Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Wary, unhappy murmurs arose from the gathered, watching men. Shandril put her lips to Arauntar’s.

  “Well, now,” Beldimarr growled, wincing his way to a sitting position. “That beats a gulletful of Old Ironfire any day.” He looked to Narm. “This some sort o’ ritual? She’s not stealing his soul ere he dies, is she?”

  “Watch,” Narm said tensely, “and don’t interfere. Any of you.”

  As the last word left his mouth, a louder murmur arose from the guards: anger warring with worry. Spellfire was flaring around Shandril’s mouth and hands—hands that ran slowly up and down Arauntar’s arms and torso, as far as she could reach, as the glow of magical fire grew stronger and brighter.

  Arauntar stiffened and groaned, his arms shuddering and his hands clenching into claws … and Beldimarr frowned and raised his dagger uncertainly.

  Spellfire suddenly flared blinding-bright around the two bodies lying in the road, and Arauntar convulsed and screamed, throwing his head back and wallowing atop the raging fire that was Shandril as if he was trying to claw his way out of a hearthfire.

  There were growls and curses from the watching men, and despite Narm’s fiercely raised hands they strode or leaned forward, many hands going to swordhilts.

  Arauntar fell silent and slumped down into the flames, and the mutters of anger grew—only to fall away into gasps of awe as the smoking crossbow quarrels standing up out of him suddenly caught fire, blazed up into flames, and were gone … in the space of a mere breath.

  Abruptly the brilliance was gone, and the flames with it. Smoke curled away in strangely spicy wisps, and the tensely watching men could see Arauntar’s scorched and blackened body lying still atop a white-faced Shandril. The mud around them was blackened and burned flat, and the maid of Highmoon was smeared and streaked with ashes. She moved a hand, weakly feeling the ground with her fingertips, then struggled to get out from under the guard. As she moved, they saw she now wore only ashes that had once been leather and buckles and armor plates.

  Narm bent to help her up but was shouldered roughly aside by Beldimarr. Shandril coughed, got herself to where she could crawl on hands and knees, swiped a filthy tangle of hair out of her eyes—and froze.

  The point of Beldimarr’s knife was glittering under her nose.

  “What have you done to him, wench?” he growled menacingly.

  Shandril slapped the dagger aside in exasperation and embraced the wounded Harper in an awkward hug. Beldimarr hissed with pain as one of her hands brushed the quarrel in his arm, and fell over on his side, with Shandril atop him.

  “You don’t make it easy, you great hairy hulks,” she said, wincing, as spellfire flared again along her back and behind and legs.

  “She’s killing him!” a guard roared, his blade flashing out with frightening speed. Narm threw himself into the man and sent him stumbling aside before that steel could find Shandril’s flesh. They were still staggering and grappling together when a faint, rasping voice made the guard freeze and brought silence to the ring of watching men once more.

  “Gods be praised for sending you, lass,” Arauntar said hoarsely, sitting up slowly and feeling his ribs. He flexed his fingers in wonder and touched himself here and there where warbolts had driven into him and were now gone.

  Shaking his head, he looked up at the ring of intent faces and said, “I ache, all over, as if I’ve been beaten. My fingers feel … burned. The rest of me—fine. Whole, all my wounds gone.” He sprang up suddenly, and great shreds of scorched armor fell away from him, crumbling into ash and tiny smokes. Standing half-naked in the ring of guards, Arauntar threw out his hands—causing most of the rest of his armor to fall away—and laughed.

  “I’m healed! Healed!”

  “A miracle!” one of the guards gasped, and suddenly everyone was silent again, staring at Beldimarr and the naked lass squirming atop him, her limbs almost hidden from view in bright, rising flames.

  Orthil Voldovan gave Narm a look of new respect, and muttered, “And ye sleep with that? Yer skin must be nigh stone!”

  Narm was too busy rubbing his bruises and giving the guard he’d tussled with pats of silent, mutual thanks and apologies to do more than grin.

  Again spellfire flared blinding-bright, the crossbow quarrels blazed up into nothingness, and a man roared in pain. This one, however, wasn’t as sorely wounded as Arauntar had been, and lay beneath the searing healer and so was able to involuntarily thrust Shandril up and away, as a parent holds a child aloft.

