Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  7

  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 Faerûn 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 every 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. “Your 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.

  “In the wagon behind ye,” Orthil growled at the maid of Highmoon, “seek ye three sorts of coffers with flasks painted on them. Yellow flask holds spoiled wine to wash clean wounds, fingerpots of sap to seal them where scarring doesn’t matter, and old cloth to bind them. Red flask is merenthe to bring sleep whate’er the pain—but be sure folk swallow it and don’t choke on it! Blue flask is painquench, but ’tis what’s called ‘dreamhappy,’ mind: It leaves folk clumsy and slow-witted, not to be trusted with knives, beasts, or firetending. See to Thorst, and I’ll send for ye when our search is done.”

  “Search?”

  Not bothering to answer her, the caravan master turned his head and bellowed, “Arauntar! Beldimarr!”

  Swift hoofbeats were his answer, and in a matter of moments the two guards galloped up to him, armor askew and bloody swords in hand. Beldimarr had lost his helm and was bleeding from a cut across his forehead, but both men were grinning fiercely.

  “We drove ’em off, Orthil!”

  “I slew three!”

  “Very nice,” the caravan master said crushingly. “Ye two come with me now. We leave Sarlor, Tarth, and Mulgar here, to watch the wench and the woods, in case they come back again. Starting with this ready-wagon, we search every last conveyance down the line to see who’s survived and if anyone’s lurking. All undamaged wagons and unhurt folk, into the cleft. Call Varlamar to light yon braziers, and get Horlo an—”

  “Horlo’s dead,” Arauntar said bluntly.

  “Belmurl?”

  “He’s dead, too … or will be, by the time we get back to him.”

  Voldovan shook his head and pointed grimly at the ready-wagon. “Search it, and let’s be going. Found any of those coffers yet, wench?”

  “Easy, there,” Arauntar growled. “She didn’t attack our caravan.”

  “No, but she may well be why we were attacked,” Orthil Voldovan said grimly. “I’d feed her and her lad merenthe and tie them to a tree together right now, if I thought there was some way of telling all Toril we’d left her behind and having them believe us. There isn’t, so I’ll use her fire magic instead … but look ye, Shandril Shessair: I have my eye on ye, and if ye set one foot down wrong, it’ll be the swift sword or the bow for ye, and we’ll see if all thy precious fire will save ye from the grave!”

  Guards stared nervously at Shandril, where she knelt on the perch frozen in a sideways twist, half inside the wagon-curtain and half out, looking at the caravan master.

  Beldimarr licked his lips. “Uh, Master, be this talk—wise?”

  “Wisdom is something I’ve never had and never found a need for,” Orthil told him curtly. “I run caravans, remember?”

  No one laughed at the savage jest. Into the little silence that followed Shandril said calmly, “I’ve not found your marked coffers yet, Orthil, but I will. Send for me when you need me.”

  Her level tone made the guards relax visibly. Both of the Harpers nodded approvingly and almost imperceptibly.

  Orthil also gave her a nod, still glowering, and wheeled his mount. He pointed at Arauntar, then at Beldimarr, and then at Shandril’s wagon in silent reminder ere he spurred his wearily foaming horse to the next upright wagon and roared at the night, “Varlamar! Torches in those braziers, for the love of all the gods!”

  Arauntar and Beldimarr rode up to Shandril with muttered growls of “Sorry, lass,” and swung down from their horses, handing her the reins.

  As they shouldered past her into the gloom, bloody swords first, she murmured, “Show me what to do for Thorst, will you?”

  Thoadrin of the Cult reined in under the dead dusk-wood tree, looked around the half-seen circle of men who’d already gathered there, and then glanced back down the road. The moon was rising; he could see the distant prow of Face Crag against the sky, and the kindlings of many tiny flames thereabouts. “Report,” he ordered, not bothering to keep the smile off his face. “Curthryn, you first.”

  “We lost Jaskel, and I think Murbryn. Others, too. The Dark Blade of Doom yet lives. He’s posing as the blandreth-dealer in the maroon wagon with the yellow star on its side.”

  “Leave him for now,” Thoadrin said. “There’ll be plenty of time for a slaying to befall him later, if his next attempt to capture the lass fails. Enough of losses; what gains?”

