" 'Slike being slapped with a burning brand," he gasped, falling into the rocking darkness atop Shandril. One of their horses promptly screamed.

"Gods!" the young mage spat, trying to turn. Shandril looked past him-in time to see Narbuth take a quarrel in the face. The drover's head exploded in a burst of blood and brains ere the force of the striking shaft snatched him off the wagon, out of sight.

Shandril's mouth tightened as she dragged Narm down to the floorboards, which promptly rapped them both hard on their chins as the wagon bounded over a particularly large pothole. "I can't burn down every tree between here and Waterdeep," she snapped, "and I don't dare try. Every time I call on my fire 'tis stronger, wilder… harder to control. Narm, what are we going to do?"

Her husband gave her a helpless smile. "Well," he said brightly, "uh…"

As so often happens to those who dally, Faerun decided things for them. There was a sudden chaos of meaty, wagon-shaking thuds, a horrible wet spraying sound, and their wagon suddenly tilted.

Shan wrapped herself around Narm with a little scream as the world turned upside down several times.

Wood was shrieking and splintering all around them as a lot of heavy things wreathed in scratchy hay fell on them, one after another, and the wagon rolled. The boards of the walls and floor shuddered, bulged, buckled, and twisted. There was a deafening crash that sent things flying or tumbling all over the shattered wagon, another unearthly scream… and silence.

Silence soon filled by shouts and wagon rumblings and more screams, punctuated by the hissing and humming of crossbow bolts very close by. Narm muttered something wordless and tried to shift himself from under his lady and seemingly dozens of coffers and haybales and other unidentified but sharp items.

Shandril clutched at him and hissed, "Lie still. For now we play dead and wait. Let someone else be hero-and crossbow target-for a change."

Narm opened his mouth to protest, stared into her fierce gaze, and nodded.

There were more loud and ground-shaking crashes. Drovers were dragged past spewing steady streams of heartfelt curses ere the rumblings of moving wagons died away. Voldovan's caravan was coming to a halt-right in the closing jaws of whichever wolves were firing all of those crossbows from the trees.

Narm heaved, trying to move from under something that was numbing his left leg. "Lie still!" Shandril snarled into his ear.

"Then get that chest or whatever it is off my foot," her husband snarled right back at her. "I'm all wet down that leg, too. Am I bleeding?"

Shan shifted atop him, twisting around, and he felt her hands running gently along his leg, exploring…

Someone crashed through branches and rustling leaves very close by, someone else followed, breathing heavily, and from farther off came the clang of sword on sword-fast, furious hacking that soon ended with a despairing cry and gurgling sounds.

The hum and zip of crossbow bolts slackened, and the crashings of running feet and singing of swords upon swords swiftly rose to an everpresent din on all sides of the upturned ready-wagon.

Narm felt the heavy thing pinning his ankle thrust aside and quickly pulled his foot away. Shandril crawled back up him again in the tumbled gloom, and murmured into his chest, "Just water. A cask split-'tis all wet, back there."

"What if someone puts a torch to all of this? We've got to-"

"We've got to lie still, love lord of mine. If flames do come, I can pull them into me and so both quench them and warm my spellfire. We're in what passes for a ditch, and by the sounds of it there are plenty of other crashed wagons. Now, quiet. We're dead, remember?"

"You make it hard to bear in mind," Narm told her with a smile, as Shan wormed her way into his arms and made herself comfortable. They lay together and listened to the sounds of men dying all around them.

"Whose wagon's this?" an unfamiliar voice gasped suddenly, startlingly close.

"Voldovan's-one of his ready-wagons. Hmmph! I guess the fire-witch wasn't such a world-searing menace after all."

'This was hers? Gods! Thender told us half Faerun is after her!"

"Not any more. Not unless they're the sort of crazed robe-wearers who hunt folk down after they're dead, to twist them into unlife to menace us all for an extra lingering lifetime or two! There's Voldovan-see? All the bolts'll be flying his way, now. Come on! Back to…"

The voice faded so swiftly that the sounds of frantically sprinting men drowned out the rest of the words.

Narm and Shandril had scarcely relaxed and started to breathe normally again when someone else, breathing hard, ran up and more or less fell into the far end of the wagon, where the chests and casks were tumbled into a wall of splintered, riven confusion. Someone else arrived almost on top of the hard-breathing man-who growled out an angry curse.

"Bones of the dead, Brasker, don't do that! I almost cut my hand off getting this blade around at you, to say nothing of what I would've done to you if I'd managed it!"

"Stop your whining," a heavier voice replied sourly. "They're putting quarrels through everything that moves out there… and in case you've failed to notice, those're the big ones! Hit by one of those, and you'll be greeting the gods straightaway, not lying around cursing that this wagon's somehow yours. As I recall, this was the one the spellfire wench was riding."

"Have you seen her, since this-?"

"No, and if one of those blackswords have killed her on us, Gorthrimmon's going to be less than pleased. Take her alive, he said, at all costs."

"What does the Cult want with one slip of a lass, anyway? So she knows a fire spell or two. Haven't we got mages enough already to fight Luskan to a standstill or scour out Darkhold if they're ever foolish enough to want to die screaming in spell-battle?"

"This spellfire, Holvan, is something special. It can cleave spells so fast it wipes the sneer off an archmage's face and makes him tremble! Whoever grabs it'll be able to slaughter the Red Wizards himself, chase the Blackstaff into hiding, and melt down old Elminster and the Seven Sisters, too!"

"Gods above," Holvan whispered. "So they expect us to take her?"

"No, they expect us to die trying-along with the other Followers we don't know about, who're also along on this caravan. As I see it, we'll do best to find out who the Zhents have sent along in these wagons and slit a few throats without getting caught at it! 'Tis going to end in spell-battle, see if it doesn't, and the fewer competitors around to hamper us of the Cult in taking her down, the better! I hear a Cult wizard called Lharass has found some ancient spell or other that can chain mages with their own magic! I wonder if this Shandril can be held by chains of her own spellfire?"

"I like the sound of this less and less," Holvan muttered. "Whatever happened to putting daggers in merchants' backs and taking their coins to the nearest Lord of the Cult, for him to gather and present to some dread wyrm, while we trot safely off and find us some more merchants?"

"The world changed, Holvan. It always does. I prefer the old simple ways, too, but somehow the rulers and flying wizards of the Realms forgot to ask my opinion. They always do."

"The bolts've stopped, Brasker; should we-?"

"Bide just a bit. I'd be less than pleased to offer myself as the only target still standing, if they're just lying low… no, there's Voldovan coming back, and he's talking to that fool Nargalarr, the pot-seller. It must be over. Back to our wagon!"

"Shouldn't we-?"

"No! Brigands love to fall back and wait for everyone to get into the road and start tramping around talking about their great valor and who got away from them-then rake all the chattering heroes with another volley. So we run fast and low from wagon to wagon back to our own, and nowhere else! If one of the guard wants to talk, he can do it running after us! Come on!"