Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  “Of course, great lady,” Arauntar replied, keeping his gaze now on the curving inner roof of the wagon as he quickly ducked out. “I was just leav—whoa, get clothes on, lass, an’ hurry! Orthil’s on his way over here with a face on him like a winter storm!”

  “Is he now!” Shandril snarled, turning to the warm and oblivious man still snoring ever so slightly beside her. “Narm, love, get up!” She kissed him, put her arms around him and tickled him mercilessly—and when he started to guffaw, whipped away the cloak and blankets so that the flower of the Tamaraiths roared at the cold. “Get dressed, and hurry!”

  She hastened to use the chamberpot before he could, snatched up her clothes, and went running on chilled bare feet to the corner of the wagon where she’d torn her armor off last night—or rather, where Narm had hurled it, piece by clattering piece, in his haste to peel it from her.

  She was still squatting over the heap, frantically untangling and heaving aside an unfolding chaos of rusty plate and leather, when the wagon-flap fairly flew aside and the master of the caravan strode into the remains of their bed. Kicking it aside, he glared around the wagon, past the hopping, sleepily blinking young man who was still knuckling his eyes and feeling about for his clothes—and stopped to place the full weight of his angry stare upon the unclad woman in the corner.

  Orthil Voldovan put his head to one side and smiled in a way that somehow managed to combine leering and sneering and I-told-ye-so sarcasm, and said, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the Lord and Lady of Love, right here in my own ready-wagon! Here I thought yer spells and yer fire-take-all might be of some use to us, in the trifle of trouble that’s made us later in leaving than I’ve ever been in all my runs, later than any sane wagoneer would desire to be who wants to make Orcskull Rise by nightfall—and I find ye still cooing and moaning away in yer snug little lovenest, not in yer armor and being guards at all! Why, I’ve half a mind to just fling wide the flap and show all the prize fools along with us what yer up to, just to—lass, what’re ye doing?”

  Wearing only her tousled hair and a tight little smile, Shandril marched past him, flung wide the wagon-flap with a loud snapping of tarred cloth, and waved cheerfully to the faces that turned her way.

  Jaws dropped open and stares grew intense—as she turned her back on them, put her hands on her hips, and bellowed, “Finished, Lord Love Voldovan? Can I get dressed now? ’Tis cold, and I really should be back in my armor and getting us out of here!”

  Orthil’s jaw dropped and he stared at her in bewilderment. “Wha—buh—”

  “Orthil,” Shandril said icily, paying no attention to the gathering crowd of gawking men behind her but knowing quite well how their numbers were swelling, “get! Unless you’d be so kind as to take that blandreth off the boil and make thrusk for us. In fact, I’d like that—and over a tankard each, you can tell us about your ‘trifle of trouble,’ whilst I finish getting dressed … after, that is, you let me start getting dressed!”

  Eager hands lifted the blandreth off the fire, stirred the thrusk, and handed tankards up to the baffled-looking caravan master. Shaking his head a little, Voldovan took them, set them down carefully, then whirled to face the crowd and roared, “Get out of here! Each of ye, to yer own beast and harness! Make ready to roll wagons—now!”

  He pulled down the wagon-flap again to shut out the watching world, turned back to Narm and Shandril, and asked politely, “Thrusk, anyone?”

  Narm couldn’t hide his grin. Shaking his head, he accepted a steaming tankard, set it aside to avoid scalded lips, and went on settling his nondescript armor into place and rolling away bedding.

  Shandril, wearing nothing but boots and the strange network of straps that would hold up her greaves and armored stomacher when they were fastened, strolled from the depths of the wagon over to Voldovan, turned her back on him, and said, “I’ve no Storstil nor Narbuth handy, so could you do me up, sir?”

  For a moment she thought she was going to get a tankard of scalding thrusk flung over her, but instead she felt warm breath on her bare shoulder blades and heard the loud hissing of the caravan master heaving a gusty sigh. The sound of tankards being carefully set down again followed, and then rough-surfaced knuckles were gently snugging straps together down her back.

  Orthil said in a low voice, “I—my apologies, both of ye. I’m … not a happy man, this morn. There was more trouble in the night.”

