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."
"Well?" Narm prompted him, a few minutes of stooping and rein-wrestling later.
In a low voice Arauntar told them both, 'Ter short answer: Triel's ruled by a madman, Elvar the Grainlord. He's so afraid outlanders'll try to steal food from him-he who's no slouch at thieving himself-that he won't let any of us stay a night inside his walls."
Narm looked at the decaying but still formidable stockade, and muttered, "Is he one of those gigantic waddling gluttons?"
Arauntar grinned. "Ah, I see you've tasted the world a trifle already, young Lord o' Spells. No, he's just mad, that's all. He tasted a hard winter a score o' years back and has feared running out of food ever since. So inside you'll see dirt streets, little rickety shops an' taverns.. — and looming over 'em all, granary after granary, packed to the rafters. Folk in Triel go about with long jab-forks, to slay rats on sight, an' everyone has to keep traps an' patrol 'em proper, so no dead rat rots. They get pickled, see, in case there's need to eat them."
Shandril gagged, and Arauntar grinned happily. "Oh, an' he's mad another way, too: about the gods."
Narm, still slightly green from a vivid vision of curled-up rat claws sticking up by the dozens out of an open cask of pickling-wine, asked reluctantly, "Mad about the gods how?"
"Every four mornings or so-or swifter by now, I've not been in to see, yet-Elvar awakens after new dream-visions, and announces he now serves a new god. Not that he creates 'em, see-just not the god he went to sleep praying to. He's been around 'em all dozens of times by now, an' keeps his guards, poor dogs, busy rooting out regalia and holy symbols they hid away from the last time around for this or that Divine One."
"Anything else?" Shandril asked, a little faintly.
"Enough, be it not? That's why nary a caravan goes anywhere but around Triel or camps outside, here or over yon."
"What's that other road?" Narm asked, pointing.
"The Dusk Road, from Elturel. It joins the Trade Way at Triel midmoot, inside. That roof atop the knoll hard by is Duskview House-an inn outside the walls, for the likes o' you and me-or rather, for the likes of travelers who dare to stay there."
Shandril raised an eyebrow. "Particularly dangerous?"
"For the lady who hurls spellfire, every place we'll see is 'particularly dangerous,' but no, 'tis just too pricey for Master Voldovan's tastes. 'Tis a highcoin house, newly built an' all, sitting all serene on its height looking down the Dusk Road. It caters to the safety of the lone traveler, and charges accordingly."
"So why do I see Voldovan on his way there?" Shandril asked quietly.
"He has to look for replacement guards somewhere," Arauntar said heavily, "or we'll none of us live to see Waterdeep."
"Can we go inside by daylight?" Narm asked, squinting at the sky to judge how much day was left.
"I might lead an armed band inside to buy us food, later- a barrel of rats or two, whatever they'll sell," Arauntar growled amiably, "but you won't be along with me, nor any of these fat wagon-merchants."