Miklos pinged the wand at her.
Fyodoryll had no idea what mystical power lay in that dark wand, and it concerned her. The last thing she expected was for it to be thrown through the air and knock her in the head. It distracted her just long enough for Miklos to launch his own counterspell. He tried to beat her to the last syllable, but the elf beat him by a fraction. The mage’s spell fizzled as the command word stuck in his mouth. After using the spell successfully so many times, Miklos was now the victim of the slumber enchantment. A few choice, smart retorts occurred to him as he slumped to the ground, too tired to speak.
Fyodoryll was concerned that her sleep spell did not effect the others. Still, five against three were not bad odds.
“Get ready chaps.” said Maruc, “This is going to hurt.” Maruc wildly glanced around. Feldard on the two left hand merc’s, Stephan on the elf, That leaves two mercs fo him. What Fun.
Too clueless to realize the voice was a ploy, Feldard was taking advantage of the wagons cover. He set down his axe and took a moment to pull his crossbow and load a bolt. Peering from around the edge wagon, the dwarf fired at one of the approaching henchmen.
With another close on the firsts heels, Feldard retrieved his axe and prepared for melee.
Maruc ducked the first swing but the tall scar-faced merc on the right. The shorter blonde man’s blade rode up his shield flicked off the top lip and caught cleric’s helm. Maruc dived to the right putting the two men between him and the elf. He jabbed the edge of the shield into scarface’s knee forcing him back giving Maruc time to pivot out of the way of the shorter mans murderous thrust. These guys were good. Better than the goblins, who were all lust and blood.
But Maruc had one advantage. And it was a big one.
He had God.
Laughter peeled from his lips as he soaked up one of the bandit’s attacks. Then he cried, “Halav! Guide my hands!” and the flail became as light as a stick it circled a weaved entrapping blades an unbalencing scarface who stumbled. He flicked the round the edge of the blond man’s shield mashing his elbow. Then the blonde man shirked off the injury and bore Maruc back with a series of overhand blows that sent enamel flakes of shield paint flying. The tall man had picked himself up and launched back into the fray, Maruc’s fresh blood dripping from his sword.
As soon as Stephan realized the elf’s ploy—covering the mouth to hide magics, indeed!—Stephan charged toward her. He was too late to help Miklos, nevertheless he lunged with his sword at her. His aim was not solely to wound but to first and foremost foil any more spellcasting.
On seeing his companions engaged in pitched battle, Hasan sprinted forward, hoping to avoid further lethal force in this encounter. Taking advantage of the elf’s focus on her spellcasting and Stephan, Hasan was able to approach within range. He unleashed a sticky web and tried to ensnare the horsetrader. He wouldn’t be unhappy, he realized, if the two traders were trapped together. Birds of a feather, after all.
Stephan out of the corner of his eye, Stephan saw his elven ally approach. Before he could react, he and Fyodoryll were covered in a mess of sticky strands.
“Soldiers-put down you weapons!” Hasan’s voice swelled with unusual auithority. “Fyodoryll is down. Mercy will be shown, and payment may still be earned, but lower your swords!”
The four mercenaries, seeing their leader and paymaster entangled and controlled, swiftly diagnosed the situation. First one, then all four sheathed their blades. One whose short-cropped hair could not disguise his balding pate wore a jagged scar across his face that reminded Hasan a bit of Nicolai. “I be Igor, and these be Ivan, Sergei and Vladimir. What say you?”
Hasan brushed off the man with a single finger to the man, casually, disdainfully, and approached the mess of magical cords that encompassed Fyodoryll and Stephan. The two continued to tussle about, shouting at every turn about brands and hindquarters and hoofs and such. “Enough!” The elf thundered to his maximum extent. Maruc and Feldard suppressed guffaws at the elf’s efforts to assert command, but the war of words in the web slowed nonetheless. “Enough, I say! Fyodyrll, the horses of the Susikyn are forfeit. But come now with us and pursue those who sold you these great steeds. Come now and you may yet earn some to sell at Rifflian. Come now, else we shall turn ye loose, penniless and humbled, in the Dymrak.”
“It’s a trick!” yelled Fyodoryll.
The four men looked at each other briefly. One made the first move—he turned and ran toward the forest. The others immediately followed suit, sprinting in four different directions.