  “What sort of trouble?” Narm asked, taking his first cautious sip of thrusk—then grimacing and wishing he hadn’t. Boiled tongue for breakfast again.

  “More folk gone.”

  “Gone?” Shandril asked, as wiry, dirty hair brushed her behind and those hardened fingers laced and buckled their ways down to her ankles.

  “Gone—vanished, leaving their wagons behind, goods and all. If they fought, we heard it not, and no one saw anything. I sent the lads out to search the woods and they found tracks, right enough: leucrotta and bear, plus a little blood here and there.”

  Narm and Shandril both heard the “but” in the caravan master’s tone. Shan turned to regard Voldovan with a thoughtful frown on her face, but it was Narm who prompted him. “But—?”

  “The tracks don’t come close to any wagons. The beasts might have scavenged the dead, but they didn’t drag or chase them away from camp. Why’d the men stray? Or did someone—a few men at least, it’d take—creep in with knife or strangle-wire and carry them off? If so, why steal nothing? Folk scared by brigands and all our warnings don’t just wander from their wagons, right past my guards, and get clear out of a rock cleft unseen!”

  “You need our magic,” Narm said quietly, “now that you’ve come and seen and made sure we aren’t the murderers you’re looking for.”

  “I’ve made sure of nothing, lad,” Voldovan told him heavily, “but for what ’tis worth, no, I don’t think either of ye were snatching away a dozen merchants last night. I—I don’t hold with wizards. There’s none in Scornubel as I’d trust within a kingdom of me, and I can’t afford one casting from any of ’em, let alone entice one to set foot in the Blackrocks and ride guard for me. Damned expensive, arrogant nuisances, but when ye need them, ye really need them!”

  The caravan master took a swig of steaming thrusk that would have cooked Narm’s gullet, realized who he was talking to, and added hastily, “Uh, no offense meant to ye, lad and lady.”

  Back in her corner, Shandril waved a dismissive hand and returned to Voldovan with a despairing look and the heavy chaos of her breastplate in her arms. The caravan master drained his tankard in another throat-scalding swig, hastily lifted the garment, and turned it so that she could step in under his hands and let him lower it into place.

  “Watch this,” the maid from Highmoon said sharply to her husband. “I won’t be troubling Master Voldovan to be dressing me every morn, no matter how much he enjoys it.”

  Orthil gave her a half-amused snort and said grimly to Narm, “Ye may have to get battle-spells ready, lad, if this goes on. Those brigands haven’t done with us. They probably took the Two Pools trail and will be waiting for us next night. Or they’re shadowing us, along the ridges. Either way, we’re so much cook-meat on firespits once they learn how weak we’re getting.”

  “Voldovan?” a rough but familiar voice called from close by outside the wagon.

  “In!” the caravan master called curtly, and Arauntar thrust his head in at the flap, Beldimarr at his shoulder. “Well?”

  “We’ve searched all. Nothing.”

  “Just gone, hey?”

  The veteran guards nodded in grim unison.

  “Any of the wagons better than what’s still rolling?”

  Arauntar shook his head. “Two clients lost theirs, an’ we’ve shifted them to the best abandoned ones already. Valuable cargo, food, an’ wagon wheels are in the other ready-wagon. Packed to the high hoops, ’tis.”

  “Thank the gods ye two know what to do. Anything to come in here?”

  “A dozen strong
chests an’ a water barrel, if there’s room.”

  “Oh, there’ll be room. With just the lass riding the perch and one of ye as drover, we can pack this one to the hoops, too. Gods, but the hay’s going fast.”

  “We’ll be staying together,” Narm said quietly, “Shan and me. At all times.”

  Orthil glared at him. “Oh ye will, will ye?”

  “Yes,” Shandril told him crisply, hefting her helmet. “We will, Orthil.”

  “That’d be best,” Arauntar said quickly, ere Voldovan could draw breath for the angry tirade that by the look on his face seemed to be building swiftly to an eruption, “now that so many of us guards’re down. With ’em both together, it takes only one of us to watch ’em. B’marr and I can take turns at that.”

  Beldimarr nodded, and then looked at Orthil.

