Seen in Carnelian
SSt. 858 , Athk. Fae. Contents: Blank. Status: Sold Buyer: Sand of Neverwinter
Twenty mages. Blue robes. Academy students. Aged from young to very young to embryonic. They had set expressions. Dangerous. Not here to talk.
I threw myself behind Casavir. The paladin raised his shield, which suddenly seemed ridiculously small. Already I could hear a sequence of pops like the sound of minnows mouthing at the surface of a pool. Their defences were going up.
I started on my own enchantment. Stoneskin. No point in thinking strategy. Just survival. I hadn't survived the Host Tower to be annihilated by a gang of underachieving spoiled brats.
"You're dead, Qara!" one of the brats shouted. I enjoyed a surge of hope, as grey scales climbed up my skin from the tips of my fingers to my torso and head. So they were here for the girl. Good. Let them have her.
Then the first fireball struck. It broke harmlessly against me. The glare receded, turned grey, rose up again in an orange and black flare. And again. In front of me, Casavir stumbled.
How far was I from the door to the Sunken Flagon? Ten paces? Too far. Too far for now. I needed more protection. Settled on a defence against fire spell. These children would be predictable. They all would think the same way. Go for the magic that's big and dramatic and makes a terrifying whooshing noise. There are more subtle, more effective ways to win a mage fight, but they wouldn't be able to wrap their aristocratic little brains around that idea.
One defence completed, then the next. No time to think about turning the tables.
Casavir was charging, curse him. Hammer readied to swing, shoulders set. He was supposed to stand still and catch the fireballs meant for me.
I delved into a pocket – upper right hand, force open the mouth of the leather purse within, then quickly out again – and threw a sprinkling of ground feverfew on the ground. Blue light gathered round me. One spell closer to life.
I shot a look to my left. Qara wasn't dead yet, to my surprise. Smouldering somewhat, but on her feet, casting. Luckily for her she had Shandra in her bright new chain mail hauberk to take the brunt of the attack. The thing must have been created more from enchantment than metal, since its wearer was unharmed, already rushing upon the daughter of Johcris, Glina.
A fire arrow bounced off my shields. I longed to dash back to the Sunken Flagon. It would be easy to explain it to them later – not as cowardice, as strategy. Thick walls. Reinforcements. Defensible position. That kind of line. But I couldn't risk turning my back on the enemy.
I ducked as a green cloud of something flew over my head. Three beats later, and I heard it impact against the wall of the Flagon. No, it was too far away for shelter.
Another fireball broke near me. This time, I felt the heat.
I had two wands on me. The first was strapped to my side. In the horror and the heat – the terrible heat – I couldn't recall its effect. I simply pointed it at the tallest of the students, and hoped that I'd somehow picked up a device that would cause instant death or dismemberment or both. I was disappointed, but not badly. An enormous bear from the white peaks of the Spine of the World sprang into existence in the centre of the cobbled old street, between the site of the twice-monthly fruit market and my own establishment. It looked puzzled. Then angry. Then it lunged at the tall young man, surely one of the ring-leaders, its jaws wide and dripping saliva.
No time to savour the look of panic on his face. I went straight for the next baton. Domination. I had been saving this for a special occasion, and this one would do perfectly. No use targeting a leader again. Their wards and training would be too likely to shrug off an attempt to magically influence them.
I spotted an outlier, a fat little student of indeterminate race and sex. Seeing it already wavering, I aimed the wand and cast. From the instant change in the student's posture, I could appreciate my success. The back straightened, the head snapped in my direction.
"Frawardijaną," I commanded, and pointed at Glina. My new pawn drew a dagger from its belt, and threw itself with a violent single-minded energy onto the girl's back, bringing its arm around to strike. So the compulsory physical education classes insisted on by the principal were useful after all, I thought, remembering my brief sojourn at the Academy, shaping the next generation of Neverwinter's youth. There was an almost epicurean pleasure to be got now from watching it tear itself apart. Ah, the humble joys of former teachers.
For the first time since the long semi-circle of mages had stepped out of the docks' half-light, I thought I might live to see another morning.
A cold drop landed on my nose. I started. Began to cycle through all the offensive spells I knew based on the force of cold. Ice storm? No. Freezing grip? No. Sleet storm? No.
I looked up, saw the pregnant clouds stretched overhead, lying low over the roofs of the town in mild grey billows. A snowflake landed on my forehead. So. It was snowing in Neverwinter.
Another flake landed on my wrist. On my flesh-pink wrist. Curse it. Curse it. Curse it.
Too close for comfort, a fork of summoned lightning cracked the surface of the street. Cobbles and pieces of cobble went flying, too fast to dodge. One chip ripped through my sleeve. Another scraped the side of my jaw. I raised my fingers to the affected spot, and brought them down wet. Whether with snow or blood, I didn't look to discover the cause.
