Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  The response was a slow, sneering introduction of a steel war-axe from behind the giant’s back. Sharantyr eyed its wooden haft as he hefted it to the accompaniment of a deep, sinister chuckle, decided she didn’t want to have bones broken at every blow, and strode nonchalantly into the room, fluffing out her hair like an exasperated courtier. He frowned at her in puzzlement, then swept his axe up and back for a slaughterhouse swing. Sharantyr launched herself at the floor between and behind his legs in a desperate dive that carried her between his tree trunk legs.

  The passage floor was cold, damp, and hard, and she wallowed on it for far too long, fighting for breath and kicking frantically. His boot-heel helped her, crashing into her behind with bruising force as he tried to turn.

  The impediment shook his ponderous balance, and the armored giant windmilled with his arms, caught his axe on the doorframe and so avoided falling. He managed to get himself turned around in time to greet one of the stones of Sharantyr’s hard-swung maiden with his nose.

  He bellowed with pain as his nose broke—probably for the fourteenth or fifteenth time, by the looks of it—and blood streamed forth. The other stone temporarily blinded him and sent him hopping and howling in pain, clutching at his broken browbone and bruised eye and cheek. The axe clattered to the floor, and Sharantyr booted it as hard as she could, sending it skittering only a few feet. Dazedly the guard tried to reclaim it, snatching twice at flagstones close to it. His second attempt brought his bull-thick neck within easy reach of Sharantyr’s cord.

  She garroted him in a single, catlike pounce and held on grimly through the frantic struggles that followed. Thrice he battered her against the passage walls, trying to dislodge this creature clinging to his head and clawing at his eyes as he gulped and choked and sobbed for air that he could not get … ere he crashed to the flagstones and left her to stagger clear of him, wincing.

  She’d loosed her cord the moment he’d started to fall, and he lived still. Sharantyr’s own gasps for breath almost drowned out a faint gasp from behind one of the closed doors—but she heard it, looped her cord about its handle in a trice, and hauled it open.

  A slender figure was whirling away from her to flee down a passage beyond; Sharantyr threw her stonemaiden at his ankles and plunged after him. Thus she was in just the right spot, when his running feet faltered and he fell, to punch the lurking spy in the face, grab his head in both hands, and bang it repeatedly on the passage floor.

  The man wore three daggers strapped to him, and at least one of them was smeared with something Sharantyr didn’t like the looks of. She claimed them all, sheaths and straps, and was pleased to learn that they had black wooden hilts and leather-wrapped grips, so the magic on her wouldn’t force her to just drop them the moment she drew them.

  Wearing her newfound armory on her forearms and inside her left boot, the Knight of Myth Drannor trotted down the passage the spy had been in. She was unsurprised to find that it turned the same way as the visible one the armored giant had been guarding, and ended in a door with a spyhole in it.

  The room beyond was large and cavernous and almost empty. In one corner stood two lamps, flanking a large old wooden desk heaped with parchments and ledgers. A mountain of a man sat behind it, peering and writing. His eyes were pale, thoughtful things, sunk deep like those of a hound above jowls that would have served many a Dales laborer as a meal.

  Sharantyr watched him for a moment, then shifted to look through the spyhole in other directions. A lot of the room—along the wall nearest to her—she couldn’t see, but the rest of it seemed empty, so she reached out and calmly opened the door.

  The man looked up and quickly acquired a sharp look of surprise. “Who,” he said, reaching even more swiftly for something behind his stacks of papers, “are you?”

  “Why, Belgon, I’m deeply disappointed that you recognize me not! Tessaril Winter, Lady Lord of Eveningstar, at your service.”

  The Master of the Shadows scowled. “You’re not Tessaril,” he snapped, raising the bowgun in his hand until she could see it clearly. It was aimed right at her face. “Try for the truth again.”

  “Tessaril sent me, so I thought using her name might get me to you with minimal bloodshed,” the lady ranger replied. “It’s worked—more or less—thus far.” She glanced about the room, seeing two other doors besides the open one next to the one she was standing in, but no other immediate menaces, and added, “I’d like that tradition to continue, if possible, between us. I’ve no quarrel with you, Master of the Shadows—though if you fire that toy of yours, things may change on that score rather swiftly.”

