by Ed Greenwood
Sharantyr shook her head. Brigands, these days…
She recovered her fallen sword by looping the cords of her maiden around it until she could carry it as a trussed-up bundle and strolled on her way.
Her partially unlaced state won her a seat on a heavily guarded wagon crammed with gigantic "sow-bottles" (so named for their hoglike girth) each stoutly girded in its own wooden cage. The bottles all contained mordants, which would be used to etch armor in Waterdeep-if the deadly acids ever reached the City of Splendors.
Mordants had a way of disappearing in Scornubel, and her charms notwithstanding, Sharantyr was firmly urged to wait for the next ferry when the wagon reached the Chionthar. She caused some alarm when the small forest of swordpoints so urging her passed harmlessly through one of her hands-and she underscored that surprise by calmly walking through them, so that it was with close to a dozen blades apparently plunged deep into her breast that the Knight of Myth Drannor waved a cheerful farewell and waited for that next ferry.
When he returned, the boatman-who had seen all of this-was very respectful, and Sharantyr floated up to the Scornubel docks lounging against him and humming a merry tune.
She was looking forward to seeing this lawless den of thieves and, following Lhaeo's directions, to meeting one of its law-breaking inhabitants in particular: Belgon Bradraskor. Master of the Shadows, indeed.
"Mystra and Tymora preserve me!" Shandril snarled, clawing at the nearest rail desperately as the ready-wagon struck a particularly large pothole so violently that she was sure the racing wheels not so far beneath her would either shatter or fly off.
They did not, though the entire wagon bounced with deafening clatters of landing cargo and several sickening moments of plunging through air, as one wheel after another crashed into the unyielding earth, spitting stones in all directions like angry crossbow bolts, and made its own shrieking, rebounding leap. Shandril's untidy collection of old armor plates clanged and clashed in her face for the six-hundredth-and-something time, leaving her with yet another cut on her jaw, then fell bruisingly back again- only to rise up once more even before they all had time to swing down. She swung her head to one side with a softly but deliberately snapped curse, scrunching one eye closed, and let them batter her cheek and neck.
Even Thorst was snarling oaths and groaning in pain as the wagon raced along. The shadows were growing ever longer around them, as the sun sank no more slowly for all their haste, but Voldovan was like a bellowing madman, storming up and down the hurtling line of wagons with his whip cracking like a never-sleeping thunderbolt.
They had to make Face Crag by nightfall, camp in the defensible, stream-split cleft in its eastern face, and get their torches lit in the outer ring of braziers-massive tripods of blackened iron erected there decades ago by a coster now gone yet still praised almost daily-so brigands and beasts alike would be left trying to stare at the unknown strength of the camped caravan past a wall of flickering flames.
Any brigands who hadn't already thrown a rope or a few tree trunks across the road as a barrier, that is. If the racing wagons struck any real obstacle now, the carnage of splintered wood and crashings and screaming beasts would be "The crag!" a big, ragged-bearded lout, Duramagar, shouted from ahead, standing in his stirrups exultantly and waving a war-axe dangerously in one hand. "The crag!"
Shandril's wagon rumbled up over a rise and swept around a bend with its wheels shrieking and a snapped rein slashing across her face like a burning brand. In front of her, what could only be Face Crag loomed up out of the gathering dusk like a castle wall.
"hi there!" Shandril heard Orthil Voldovan roaring, from somewhere in the dust and racing wagons up ahead. "Get in there!"
From the fore, there were screams, wails, and crashings- the very things she'd been expecting since this ride had become a wild rout.
Someone had hit something, a wheel had collapsed, an axle had shattered-or a beast had simply stumbled and fallen, dragging its wagon over or down… but no! Crossbow bolts were humming out of the dust in an angry storm, and unfamiliar riders with thrusting lances and stabbing blades were wheeling and darting in the chaos ahead, too. They were under attack by foes who'd been waiting in the cleft!
"Thorst!" Shandril shouted, bending low over the drover. "Shall I-?"