  She stared down at him, hair stirring around her as if it, too, was made of flame. Sparks leaked from her eyes, and tiny tongues of flame gouted from her mouth as she looked down at him and gasped, “Beldimarr, don’t you want to be healed?”

  “Gods, yes, lass, but it hurts!”

  “Oh, you’ve noticed,” she replied weakly, causing Arauntar to chuckle. “Let me down, Bel,” she pleaded, “and hurry. I can’t—I can’t—”

  The light in her eyes fled, and she went limp. Hastily Beldimarr clasped her tightly to him, embracing her tightly as spellfire flared one last time around them … and died away.

  Beldimarr grunted in amazement and cradled the nude woman in his arms as carefully as he might hold a precious thing made of glass as he slowly got himself to a sitting position.

  Narm knelt to help, biting his lip. Shan was asleep or senseless, her head lolling limply. He looked up and around at Voldovan and all of his guards and said almost pleadingly, “You see, I hope, that this isn’t something endless, or easy. Don’t all get wounded unto death and expect to be healed at once, now!”

  At the sound of his voice Shandril shook herself, as if coming out of an unpleasant dream, and then blinked, saw Narm, and kissed him.

  There were chuckles from the guards around, and even a faint cheer, as Narm’s and Shandril’s arms tightened around each other.

  After a long, blissful moment, the maid of Highmoon drew back her head to look anxiously at Beldimarr and then at Arauntar—and saw smiling thanks and awe on both guards’ faces. Then her eyes flickered as she remembered the ring of watching men.

  Rather than blushing or trying to hide herself in Narm’s embrace, she looked up at them, directly at face after face, then asked, “What? Why d’you all stare at me so?”

  “ ’Tis like something of the gods,” a guard said hoarsely. “I know not whether to worship ye, Lady—or sword ye, to save us all.”

  “Why? Do you pray to Arauntar, or try to cut him up, because he swings a good sword? Do you hack at a cobbler, or go on your knees to him, because he mends a boot you thought couldn’t be mended, and makes it look as new? Or so treat a master archer? This is but a skill the gods gave me. Why such awe over it?”

  “Lady,” another guard said slowly, “ ’tis magic.”

  There was a murmur of agreement, but Voldovan rubbed his chin and said firmly, “The lass has the right of it! The best way to see spellfire is as some strange sort of sword that can slay or heal.” Then he raised his voice gruffly. “Right! Show’s over! We’re not getting any nearer Orcskull Rise, standing here watching a little fire and a lass rolling around losing her clothes in it! Let’s move, men!”

  Amid the general groan and stir that followed, the caravan master added slowly, “Oh, and Lady, too.” He raised his hand in a sort of salute, and said almost grudgingly, “I’ll not soon be forgetting this day.”

  Shandril stood up, hands on hips, and wrinkled her nose at him. “I’m not wearing armor again.”

  Voldovan grinned, shook his head, and growled in mock rage, “Defying me again? Some loyal guard ye are!”

  “Master!” a guard called ere Shandril could reply, dragging a body by the boots toward Voldovan and trying hard not to look as if he was staring at the unclad fire-wench at every third step. “You should see this! By how we found him, he seems to have been warlord of this … the attack on us. Look familiar?”

  The caravan master strode forward almost defiantly to glare down at the corpse. />
  “Bluthlock,” he snarled. “Rendilar Bluthlock of Scornubel, scourer of alleys … and hurler of—” he waved a hand around at the ruined wagons, crossbow quarrels, blood puddles, dead horses, and sprawled men—“snakes and rats and mad dogs at all the rest of us. Well, that’s one Scornubrian no one will mourn, least of all me.”

  Voldovan spat onto the slack, staring face of the corpse, then turned and stalked away, snapping, “Salvage all the wagons we can, reload, and let’s be going! To me, all!”

  The guards obediently trotted toward the caravan master from all directions, Narm and Shandril among them.

  Orthil Voldovan looked around the ring of reassembled faces with a sour expression on his face, caught sight of his fearful surviving clients drawing nearer, and lowered his voice to a mutter.