  Bradraskor lifted one world-weary eyebrow. “So you’re here why, exactly?”

  “I’m trying to catch up to two friends of mine—a young couple, he a mage, she a kitchenmaid. Their names are Narm Tamaraith and Shandril Shessair, and Tessaril sent them here to Scornubel to join a caravan under the mastery of Orthil Voldovan. You can’t have failed to notice them or learn all of this already; Tess holds you in no small respect.”

  The Master of the Shadows did not—quite—smile. “So you seek no more of me than information?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Learning things costs me, therefore I sell what I learn.”

  “I’m quite prepared to pay the going market rates,” his visitor said with a smile, “and reward outrageous overpricing appropriately, too.”

  The fat man behind the desk sat back, his chair creaking in protest, but the aim of his bowgun strayed not one fingerwidth from her right eye. “Are you now? That’s good to know. So we come to an agreement, and I impart information to you on, say, the current whereabouts, conditions, and pursuits of this Narm and Shandril—then what? Do you attack me? Leave Scornubel forthwith? Call in lurking allies? Seek for yourself what everyone else interested in these two persons seems to be after?”

  “Well, now,” the lady who was not Tessaril Winter replied with a twinkle dancing in her eyes, “it begins to seem as if I have information I could sell to you, too.”

  Belgon Bradraskor sighed. “I’m not interested in crossing tongues with you just now. I’m busy, and be aware that my time costs coins, too. You’ve already wasted about as much of it as I’m willing to part with freely.” The bowgun lifted warningly, and then returned to its former dead-on aim.

  “Let’s trade truths,” his lady visitor said calmly. “Simple, utter truth, line for line. I desire to reach Narm and Shandril as swiftly as possible so I can escort and protect them. Now, what can you tell me of where they are, right now?”

  Bradraskor raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Protect them? You? Lady, do you know what spellfire can—”

  “Ah, careful!” the beautiful woman in leather armor said warningly, raising a finger. “You don’t want to leave yourself owing me two answers, do you?”

  The Master of the Shadows sighed, sat back, and waved a dismissive hand. “Lady, who are you?”

  “Three answers, I’m afraid,” Sharantyr told her finger disappointedly.

  Belgon Bradraskor stared at his visitor—gods, but she was beautiful, too!—leaned forward, and said flatly, “If you promise me you don’t intend to harm me or my works or work any magic on me or my goods at all and also tell me who you are, I’ll give you safe conduct out of Scornubel, tell you exactly where your Narm and Shandril may be found, and give you a fast horse to catch them on—without delay. I’ll even throw in whatever wine and food my men can swiftly find, ere you ride. Deal?”

  “Add to it that you won’t harm, detain, or deceive me in any way, and yes, we do,” the lady in leathers told him.

  “Acceptable?”

  “Agreed,” Bradraskor told her.

  “Good,” she said with a smile. “Put your bowgun down, and I’ll quell this slaying spell I’ve been holding back from you, all this time.”

  “What slaying—ne’er mind.” The man behind the desk set down his bowgun, lifted both hands and waved them, palms out and open, so she could see that they were empty
and where they were, and then said, “I’m going to ring a bell now, and summon here a man who’ll fetch you that horse. ’Twill not be lame or unbroken or of nasty temper, I assure you.”

  Sharantyr nodded. “Do so,” she replied, “and know that I am Sharantyr by name, a Knight of Myth Drannor and a friend in truth to both Tessaril and to Narm and Shandril.”

  “A Knight of—? The defenders of Shadowdale?”

  “The same. To cross me is also to cross Storm Silverhand, the wizard Elminster—and in this case, the War Wizards of Cormyr, too.”

  The Master of the Shadows stared at her for a moment, his face losing all expression, then said briskly, “Well met, then, and the gods smile upon this agreement between us. Know you in turn that Orthil’s caravan left this city north along the Trade Way early today, bound for Waterdeep, and should—barring mischance, no word of which has come south to Scornubel from travelers arriving here along the same route—have reached a defensible camping-spot known as Face Crag by now. They should be spending this night there under a torch-guard, for the Blackrocks countryside they traverse is wild and known to be a-lurk with brigands, prowling bears, monsters, and the like.”