  “Three guards, and as many fat, shrieking merchants, or more.”

  “I slew one, and four merchants. One of them crashed his wagon,” another Cult warrior said eagerly.

  “I wounded a guard and two merchants—one should die soon,” put in a third.

  The reports continued, brief and unboasting. Thoadrin smiled in the darkness, well pleased.

  He said as much to his men before asking if any of them were hurt. This had been a good harrying. He’d called them off the moment things started to turn against the Cult blades, when most of their lances and bolts were gone and the caravan guards had gotten over their shock and were seeking to strike back.

  Let them wait, and lose sleep for another night where no attack would come. Untrammeled by wagons, Thoadrin’s band could take the Two Pools overland trail, probably buy more bolts from the traders at Dowan Pool, and be waiting for Voldovan’s caravan two nights hence to do it all again. Yes, it had been a good harrying.

  There was plenty of time yet for the caravan to be stripped down to one spellfire-wielding wench, frightened and alone, trying to race a wagon to Waterdeep ere her wounded man, lying in the back, died of his wounds.

  Thoadrin’s smile broadened. Yes, his men were good enough to bring things to that.

  The first needle broke, but Marlel wasted no time on curses. His left boot always carried three needles and goodly lengths of thread and stout waxed cord. The latter would do for this quick stitching, to gather the gaping lips of the slashed false belly together under a hastily donned new robe from Olimer’s best chest. He slashed off the trailing end of cord, let the robe fall back into place, and stowed the needle back in his boot just as the heavy boots of Voldovan’s trained hounds landed upon the perch outside the curtain.

  Marlel turned, blinking, as the curtain was roughly plucked back and the brute Beldimarr thrust a lantern inside, with the tip of his drawn sword glimmering beside it. A second grizzled veteran guard—Arauntar, that was the name, as much a lout as his sword-companion—brandished another ready blade a pace back, his eyes leaping here and there across the interior of Haransau Olimer’s Best Blandreths wagon.

  “How fare ye?” Arauntar asked bluntly. “Hurts? Goods damage? We’ve orders to search every wagon.”

  Haransau Olimer waved an airy hand. “I live, unscathed by the grace of Tymora, and so am at peace with Faerûn—so long as ye guard me well when I must sleep, as must soon befall. Wherefore search away, my bold protectors—search diligently, and the watching gods shrewdly guide thee!”

  “All right, all right,” Beldimarr muttered. “Yer enthusiasm grates n
igh as much as it overwhelms. Just stand aside for a trice, and we’ll—anything, Raunt?”

  Arauntar was wading gingerly among hoop-topped open chests of cargo. “Blandreths look all too much like crouching men in armor,” he growled back. “Good merchant, tell me: Why d’ye carry these pots uncovered? Strikes me they’ll rust!” Warily he thrust his blade close to one suspicious-looking heap and stirred it with his hand.

  Haransau Olimer smiled. “Ah, good warrior, ’tis precisely ’gainst rust that my best pots travel bared to the world—when the air can reach them, they rust not! A good blandreth, know you, must be special, lest the coals or fires its three feet stand in scorch it and ruin what cooks within it!”

  “I thought blandreths hung above fires on chains—from tripods, like we see in camps,” Beldimarr rumbled, his eyes never leaving the cautiously stalking figure of Arauntar.

  “Ah, good warrior, those cauldrons of the tripods are ‘great blandreths.’ My beauties stand right in thy coals or thy fire but are raised on their legs above the burning!” The merchant spread his hands. “Would you like to buy one? They’re just the thing for warriors who must dine by night over fires and move on again with the new day!

  Why, I believe—”

  “I believe there’re no lurking brigands here, and we’ve more than a score of other wagons still to check,” Arauntar growled. “Another time, perhaps, Olimer. Oh, mind out: The three pots in that corner are a-crawl with rust. I’d cover these chests at dewfall, if yer wagonflaps are open.”

  The blandreth-dealer gave him a sickly smile. “I thank you,” he said with a little bow. “I—I’ll bear that in mind.”

  Arauntar gave him a cheery wave and swung down from the wagon. The other guard straightened slowly with the lantern in his hand, his eyes never leaving the face of the merchant.