  “Well,” the caravan master growled, “seeing as how ye seem to have it all worked out, why don’t we just do that?” He eyed Narm and Shandril suspiciously, then whirled to peer at Arauntar and Beldimarr.

  After a long, narrow-eyed look, Voldovan turned back to the mage and the spellfire-maid and growled, “If I thought ye’d worked a spell on these two to get them to say aye to yer plan, it’d be my sword ye’d both be feeling about now.” He sighed. “My scheme was to have a hold over ye, lass, to guard against any tyranny ye might feel the need of dispensing, by having thy husband elsewhere, in our grasp. I can make the same threats with crossbows, if need be. Be warned.”

  “Oh, aye,” Beldimarr growled before Shandril could reply, “one more thing: Carngaur died. The lance must’ve been poisoned.”

  “Buried?”

  “Nay—let him poison a few leucrotta an’ do us all one last service. He’s back in the woods a-ways.”

  The caravan master nodded, sighed again, and made a large, circular knot in one of the tally-cords at his belt.

  “He has a wife,” Arauntar said softly, and Orthil frowned and changed the knot to another. Then his hands went to his other hip and held up some of the cords hanging there.

  “We haven’t the day it would take to tally every last chest and coffer and cask moved here or there; just tell me what wagons to tie off.”

  “Well, now. Dead folk can’t pay us outstanding passage costs—an’ we’re going to have a real battle if we try to charge men who lost wagons any costs that come with another one we salvaged, to give to them.…”

  The caravan master and his senior guard were already out of the wagon and tramping away, the problem of the young mage and the fire-witch forgotten.

  Beldimarr gave Narm and Shandril a gap-toothed grin and said, “That went rather well, hey?”

  Shandril nodded, but Narm frowned. “Those cords?”

  “Tallies, knotted an’ unknotted to track payments an’ debts an’ cargo amounts.”

  “Yes, but what’s to stop Voldovan or any master from making whatever knots he pleases?”

  The scarred, coarse-tongued caravan guard gave Narm a severe look and growled, “His love for retaining his own head. Now let’s be loading. If we’re not ready to roll when the horn calls, ’twill be our heads in the next stew-blandreth.”

  Shandril gave him a scornful look. “Just save breath and stop trying to scare us, B’marr. You don’t boil heads for stew.”

  “Nay, you’re right about that. I leave that to Raunt, who’s better’n’me with salt an’ suchlike.”

  He gave the young couple a sidelong grin. Shandril answered it with another sour look and asked, “I suppose nothing frightens veteran Harpers like you?”

  Beldimarr’s unlovely head and fearsome mustache turned her way and Shandril found herself looking into eyes that seemed older than she thought they’d be.

  “Oh now, lass, I wouldn’t say that. I wouldn’t say that at all. We’ve just learned not to waste time worrying, or noise fretting to others about it. I’m scared of a goodly handful of things right now.”

  “Oh?” Shandril shook her head, and gave him a little grin. “Somehow that makes me feel better. A goodly handful, eh?” She pointed at the wagon-flap. “Therefore tremble and depart.”

  “As you command, fire-witch,” the Harper said good-naturedly and stepped down from the wagon with a grunt. Settling his swordbelt into place, Narm strolled across the floorboards to watch Beldimarr go—and was sent staggering by the arrival of the first coffer, tossed into his midriff with deadly accuracy by the guard outside. Shandril sputtered with laughter as Narm found an unexpected seat upon the roll of bedding and sprang forward to catch the next box herself. It clanged into her frontal collection of armor plates, rebounded up into her chin, and left her wishing she had put on her hot, heavy helm.

  Another day was under way in earnest, it seemed, and familiar aches and pains swiftly returned to register their protests. Shandril and Narm gave each other wry grins and commenced fielding coffers, not bothering about proper stowage. The casks would determine that, with Beldimarr’s roared directions, when they started arriving.

  “I’m not spending my life running caravans,” Narm grunted. “This one is more than enough.”

  Shandril wrinkled her nose at him. “I wonder how many folk have said that before?”

  The man who was not Haransau Olimer smiled a soft smile as he watched the taller and dirtier of Voldovan’s head guards stride purposefully past, several more sword-dogs in his wake. All it had taken was a bewildered comment about a certain wagon “clanking” to another merchant nursing thrusk over a fire. Even suspicious merchants talk. Especially suspicious merchants talk—and as weakened and scared as these guards were, now, they’d even learned to listen.