"No!" he roared, thrusting an unloaded but still eloquent bowgun up at her face, his eyes wild. "No! I'll yell to ye, if-"
A wagon sideswiped their own in a sickening squealing of rending wood, as its wheels spun their way to torn and clawing oblivion along the ready-wagon's old and battered sides, shedding daggerlike splinters in all directions, and fell away behind, lurching over onto its side. A horse reared, hooves lashing the air. Another wagon smashed into it with a thud that made Shandril's jaw rattle, spraying the air with reins, tumbling men, and more splinters.
Their foes were racing past-those who weren't skewered or swept from their saddles by flying splinters-and a hostile lance missed Shandril but tore open Thorst's shoulder, spinning him around with a snarl of pain and sending their own reins up in a wild cloud.
Shandril snatched at them, grabbing her rail again just in time to avoid being plucked from her perch by the one rein she had managed to snag-then realized it was futile. The horses were screaming and plunging in terror, and she'd have to be stronger and heavier than they to haul back their heads and be noticed at all. They were on a wild ride that wouldn't end until they smashed into something, tipped over, or the horses calmed, fell, or faltered in exhaustion.
"Shandril!" Thorst shouted. "Help me!"
Ruined shoulder, jouncing ride, and all, the guard was still trying to get his bowgun loaded and aimed at something- and something else was banging against his knee: a full-sized crossbow that he'd unstrapped from its stowage but now lacked the strength to do anything with. Its windlass was clinking wildly in his lap as he struggled with his bowgun, teeth clenched in pain.
Shandril bent to help him and nearly pitched facefirst onto the churning hooves of the horses. Clawing at the perch and the rails and Thorst for support, she sat down hastily beside the drover.
There were shoulder-straps, she saw now-and not surprisingly, Thorst, like every other drover Shandril could remember seeing, disdained their use. Getting one arm through a strap, she threw her other around Thorst's shoulders and cradled him, steadying him as he gasped and whimpered and fought with the bow. Sweat was running down his pale face in streams, and his eyes stared around at the world wildly, barely seeing her.
A lancetip bit into wood right beside Thorst's head, and Shandril glimpsed the rider who'd put it there reeling in his saddle, letting go of his weapon to avoid being dragged from his mount as the snorting horse plunged past, tossing its head in fear.
Somewhere behind them, a man and a horse screamed in unison, raw and loud, as if each was trying to drown out the other.
"This is madness!" Shandril shouted to the wounded guard. "We've got to get the horses stopped, before we-"
Fire burst into being off to the left-Narm's doing? — and by its light the ready-wagon's horses saw the rugged stone wall of the cleft rising up in front of them, very near and growing nearer as each plunging hoof came down. They swerved away from the fire, almost spilling Thorst and Shandril from the perch and dragging a raw roar of pain from the drover that rose almost into a shriek as the wagon tipped alarmingly… then crashed back to earth with bone-numbing force.
Along the widening cleft and out into the gathering night the horses ran, the wagon rumbling more slowly and heavily now. It felt as if something had half-fallen from it and was being dragged. Perhaps that, or perhaps simply training and long habit, made the horses turn again to stay on the road rather than running across it to plunge into the trees.
They were past the cleft, and-as the horses swerved around a smashed and splintered wagon that had overturned, then been dragged until its harness broke and its beasts had fled-out beyond the fray, into the deepening night.
Cross
bow bolts came humming out of the trees at them. Thorst gasped as one smashed his fingers and drove his bowgun right out of his hand. Others slammed into the boards around him with loud thocking sounds.
Shandril crouched low and brought one hand up under her breasts to drive her collection of rusting armor plates up in front of her nose like a wall. She ducked her head just as a bolt shattered against the boards and showered her with its tumbling splinters.
Another glanced off the perch beside her boots and numbed her arm from fingertips to shoulder, and she heard one of the horses scream.
They were going to die here, shot down like cart-targets paraded slowly before archers, unless-unless she Shandril Shessair sprang to her feet and slashed out into the night with spellfire, scorching trees on one side of the road, then the other. A bolt speeding toward her exploded in flames, came snarling on-and fell away into ashes in the air right in front of her as she frantically poured flame at it.
Panting, she sent spellfire streaking the way it had come, wondering just when Toril would run out of men trying to slay her… and knowing the answer was: never.
