chopped downward, a blow that would split Halthor’s fat, balding head right down the middle.
Stunningly quick for such a big man, Halthor raised his arms and interposed the sphere before Cale’s slash, still smiling. Cale’s enchanted sword rang off the quartz
and sound exploded in Cale’s ears, as loud as the braying of a thousand Cormyrean bass shawms. A shower of sparks flew from the sphere, raced up Cale’s blade, and danced around his arms. His hands went instantly numb. His sword fell from his grasp. A wave of concussive energy erupted outward from the sphere and blew him back toward the manse. He crashed into the doorjamb and sank to the floor with a groan.
The explosion knocked Halthor flat onto his back and drove him a full handbreadth into the ground. He recovered more quickly than Cale. As he sat up, he left the outline of his body imprinted in the soil.
Bleeding not only from his nose and mouth but also from his eyes and ears, Halthor still somehow wore a twisted smile. He got to all fours and crawled forward toward his teleportation rod.
The guards were coming, Cale knew, but would not get there in time. The explosion had knocked them to the ground as well. He struggled to get up. His legs would not respond. He fell to his side, helpless as a babe.
Halthor fumbled with the teleportation rod, still grinning like a jester.
“Halt!” shouted the house guards.
They had regained their feet. The concussive energy must not have affected them as severely. Crossbows twanged, and bolts stuck in the earth beside Halthor. He ignored them.
“Wondafa,” he managed to say to Cale through his broken mouth. “Wondafa.”
It took Cale a moment to understand: Wonderful, he had said. Dark! Who in the Hells were these people?
Seemingly satisfied with the setting on his teleportation rod, Halthor leered at Cale. He tried to raise the sphere as though it were a trophy but was too weak to lift it. To Cale, the sphere looked wrong, as though the explosion had left it misshapen, though Cale’s muddled brain did not quite register how. So instead of lifting it, Halthor settled for cradling it to his side. One more twist of the rod and he was gone.
Guards rushed forward moments later. Voices filled Cale’s ears but he could not distinguish words. He stared at the ground near where Halthor had fallen. He stared for a long while, trying to focus on what lay there. When it finally registered, when he finally understood what it was, he began to laugh.
The guards helping him to his feet shot him perplexed looks. Cale did not bother to explain.
Wonderful indeed, he thought and laughed still more.
The sphere had not been misshapen, and Halthor, the fat dolt, had not teleported out with it. He had teleported out with only half of it. Cale’s blade had split it cleanly down the middle, exactly what he had intended to do to Halthor’s skull. The other half lay in the grass, inert.
They’d be after it, Cale knew. And next time, he would be ready.
CHAPTER 6
Aftermath
The fire in the great hearth crackled angrily, mirroring Vraggen’s mood. In his barely controlled rage, shadows clotted around his head and fingertips. His pulse thumped in his temples. He had expected to be on his way to the Dragon Coast.
He took a few moments before speaking, to get his anger under control.
On the other side of the reception room Azriim reclined on a velvet upholstered divan. For their base of operations, the half-drow had leased a luxurious villa on the north side of Selgaunt. The noble family who owned it had decided to remove to the country early that year. Either that or Azriim had murdered them. Vraggen didn’t care which, though he would have been just as happy with an inconspicuous flat in the warehouse district. Azriim, of course, would have none of that. The half-drow required his luxuries.
Already Azriim had changed out of the clothing that had been ruined in the fighting outside the Black Stag. He wore a pale green
Stunningly quick for such a big man, Halthor raised his arms and interposed the sphere before Cale’s slash, still smiling. Cale’s enchanted sword rang off the quartz
and sound exploded in Cale’s ears, as loud as the braying of a thousand Cormyrean bass shawms. A shower of sparks flew from the sphere, raced up Cale’s blade, and danced around his arms. His hands went instantly numb. His sword fell from his grasp. A wave of concussive energy erupted outward from the sphere and blew him back toward the manse. He crashed into the doorjamb and sank to the floor with a groan.
The explosion knocked Halthor flat onto his back and drove him a full handbreadth into the ground. He recovered more quickly than Cale. As he sat up, he left the outline of his body imprinted in the soil.
Bleeding not only from his nose and mouth but also from his eyes and ears, Halthor still somehow wore a twisted smile. He got to all fours and crawled forward toward his teleportation rod.
The guards were coming, Cale knew, but would not get there in time. The explosion had knocked them to the ground as well. He struggled to get up. His legs would not respond. He fell to his side, helpless as a babe.
Halthor fumbled with the teleportation rod, still grinning like a jester.
“Halt!” shouted the house guards.
They had regained their feet. The concussive energy must not have affected them as severely. Crossbows twanged, and bolts stuck in the earth beside Halthor. He ignored them.
“Wondafa,” he managed to say to Cale through his broken mouth. “Wondafa.”
It took Cale a moment to understand: Wonderful, he had said. Dark! Who in the Hells were these people?
Seemingly satisfied with the setting on his teleportation rod, Halthor leered at Cale. He tried to raise the sphere as though it were a trophy but was too weak to lift it. To Cale, the sphere looked wrong, as though the explosion had left it misshapen, though Cale’s muddled brain did not quite register how. So instead of lifting it, Halthor settled for cradling it to his side. One more twist of the rod and he was gone.
Guards rushed forward moments later. Voices filled Cale’s ears but he could not distinguish words. He stared at the ground near where Halthor had fallen. He stared for a long while, trying to focus on what lay there. When it finally registered, when he finally understood what it was, he began to laugh.
The guards helping him to his feet shot him perplexed looks. Cale did not bother to explain.
Wonderful indeed, he thought and laughed still more.
The sphere had not been misshapen, and Halthor, the fat dolt, had not teleported out with it. He had teleported out with only half of it. Cale’s blade had split it cleanly down the middle, exactly what he had intended to do to Halthor’s skull. The other half lay in the grass, inert.
They’d be after it, Cale knew. And next time, he would be ready.
CHAPTER 6
Aftermath
The fire in the great hearth crackled angrily, mirroring Vraggen’s mood. In his barely controlled rage, shadows clotted around his head and fingertips. His pulse thumped in his temples. He had expected to be on his way to the Dragon Coast.
He took a few moments before speaking, to get his anger under control.
On the other side of the reception room Azriim reclined on a velvet upholstered divan. For their base of operations, the half-drow had leased a luxurious villa on the north side of Selgaunt. The noble family who owned it had decided to remove to the country early that year. Either that or Azriim had murdered them. Vraggen didn’t care which, though he would have been just as happy with an inconspicuous flat in the warehouse district. Azriim, of course, would have none of that. The half-drow required his luxuries.
Already Azriim had changed out of the clothing that had been ruined in the fighting outside the Black Stag. He wore a pale green
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