best way to see spellfire is as some strange sort of sword that can slay or heal." Then he raised his voice gruffly. "Right! Show's over! We're not getting any nearer Orcskull Rise, standing here watching a little fire and a lass rolling around losing her clothes in it! Let's move, men!"
Amid the general groan and stir that followed, the caravan master added slowly, "Oh, and Lady, too." He raised his hand in a sort of salute, and said almost grudgingly, "I'll not soon be forgetting this day."
Shandril stood up, hands on hips, and wrinkled her nose at him. ''I'm not wearing armor again."
Voldovan grinned, shook his head, and growled in mock rage, "Defying me again1? Some loyal guard ye are!"
"Master!" a guard called ere Shandril could reply, dragging a body by the boots toward Voldovan and trying hard not to look as if he was staring at the unclad fire-wench at every third step. "You should see this! By how we found him, he seems to have been warlord of this… the attack on us. Look familiar?"
The caravan master strode forward almost defiantly to glare down at the corpse.
"Bluthlock," he snarled. "Rendilar Bluthlock of Scornubel, scourer of alleys… and hurler of-" he waved a hand around at the ruined wagons, crossbow quarrels, blood puddles, dead horses, and sprawled men-"shakes and rats and mad dogs at all the rest of us. Well, that's one Scornubrian no one will mourn, least of all me."
Voldovan spat onto the slack, staring face of the corpse, then turned and stalked away, snapping, "Salvage all the wagons we can, reload, and let's be going! To me, all!"
The guards obediently trotted toward the caravan master from all directions, Narm and Shandril among them.
Orthil Voldovan looked around the ring of reassembled faces with a sour expression on his face, caught sight of his fearful surviving clients drawing nearer, and lowered his voice to a mutter.
"This run really is cursed. I want strict, leap-to-me obedience and alertness every instant ye're awake. Don't hesitate, don't argue my orders, and don't do anything stupid." He looked grimly around at them and added. "I know ye've heard this a time or thousandscore before, but I mean it. If we slip up again, with this few of us left and hounds coming at us from behind every tree, it's likely well never reach Waterdeep-or anywhere else, ever again-alive."
"Korthauvar, I don't want to be blasted to cinders by Drauthtar or anyone else," Hlael said angrily, "or forced into some helpless beast-shape to be maimed and left to be devoured, either! We must do something to snatch this spellfire, not just watch and gloat! What if someone else gets to her first, and-"
"Let them. I want them to."
"You what?" Hlael almost screamed.
"Let someone who's not the two of us snatch spellfire and be pounced upon by someone else. We watch and wait as all the hounds on this trail snarl and snap at each other… and when we're at the last hound, or almost so and the best opportunity presents itself, then we make our own little pounce."
"While Drauthtar does what, awaiting our reports?" Hlael snapped.
"Considers our strategy as clever as every last mage of the Zhentarim should be," Korthauvar said firmly. "Why fight someone and reveal yourself as a foe, thereafter to stand in danger when you can get your enemy to do what you want him to, by manipulating this and hinting that? All of these young, ambitious fools seem to think that striding out to hurl spells up Elminster's nose is how you show your power. All that does is show you a welcoming grave-and your own stupidity in the few seconds it takes you to reach it. Why do the swordheads always judge we who work magic by how many towers we can topple? Why do they never appreciate how we can make a gentle suggestion and have an entire village leap to our bidding for fear of what we might do?"
"Old Kaummorth's 'smile and walk softly and be greatly feared' speech," Hlael said wearily. "I remember it, too, Korthauvar. I only hope Drauthtar took those same teachings, and thought as highly of Kaummorth as you do."
"I'd rather be alive to face his fury than dead by spellfire or at the hands of these vultures falling all over each other right now to get at Shandril Shessair," Korthauvar replied. "Now find me that mindriding spell! We need more eyes in that caravan than the paltry pair we have already. Some of the Cult swordheads and even ambition-blinded mages of our own Brotherhood along on that run are likely to slaughter anyone who stands in their path. There're others along, too: that blandreth-dealer, for one, isn't the same man who was in that wagon earlier! 'Twould not do to have a lone view of all the tumult and lose it at some crucial moment."
"No," Hlael Toraunt said thoughtfully, eyeing Korthauvar. "No, 'twould not do at all."
"A small step shy of thievery," Thoadrin growled, almost perfunctorily. In truth, the price was about what he'd expected: five times what would be asked in a back room in Dock Ward and about thrice what quarrels could be had for in Scornubel or in most places where competition wasn't fierce, The supply was better than he'd hoped for, too: twice the crossbow bolts they'd set out with, in full score-and-one quivers. Four quivers each, if he bought them all.
"Acceptable," he added. "We'll take them all."