Casavir fell to his knees. His helmet was dented, his shield brown and smoking. The smell of smoke was everywhere. Shandra was still fighting, taking on four mages at once, swinging her sickle in long arcs. Without support from Casavir, she wouldn't last long. There were just too many enemies. Easily quashed individually, as a pack they were nigh on undefeatable as long as their morale held.
I needed another protection spell. Or just protection. Shelter. I turned to look back at the Sunken Flagon. Saw the door opening, and allies stream out. Khelgar. Both Farlongs. Bishop. Neeshka. Elanee.
"Stay back!" Qara had seen them too. "I'll finish this. Shandra, get the paladin and get out of my way."
Shandra drew Casavir's arm around her shoulder, and together they staggered as far as the eaves of the Flagon. I looked at Qara, assessed my position, and took several steps back.
"Qara, don't -" I heard the beginning of a command from the younger Farlong. The end was lost in the roar of fire. It was as if every stone in the road was a piece of coal. The street was bleeding flames.
I jumped even further back. Hoped my fire defences were sufficient. Hoped my shop's defences were sufficient.
The blaze covered the whole junction, from my tavern, to my shop, to the edge of the wharves, to the old marble bases of Nasher's plaster statues, made on the cheap to replace the old bronzes lost in the war with Luskan. In the middle of the flames, I could see figures leaping and dancing.
An blast of air smelling of salt-peter – sharp, metallic, astringent – swept in from the estuary. No chance to resist, to grab hold of anything. There was no anything to be grabbed. The wind knocked me to the floor as lightly as I I had been woven from spider's silk. Lying on my back, stunned, I felt only relief that the spell had absolved me from the responsibility of taking further part in the battle.
Or massacre.
When I craned my head up to see what was happening, there were no more dancing figures in the flames, now blown to a still greater ferocity and power by the arcane winds. They crackled higher than the tallest chimneys, and spat indifferently as the snowflakes landed on them in soft white sparks.
Thunder rolled once overhead. Twice. Three times. I muttered my last protection spell.
And then it was all over. The wind ceased to blow, the fires vanished, and in front of me there was only a mess of broken cobble stones, smoking earth, and bits and pieces of blackness sizzling under the ever thicker shower of flakes, coming down in flickering waves, like the rain of ash in the morning before a volcano ruptures its vents and breaks through the mountainside.
I stood up cautiously. Scanned the area.
Four from the score of students we had faced managed to scramble to their feet. Three ran away immediately, fleeing towards the Black Lake District when they realized what had become of their friends. But the last one actually rolled back his sleeves and began to weave a spell. The idiocy was unbelievable. The boy was surely an adventurer in the making.
Lila Farlong picked up what looked to be a large smouldering rock and lobbed it at him. It missed, landing near his boots with a bony crack, and smashing into dozens of charred fragments. That was enough; either his courage deserted him, or sanity returned, or he discovered an urgent need to find a latrine. Whatever the motive, he cried out once in horror and followed his colleagues' example of rapid retreat.
Farlong dropped to her knees and retched. I could understand the impulse. The smell was appalling. I undid my scarf, put a few heads of dried lavender in it, flicking away the snowflakes
that had adhered to the blue felt, and tied it over my mouth and nose. A definite improvement. The aftermath of a magical battle is usually a discomforting experience for the senses.
Casavir and Elanee started walking together through the wreckage, perhaps looking for injured. They would be out of luck. Most of their intended patients were being trodden into the ground under their feet.
I had nothing more to do there, and made my way to my shop to check for damage. My jaw was stinging now. I wanted to get to a mirror and ascertain that my face was more or less intact.
"Please – please don't kill me." I followed the voice downwards. It was the tall young man whom I'd set my summoned bear on. Not so tall now. His legs stuck out from his body at a strange angle, black and useless. He was supporting himself against the west wall of my shop with his hands. His face was white and twisted.
"Dear boy," I said through the scarf, counting on my excellent diction to be understood, "I never attacked you."
"M-master Sand?"
I looked more closely at him. Yes, now I saw it. A boy with a squeaky voice that had seemed to spend half the lesson running his fingers through his long hair. "Praven, isn't it?"
"Help – h-h-help." One of my last students at the Academy. Reasonably bright. Pity. Still, perhaps in his legless future he might learn to apply himself. He wouldn't be running after any girls. By the look of him, he would be highly fortunate if he managed to beget heirs in the time-honoured fashion.
I pulled down my mask a little, and regretted it. It is a terrible thing to consider what an ex-pupil might taste like with béchamel sauce on a bed of watercress and spring onion.
He whimpered.
"I'll see if I can find you a healing potion, and an anaesthetic. Wait here." As if the foolish boy could go skipping away on his burnt matchstick shanks.
I hurried to the shop door, and let myself in. Everything was in its usual order, thankfully. No fires, no jars shattered on the floor. Good. I fished my medical case out from beneath the counter, ran back to the door, remembered that I had a new delivery of gauze bandages, ran to the cupboard for uncatalogued stock, snatched the bandages and, on second thought, added a large jar of myrtle salve, and trotted back to the door, careful not to drop any of my load.