Well, at least she could thin their ranks a bit. Flames kindling in her eyes, Shandril leaned low over the perch as the wagon slowed still more, and fed spellfire into the night.
Dark Deeds By Night
'Tis something no warrior ever forgets: that satisfying moment when your sword slides deep in.
Lyonar "Lightmane" Huntsilver,Forty Summers With Drawn Sword, Year of the Lion
Yelling a stream of obscenities that often dipped into repetitive nonsense, a brigand bounded out of the night onto the perch of a bouncing wagon in the heart of Voldovan's caravan. With a wordless roar of glee he slashed his sword viciously through the belly of a fat merchant who was still scrambling to his feet in a confusion of reins.
That belly parted like ripping cloth, leaving no blood or cry of pain in its wake-and the brigand barely had time to gape in astonishment ere the merchant whipped a long, slender dagger from somewhere under that slashed paunch-and drove it up under the outlaw's jaw, snatching the man's sword out of his hand even before he started to sag.
A solid kick sent the corpse plunging to one side to vanish under the wheels of the wagon-which promptly crashed and shuddered their way over him-and the merchant quickly sat down on the perch again, leaving his seized sword pinched in the slashed guts of his false belly, crosswise across his knees, ready to be hauled forth and used in an instant.
"Not so elegant a victory as the Dark Blade of Doom is famous for," the lone merchant murmured to himself, feeling behind him for the shield he'd found in the wagon earlier, "but 'twill do, for now. Must change this robe before someone sees me in good light, too."
Marlel shook his head, wondering how well the man he'd supplanted had been known by others along on this caravan… and therefore, how much of this disguise could quietly be dispensed with when this fray was over.
Another brigand spurred past, threw him a look, and turned with drawn sword and unlovely smile to greet the merchant properly. He slowed his horse to get within easy reach of the cowering man at the reins-and Marlel sprang up with perfect timing to put his new-won sword in the man's face, slashing across brow and nose to blind the man with his own blood.
Shrieking curses, the brigand fell away behind the rumbling wagon, and Marlel sat down again, humming a merry tune.
"Shan!" Narm snarled and suddenly ducked away from Narbuth, springing down from the wagon perch. The guard grabbed at the young mage but missed. With a curse he leaped off the wagon after Narm, leaving it unmanned and unsteered in the tumult.
"Shan, I'm coming!" Narm shouted, darting ahead into the chaos of plunging horses, hurled lances, and running, reeling men.
Narbuth wasted no breath on cries but put his head down and grimly sprinted after the younger, slimmer wizard, hoping to catch up with him ere he made his escape or blasted them all with his spells. Deadly young bastard! Storstil's slayer, too, no doubt!
Ahead of him, Narm turned his ankle, hopped with a cry of pain, stumbled, and almost fell. Narbuth made another grab for him-then Faerun was suddenly full of a rearing horse as big as all the sky and a whooping brigand leaning down from his saddle with a glittering blade sweeping nearer-nearer A bright blue magical radiance crackled from behind the brigand, and that sweeping sword tumbled past Narbuth harmlessly as the horseman threw back his head, flung up his arms, and fell from his saddle with a crash.
"Sorry," Narm panted. "I almost didn't see him in time- are you-?"
Narbuth growled, got both hands on the young mage's throat, and hauled him down to the ground by main strength. They were still there when rough hands tore them both apart and Orthil Voldovan and another of his guards glared down at them.
"Luckily, lad, I saw that," the caravan master growled, "so you'll live-for now,"
Something very cold and hard struck the side of Narm's head, and the last things he perceived, as everything swam and started to plummet, were Narbuth's grimacing face and Orthil's snarled words: "Tie his hands ere he wakes!"
Horsehair sizzled and stank right under her nose as stray spellfire licked along manes. The snorting horses made sounds very like a human's frightened sob and bolted.
Shandril sighed and wasted spellfire on a huge roiling cloud right in front of them that brought them to an abrupt, rearing halt-just long enough for her to snatch Thorst's nearest dagger out of its sheath and bring its point stabbing down on one tight-stretched harness strap.