  “This run really is cursed. I want strict, leap-to-me obedience and alertness every instant ye’re awake. Don’t hesitate, don’t argue my orders, and don’t do anything stupid.” He looked grimly around at them and added, “I know ye’ve heard this a time or thousandscore before, but I mean it. If we slip up again, with this few of us left and hounds coming at us from behind every tree, it’s likely we’ll never reach Waterdeep—or anywhere else, ever again—alive.”

  “Korthauvar, I don’t want to be blasted to cinders by Drauthtar or anyone else,” Hlael said angrily, “or forced into some helpless beast-shape to be maimed and left to be devoured, either! We must do something to snatch this spellfire, not just watch and gloat! What if someone else gets to her first, and—”

  “Let them. I want them to.”

  “You what?” Hlael almost screamed.

  “Let someone who’s not the two of us snatch spellfire and be pounced upon by someone else. We watch and wait as all the hounds on this trail snarl and snap at each other … and when we’re at the last hound, or almost so and the best opportunity presents itself, then we make our own little pounce.”

  “While Drauthtar does what, awaiting our reports?” Hlael snapped.

  “Considers our strategy as clever as every last mage of the Zhentarim should be,” Korthauvar said firmly. “Why fight someone and reveal yourself as a foe, thereafter to stand in danger when you can get your enemy to do what you want him to, by manipulating this and hinting that? All of these young, ambitious fools seem to think that striding out to hurl spells up Elminster’s nose is how you show your power. All that does is show you a welcoming grave—and your own stupidity in the few seconds it takes you to reach it. Why do the swordheads always judge we who work magic by how many towers we can topple? Why do they never appreciate how we can make a gentle suggestion and have an entire village leap to our bidding for fear of what we might do?”

  “Old Kaummorth’s ‘smile and walk softly and be greatly feared’ speech,” Hlael said wearily. “I remember it, too, Korthauvar. I only hope Drauthtar took those same teachings, and thought as highly of Kaummorth as you do.”

  “I’d rather be alive to face his fury than dead by spellfire or at the hands of these vultures falling all over each other right now to get at Shandril Shessair,” Korthauvar replied. “Now find me that mindriding spell! We need more eyes in that caravan than the paltry pair we have already. Some of the Cult swordheads and even ambition-blinded mages of our own Brotherhood along on that run are likely to slaughter anyone who stands in their path. There’re others along, too: that blandreth-dealer, for one, isn’t the same man who was in that wagon earlier! ’Twould not do to have a lone view of all the tumult and lose it at some crucial moment.”

  “No,” Hlael Toraunt said thoughtfully, eyeing Korthauvar. “No, ’twould not do at all.”

  “A small step shy of thievery,” Thoadrin growled, almost perfunctorily. In truth, the price was about what he’d expected: five times what would be asked in a back room in Dock Ward and about thrice what quarrels could be had for in Scornubel or in most places where competition wasn’t fierce. The supply was better than he’d hoped for, too: twice the crossbow bolts they’d set out with, in full score-and-one quivers. Four quivers each, if he bought them all.

  “Acceptable,” he added. “We’ll take them all.”

  “All?” the trader echoed, his surprise too strong to leave his customary stoneface intact. “Waukeen praise you, warrior!”

  “Ah, but she does,” Thoadrin grunted, with a minimum of enthusiasm, “and the tax collector comes trotting right behind her gifts, with his hand out to fondle my purse and more!”

  The trader chuckled politely, signaled with one finger—and his assistants took up a quiver each and held them out to the nearest of Thoadrin’s men.

  The Cult warrior shook his gauntlet off his hand and drew forth the leather snake of coins from along his forearm, under the armor. He let its river of gold spill into the trader’s bowl and had the satisfaction of seeing the trader shake his head and murmur, “Waukeen does smile upon you, lord.”

  “True enough,” Thoadrin agreed, noting—without appearing to look—his men checking the quivers they received by drawing random bolts forth, ere settling them in saddlebags and on baldrics. “Yet other gods call on me all too often and interrupt the time I’d fain spend with the Lady of All Coins.” He nodded as the last coin fell into the bowl, then plucked another from a slit in his swordbelt and tossed it in, too. “Mention me to her in your prayers,” he said, turning his horse away.