As I locked the door behind me, a patrol of watchmen jogged past, Cormick in the lead. I ignored them. The Farlongs or Casavir would talk them round to their perspective, and the evidence supported them. Gangs of apprentice mages didn't go ambling through the docks district to take advantage of the fresh air. No doubt some of them already had records.
Returning to the young man's side, I found him slumped in the same position I'd left him in. He was very still. Probably fainted from the pain and shock.
"Praven?" I bent down and brushed a few strands of hair from his brow. "Praven?"
I put my fingers on his carotid artery. No pulse. There was blood on his robe in the area of the stomach that I hadn't noticed before.
The medical case was heavy. My arms suddenly twinged painfully. Leaving it on the ground, I straightened, rubbed a muscle that was twitching near my collar bone. "Well, that's that, then," I murmured to myself.
I wandered back to the group of my current associates: Farlong junior, as expected, talking rapidly with much excited gesticulation to Cormick; her friends behind her, supporting her testimony with their own.
Qara was standing apart. She didn't seem to care that she might be in danger of being carried off to prison for mass murder. As I came closer, I saw that she was talking to the corpse of a student, which was badly burned all along the side that had been closest to the fire.
"You shouldn't have attacked me, Glina. Why did you make me do it?" The sorceress's head was down. There was more softness in her voice than I had thought it capable of. She sounded almost sad. "You know now," she continued. "You can't beat me. I'm better than you."
The corpse shuddered. The mouth opened and closed without any noise escaping from the burnt lips. Glina was clinging on to life, more resolutely than Praven had done. Qara disregarded the movement. Instead she turned and stared at me dreamily.
"You needed to hear that too," she said. "Look. Here's your Academy. Here's your book learning." And the daughter of the Academy's principal gestured at the bleeding body of the daughter of the Academy's head of discipline. The next weekly staff meeting was going to be interesting. What I wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall in that particular chamber.
I was about to point out that her symbolism was flawed, since Glina, like Qara, had been expelled some time ago, and was hardly a paragon of scholarly diligence, when Master Johcris himself appeared on the scene. A teleportation spell. I would never have thought he had it in him. He was an unremarkable mage and an indifferent teacher.
His flat face for once shifted out of the doughy neutral registers in which it was accustomed to dwell. "Glina? Oh gods. Glina!"
However numerous his faults as a magic user, he hadn't deserved this. Or he probably hadn't. It never surprised me to find out that a pillar of society had a past less resistant to scrutiny than their worthy and respectable present.
His daughter raised her undamaged hand to him in mute appeal.
"She was asking for it," said Qara, traces of the old heat returning to her voice.
"Get away from her," snapped Johcris. "Get away from her now. You will pay for what you've done to her."
"Oh yes?" Qara laughed. She bared her palm in preparation for her next spell. Then she swayed, staggered, fell backwards.
In the short period of her descent, I considered trying to catch her. But for all that she lacked in height, she was a solidly built young human. Her weight could squash me. Besides, I might need my arms free to stop Johcris from following through on his threat. If I wanted to stop him.
She landed on her side, not moving. Apparently she had discovered her limits, and dreadful ones they were.
Johcris's fingers whitened around the mage staff he habitually carried.
"She'll pay," he said, addressing himself to the falling snow.
"Yes, she will. Not today, however." Mentioning that the destruction would not have happened if his daughter had more than the smallest pinch of common sense didn't feel like the most tactful thing to say at that moment. And could well have resulted in fried moon-elf giblets being the hors d'oeuvre at the Academy's dinner table that night. "Now is not the appropriate time."
Jocris made no reply. His mind seemed to have shut down. He looked first at his daughter, then at Qara.
"The priests from the Temple of Tyr are here at last!" I waved them over, thankful that the tête-à-tête with the dead-eyed Jocris could end. The three armoured disciples shook their heads over Glina, and set about their work.
Already, the snow was sticking to the rubble, and to the blackened shapes spread-eagled in the midst of the rubble. I left Qara lying where she'd fallen as snow-flakes collected on her robes and hair. They didn't stay on her face. Even unconscious, they seemed to sense a force antithetical to their own nature reposing there.
Beyond the zone of conflict, the snow had formed a thick blanket. Typical. You move to a city called Neverwinter in the hope of a decent climate, and within the first quarter century there's a blizzard. My feet were creating imprints nearly two inches deep. Wild elves were said to be able to run across the surface of a snow drift, and leave no trace of their passing. That must be because they were illiterate simpletons who had never read about gravity.
Icy water trickled over the rim of my boots, getting as far as the soles. Ugh.
I took care not to look at the corpse of Praven as I walked to my shop door. The priests would arrange everything. Once inside, I shut the door firmly, locked it, and drew the bolts home.