  He got up from the desk, shuffled ponderously around it with a large vellum scroll in his hands, and let it fall and unroll, weighted by a stick its end was stitched around. It revealed a map. The thief-lord strode onto it, and pointed with one slippered foot. “If all goes well, their next camp should be here, where this old mining trail meets the wagon-road, at a place called Orcskull Rise.”

  He looked up at her. “You may wish to wait until first light before riding out. You can move much more swiftly than laden wagons and so overtake them in two or three days’ hard riding. By day the road is safer for a lone rider. I’ve no doubt of your courage or battle-skills—but Lady Sharantyr, few women dare to travel these lands alone, and there are good reasons for that. A trip-line, a dozen brigands with crossbows, or as many orcs … your beauty and swiftness would not save you.”

  Sharantyr smiled. “I must leave as soon as possible, night or day, monsters or none. My thanks for your warning and your gallantry, Master of the Shadows. I’ll forget neither when I tell Tessaril what generous aid you’ve rendered.”

  Bradraskor seemed to wince, but whatever he might have been going to say was interrupted by a voice from behind Sharantyr.

  “Master?”

  The Master of the Shadows made a swift gesture that Sharantyr correctly interpreted as a signal to put away whatever weapon the newcomer was holding ready. She did not bother to turn, but asked lightly, “Tornar the Eye?”

  There was a silence, ended by another sharp gesture from Bradraskor, and the voice spoke again, its tones not entirely free of surprise. “Tornar I am, Lady, and give you greeting. You are—?”

  “Sharantyr of Shadowdale,” she replied, turning until she could see both Tornar and his master. She exchanged nods with the Eye as the Master of the Shadows said, “Tornar, I’m giving Flamewind to Sharantyr, the best saddle and all. I need her ready for a long ride in the north courtyard, as swiftly as possible. Let there be two skins of water, a saddlebag of wine, and a meal—untainted and the very best. I’ll escort the lady thither directly and expect Flamewind to be waiting for us when we reach the well.”

  Tornar bowed to them both and strode swiftly out. His master went to one of the other doors, opened it, gestured within, and asked, “Lady?”

  Sharantyr took his arm as she passed and murmured, “Walk with me, Belgon. As you say, ’tis safer if a lady goes not alone.”

  The thief-lord winced, then stiffened as two things enveloped him: a faint, cinammonlike scent that was either his visitor or the leathers she wore and a crawling, tingling sensation that he was sure must be magic. He drew in a deep breath as her hip brushed his huge thigh and carefully matched his pace to hers like a court gallant. They entered the shadowed passage together.

  “How’re you, lad?” Arauntar murmured, cradling Narm as gently as a mother holds her child. “Head splitting, aye, but otherwise?”

  “Otherwise,” Narm mumbled, wincing, “I’m … all right, I suppose. How’s Shan?”

  “Frightened for you, demanding you be brought to her right now, an’—ahem—a mite annoyed,” the guard rumbled. “If you can walk without falling, I’d like to be getting you to her straight away.”

  “I’ll manage,” Narm grunted, snatching hold of the nearest lashing-ring on the wagon wall and hauling himself up the row of rings with trembling fingers. He clung groggily to the uppermost ring for a moment and stared down at his tingling hands. They were swollen and seemed numb and weak …

  “Narbuth bound you a little tight,” the Harper explained. “I just cut you free. Catch thy breath a bit, lad—an’ do something for me, if you will.”

  Narm looked at Arauntar, squinting against the pain, and asked faintly, “What?”

  “Forget for now Orthil ordering you bound an’ Jathun hitting you, all right? ’Twill be easier for us all if yer lady doesn’t go frying all our heads off just yet.”

  The mage gave the Harper a sidelong look, smiled wryly, and replied, “I’ll grant it will, at that. Right, you’ll have my silence on this—for now. Now, take me to Shan, before she comes looking for me herself.”

  “That,” Arauntar told him with a wry and gap-toothed grin, “is precisely why I want you to hurry.”

  Sharantyr of Shadowdale gave them a merry wave and cantered into the night. The Master of the Shadows let the arm that had saluted her in return fall back to the moonlit rim of the well and said softly to the man beside him, “Follow her. Let her work death among all the spellfire-seekers Bluthlock has sent after Voldovan’s wagons—but when you judge the time right, make sure she dies.”