  “I shall,” the merchant said, as they exchanged nods of respect. “What name shall I tell her?”

  Thoadrin smiled. “She knows me well. Just say, ‘the dragonbone fool on the horse’ and she’ll know.”

  The trader frowned. “Dragonbone?”

  The warrior shrugged. “Faerûn holds a lot of fools on horses. A word to make me stand out.”

  As he spurred away from Dowan Pool with his men riding at his heels, trailing the easy laughter of men laden with food, heavily armed, and eager to launch their next attack, Thoadrin murmured aloud the same unfortunate saying that the trader was probably mouthing about now, too: “One fate befalls fools who stand out.”

  Marlel smiled softly as he peered out of his wagon-flap. The man with the heavy coffer was just setting it down behind Narm Tamaraith.

  The spellfire-lass mattered, but her lad did not. Of course, if this clumsy hireling—of Thay, if he had his rogues right—succeeded, the Dark Blade of Doom would have to move swiftly. Even the stupidest Zhent could figure out that a lone, grieving lass would have to sleep sometime.…

  The Thayan turned and rose from the coffer in a single smooth movement, the knife in his hand a soot-blackened, unglinting fang that he drove viciously up—

  Into empty air, as Narm spun away from him, kicking the back of the man’s knee. As the Thayan stumbled, Narm’s own knife flashed out and found a home in the man’s left eye.

  As the Thayan fell, Marlel saw all the color drain out of the young lad’s face. Narm promptly threw up all over the corpse.

  Marlel leaned forward for a better look and hastily ducked back from the flap as one of Voldovan’s veteran dogs—Beldimarr—came hastening to Narm, casting a look in Marlel’s direction as he did so.

  The man who was not Haransau Olimer cradled a cold belt-flask of thrusk—brewed this morning, and doubtless as bitter as a winter storm by now—and smiled in the dimness.

  So the young lad had grown claws, had he? A pity he was trapped facing a small forest of wise and deadly fangs.

  Four of them, magic leaping between their blades like blue fire as they charged her. Sharantyr bit her lip. This was going to hurt. Ironguard spells stopped metal, not magic. The one protecting her now was the variant that left her hands solid to metal, so she could wield her own blade but could also lose fingers or swordhand to hostile steel.

  Two foes coming straight at her, the other two circling wide to her flanks … now!

  She’d taken a wary step or two back, shifted her sword to point at one rushing brigand, then another, and put an expression of fear onto her face. Now, without any warning, she
burst into a sprinting run, right at the gap between the man running to her right and the two coming head-on.

  She was tired. She’d have to end this quickly or have it ended for her. Despite her weariness, she was faster than any of these lumbering men, and one of them stumbled as he tried to turn too swiftly and almost pitched over on his side. Cursing and hopping on a turned ankle, he was far behind her, and she’d timed her move perfectly.

  A blade reached for her, slid past her shoulder as she leaned gracefully away from it. She passed the rightmost of the two straight-ahead chargers and made her own leap to the left. She landed, spun, and leaped again, turning more quickly than any runner could, and found herself right behind the leader. He was whirling—straight into her blade as it swung through his throat. He hadn’t even time for a shout as he choked, looked startled, and toppled, still swinging himself hard around.

  Sharantyr took the man who’d been running beside him next, the man she’d outflanked. He was still turning to follow her runs and leaps, with his back to her, and slaughtering him was hideously easy. Throat again, from behind as he turned into it, then a leap away to face the nearest surviving brigand, the flanker who hadn’t hurt his ankle.

  His sneering smile was gone, replaced by anger and rising fear, as the lady ranger of the Knights of Myth Drannor—a title given her by folk of Shadowdale to distinguish her from Florin, who was the closest thing the Knights had to a leader; gods how she missed his easy smile and swift blade beside her now!—ran right at him, charging hard to stay ahead of the last, hobbling brigand.

  Their blades met, and she had to duck away and leap straight up to quell her momentum, so as to cross blades with him when she was properly balanced. This man was good. There’d be no fooling him with swift turns. She cast a glance at the other brigand—Mielikki damn him, he was close!—and came down charging at another foe. Best swing around him to put the stumbler between her and his blademaster fellow, and—