Worn leather parted like damp parchment, leaving one file of horses nearly free. Side-straps and lead reins still held the two beasts to their fellows, but only one harness-root was still attached to the wagon. It slewed around sharply as those still-tethered horses tried to turn away from the, flames and run hard away.
A few crossbow bolts came leaping out of the flames roiling in the air around her, and one of them thudded into the flank of a horse. It shrieked, bucked, and tried to twist away from the sudden fire in its side. Shandril's world became a confusion of flying reins and frightened horses.
Snarling, she stood up and determinedly aimed spellfire down both sides of the road, as low among the tree trunks as she could, seeking to slay or drive away whoever was firing at her. Leaves melted away into ash, and charred branches crumbled and fell into dying flames.
There were shouts from the trees and a scrambling of men. Shandril hurled fire wherever she saw movement, her flames momentarily outlining men convulsed with pain and clawing at the air, ere they screamed and fell.
"Around!" she gasped in Thorst's ear. "We must turn the wagon around!"
"What?" he gasped faintly, clawing at reins that were no longer there, "have you no spells for that? You do fire well enough!"
Shandril growled wordless frustration at him and clung to the rail as the horses kicked and bucked, dragging the ready-wagon a little farther around to the left. The maid from Highmoon peered this way and that into the trees, but saw no more lurking men. As she risked leaning out of the wagon to look back at the cleft and the confusion of wagons and running men there, a horn called, close and loud, in the trees. It was promptly answered by another back down the road, on the far side of the crag.
Galloping hooves thudded briefly, receding back to the south, and a lot of the shouting suddenly stopped. No more lances or bolts came streaking through the air, and after all the screaming and clang of steel, things seemed very quiet. Here and there charred and smoking wood snapped as it cooled, men and horses groaned… and a distant torrent of words drew swiftly nearer.
It was Orthil Voldovan, still riding hard but now with three grim guards beside and behind him. His whip was doubled in one hand, and there was a long, notched and bright-scarred sword in the other.
"Nameless whoreson dogs of outlaws, to despoil and slaughter and snatch away the work and coin of hardworking folk! Pox and pestilence upon them, Talona's claws rake their vitals, Talos send them storms so they sleep not, and Beshaba make their ever
y adventure go awry, and their every chance be lost and ruined! Ho, fire witch! Hast left me any forest, ahead? Or a blaze to smoke us all out and send us fleeing for our skins back south into the toils of those carrion wolves?"
"Hail and well met, Orthil," Shandril said grimly, standing up on her perch. "We've a horse that took a bolt here! Can you do anything for it-talk it to sleep, perchance?"
One of the guards snorted back a guffaw, and the others visibly relaxed, one of them lowering a crossbow that Shandril hadn't even noticed.
"How's Thorst?" the caravan master barked.
"How's my Narm?"
"I asked ye a-he's fine, he's with Narbuth; we stopped him running through the battle to find ye. He'll be along soon. Now, how's Thorst?”
"Not good," Shandril told him. "Shoulder torn open one side, his hand the other… I guess I'm going to have to learn to be a drover, too."
"Ye just sit there, lass, for now," Voldovan growled. 'Tour fool of a husband made the same offer, and I'm almost tempted to pair the two of ye together-or would be, if I wanted to watch a wagon crash into every tree and ditch along the way!" He turned his head. "Mulgar, cut yon horse. out of the harness, and do what ye must to quiet it, one way or t'other. We're short, mind-cut it down only if 'tis too gone to save. Tarth, help him."
Thorst groaned and slumped against Shandril, and Voldovan promptly rode closer. "Report!" he snapped at the wounded man. Shandril gave him an angry glare. The caravan master gave it right back, leaning out of his saddle to thrust his chin close to hers, and better convey the full fury of his stare.
"I told her not to…" the drover gasped, blinking up at Orthil as if his eyes wouldn't work. "S-she tried to help… no treachery… tried to shield me…" His strength failed, and he turned his face into Shandril's side and went limp. She put a comforting arm around him, her eyes never leaving the caravan master's. There was no fear in her gaze, only something that might have been a challenge. Silence stretched between them for a long, deepening moment ere Voldovan stirred, lifting the hand that held the whip to point over Shandril's shoulder.