  Tornar nodded. “Of course, Master. She knows your looks, where you lair, and how to reach you. She must not live.”

  Belgon Bradraskor nodded. “A pity. No woman has ever called me gallant before.”

  “Hesperdan was right,” Hlael mused thoughtfully.

  Korthauvar sighed. “Hesperdan is always right. Why else would one feeble old man with such expensive vices yet be suffered by the Brotherhood to live?”

  “Too useful to slay, too unambitious to be a danger.”

  “So he appears. I wonder if he isn’t plotting some dark magic to someday drain us all of life and magic.”

  “What, to make himself master over all the Brotherhood and rise to challenge Shaaan and Larloch, Szass Tam, and Maraunth Torr?”

  “Nay, that’s the gods-smile-down worst of it all. Anyone else would do such a thing to become an Archmage Most Mighty and conquer Faerûn at will. Hesperdan, Bane take him, would do it as an interesting experiment!”

  The gem she’d broken on the lip of the stone well had done its work. It would not last long, and its awakening had banished the ironguard that had made metal pass harmlessly through her, but Sharantyr could see and hear the two grim men as clearly as if she still stood in the courtyard, shoulder to shoulder with the Master of the Shadows and Tornar. She grinned savagely at the moon as she overheard Bradraskor’s orders.

  “Ah, we must all die sometime, Belgon,” she told the wind. “Let you be gallant to the last, and I’ll be well pleased. Of course Tornar must try to slay me. I only hope Besmer has sense enough to flee the city as fast as he can. No one must know that a lone woman marched straight in on the Master of the Shadows in his lair, defeating guards and traps at will, forced a deal on the lord of Scornubel’s thieves, and went on her way with his gifts. No sinister reputation could quite recover from such news—and no thief-lord without such a reputation can hope to last long.”

  As Tornar hurried away across the courtyard to where he’d no doubt left another mount waiting, her tiny magic faded away. The last Sharantyr saw of the Master of the Shadows was his brooding face, as he leaned on crossed arms on the well rim and stared into the night after her.

  “Too late, Belgon,” the ranger told the wind of her galloping, a
s her hair streamed out behind her like a dark cloud and the moon painted the Blackrocks bright before her, “and too slow. Not even Tornar can ride fast enough to save you, for rumor runs ever before him, clear across Scornubel. I learned as much myself a long time ago, when first I swung a sword and ran unclad with boys—and the little lady my parents thought I’d become was swept away by gossip, forever. Whispers fly as fast as arrows.”

  9

  DAILY DISAPPEARANCES

  Thrusk in the morning wakes a man, banishes sour breath, and kindles hero-fire within. It also leaves the drinker unable to taste anything else, sleepless, and swift to rage—and draws beasts near. Yet if a slinking monster disturbs a dedicated thrusk-drinker, it’s often difficult from the snarls to tell one from the other.

  Imgaun Cordelvur, Master of Platters

  We Can All Dine Like Kings

  Year of the Lost Helm

  The hand on her shoulder was so gentle that for a long, murmuring time Shandril thought it was Narm’s. Then her nose caught a whiff of rank breath and old sweat, and she came awake with spellfire boiling up in her, borne on a leaping flame of fear and rage—to stare into Arauntar’s anxious face, as far away from her as he could be and still touch her with just the tips of his fingers.

  He drew back his hand hastily and growled, “Up, lass. Orthil’s in a rare rage this morn an’ will be less merry still when he finds the two of you together. I’ve made you a fire an’ put water on, for washing and thrusk-brew.”

  Shandril wrinkled her nose. “Thrusk? I hate thrusk! It tastes like old boots!”

  The grizzled guard grinned. “I suppose you’ve enjoyed a steady diet of footwear, old boots included?”

  “I was maid at a small inn,” Shandril told him irritably. “Lick and polish, all too oft—”

  She watched Arauntar’s gaze descend, realized Narm’s cloak had fallen away to her waist and that she wasn’t wearing a Sembian stitch of anything, and snapped, “Thank you! Now get out of here!”