  The Dark Blade of Doom was a long way from familiar alleys and hiding-holes, now. In fact, everyone’s favorite Marlel was trapped amid wolves who hid behind masks. Little games like this could tug a few of those masks into slipping—but the spells their wearers could hurl could snatch away his life in an instant. He’d need spellfire to have any hope of standing against them.

  Spellfire. Well, now. What a coincidence.…

  “Watch, now,” Sabran the Weaver murmured to his business partner. “They’re coming this way again.”

  “Dolts,” Mhegras Master-of-Furs snapped, whirling back into the wagon. “Do they really think that searching us once more will show them things they somehow missed the last dozen times? This fool of a Voldovan’ll give every last prowling beast and desperate fool of a brigand a chance at us, going so slowly! We should have been up and away at dawn, not waiting around for his self-important sword-heads to tramp all over us one more time!”

  “Easy, lad,” Sabran said. “You’re here to learn patience, remember?”

  Mhegras snorted. “As if the Brotherhood puts any value on that! All it really seems to mean in our ranks is ‘underlings smiling and submitting as superiors do stupid things to them.’ ”

  “Ah,” Sabran replied with a little smile, “you’re learning already.”

  Mhegras muttered angrily, “Well, listening to clever sayings from smug priests of Bane isn’t why I joined the Zhentarim! I—”

  “You joined for power,” the weaver snapped back. “Like all the other young fools who think they can rule the world if they can just steal one more spell. Here were all these magics on offer, in return for a little groveling! I’m always amazed at how swiftly such trifling obediences become too high a price to pay for you arrogant puppies—and how each of you so clumsily plots treachery, thinking you’re somehow special and your fate will be different from all your fellows you see slapped down all around you.”

  “You’re the one who thinks yourself special,” the wizard hissed. “You and all the rest of your smug brethre—”

  “Fair morn to you, Swordmaster,” Sabran said pleasantly. “I must confess my partner and I are fretting over the lateness of our departure. This certainly doesn’t seem a safe place to spend another night!”

  “Nay, ye’ve got that right,” Arauntar grunted, stepping up into the wagon with two grim guards in tow. “We�
�re almost ready to roll—but I’ve orders to search four wagons once more, first, and I’m afraid yours is one of them. I’d like to do this quickly and take myself out of your way again, so …”

  “Of course,” the weaver replied. “We’ve moved nothing since your last look: finished garments to the left, bolts to the right, our own effects at the back …”

  Mhegras stood glowering in the narrow cleared passage between the stacked and wedged tallchests and carry-coffers as the guards shuffled forward, moving a few coffers and peering halfheartedly into a tallchest or two.

  “The flat carry-coffers all hold bolts of the same fabric,” the weaver offered, watching a guard wrestle a coffertop off and peer suspiciously into its interior. “Musterdelvys.”

  Arauntar nodded and tapped a palm-sized painted plaque that had been slipped into a frame on one side of a tallchest. “Remind me one again what these symbols mean, please.”

  “Three stripes? Livery,” Sabran explained. “Tabards and lambrequins for noble clients in Waterdeep, who desire all of their guards to wear their colors. Very wealthy patrons.”

  “We’ll try not to keep them waiting longer than we have to,” the caravan guard replied heavily and tapped a plaque with another symbol. “This one?”

  “Mine,” the furrier said quickly, stepping forward. “Pelicons of the finest make, also bound for sale in Waterdeep.”

  “Pelicons?”

  “Open, fur-trimmed overcloaks worn by ladies of fashion, Swordmaster,” Mhegras explained curtly.

  “Ah. Fancycloaks!”

  The furrier looked pained. “A particular sort of, ah, ‘fancycloak,’ sirrah, just as not all armor is the same.”

  “Hunhh. Fashion, to be sure,” Arauntar replied, his eyes fixed on the other two guards. They were busily shifting aside carry-coffers and peering behind them, making sure that nothing had been hidden along the sides of the wagon. He caught sight of something long and wooden at about the same time as they did—not the usual wedges, but something like a spar.