Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

They were both fast. She caught the stumbler’s blade on her own, but the other blade thrust hard into her from behind. It passed through her as if through smoke, of course, but blue fire arced from sword to sword—and the tip of one of them was protruding from her own belly, thrust through from behind.

  The pain was like being plunged into a fire. Or rather, like having a fire burst from nothingness into instant full roaring inside her, blazing up through her ribs to choke her and leave her sobbing and trembling helplessly.

  Through her whimpering agony Sharantyr heard both men swear in astonishment at her lack of blood and solidity—and swing their swords again, that damned blue fire arcing and sizzling between the blades in hungry lines of blue sparks.

  “Die, she-wolf!” one of the brigands snarled, as she circled desperately away from them. He lunged at her.

  Good, that kept them both facing her, so she couldn’t get caught between them and pinned or grappled. Which meant … if she could somehow stand more of this pain …

  Yes! Sharantyr refrained from parrying the blade coming at her. Instead, she embraced it and ran along it, until his knuckles struck her belly. The agony of blue fire raging in her was almost too much to bear, but she kept hold of her blade somehow and slashed it across his face. He fell away with a snarl, his blade clawing numbingly down her legs to clang on the road stones beneath her boots. She kicked the wound she’d made, hard, as she sprang over him and into a whirling parry against the last brigand.

  The swordmaster who was so swift and so good. Their blades met and sang, whirled, and sang again, and at every strike blue fire arced from his steel to the fallen blades of his fellows. She saw his intent in her foe’s face even before he tried it. He wanted to snatch up the blade of the man she’d just blinded and catch her between the two blades, knowing the magic would hurt her where steel could not. She’d no time to sort through Lhaeo’s bag for particular gems, or any other aid at all, and she lacked the strength and speed to stop this stratagem now.

  So Sharantyr let him snatch up that second blade, by backing away and slashing out the throat of the one she’d wounded. “Three down,” she panted aloud, trying to enrage or unsettle him, but the last brigand only smiled.

  “So I’ll have you all to myself,” he said lightly, as he stepped forward with a sword in each hand and blue fire snarling silently between them, “to teach you true pain.”

  Sharantyr stepped away from him, taking care not to trip over any of the bodies. No, let him try to stalk her over them. “My,” she replied more calmly than she felt, “that should be fun.”

  “Oh, yes,” he purred. “You’ll find I’m a very good teacher. I ran my own school of the sword in Athkatla for twelve seasons.”

  “Until they caught you at something, I’ve no doubt,” Sharantyr replied coolly, circling away from him again. His smile broadened. They both knew who was better with a blade and who was swifter and stronger—and it wasn’t the lady ranger. Flamewind stamped and made a small sound of fear and irritation well behind the man, but he never so much as let his eyes flicker. Carefully he advanced, blades out and ready.

  Something burned Sharantyr’s foot, and she looked down and saw another brigand’s blade, alight with blue fire. The swordmaster rushed at her, but she managed to snatch up the fallen blade before his swords could quite touch her, and flung it right at his face.

  Gods, but he was fast! The Athkatlan’s swords caught the spinning steel and struck it aside, so it only sliced a lock of hair from him as it whirled away—but blue fire burns brigands, too, and he cried out, blinded for a moment.

  A moment was all Sharantyr needed. She took the sickening, searing pain of his blade through her breast and left side for the gasped breath that she needed to lean in and hack the side of his neck. He crumpled, clutching at the wound as blood flew, letting go his second sword and leaving bare his remaining swordhand all at once. Sharantyr chopped his blade out of his fingers, leaving him staggering back and staring at her in pain and dawning despair. “You teach well,” she murmured. “Behold: true pain, as promised.”

  His hand darted down from his neck to where she’d known it would go, to snatch and throw a dagger. One of three, if her eyes had served her as they should …

  No, she was in no mood to taste three or even one dagger, just now. She threw her sword into his face and sent him reeling, dagger falling away harmlessly. She was on him like a hunting cat pouncing, her stonemaiden out and around his throat before his body had finished bouncing. He struggled, but she stomped on both of his hands and then sat down hard on his head … and it was too late.

  His face was purple and his eyes were staring their last when Sharantyr murmured almost gently, “Yes. ’Twould have been fun. Go now to Tempus, or whoever among the gods runs a better sword-school.”

  When the swordmaster’s last breath had rattled out and his stare was frozen, she retrieved her weapons, wincing, and went back for Flamewind. The horse snorted at the smell of blood on her and pawed the road but did not run—for which Sharantyr was heartily grateful. She was too tired and too ravaged by pain to chase a horse through the Blackrocks just now.

  Something bayed in the hills to the east, not far off. The lady ranger collected three glowing blades without peering to see what might be howling and caught up Flamewind’s dangling reins. The ranger and the horse left the bodies behind without another glance and walked together down the road to Face Crag.

  Sleek, shaggy things with long fangs snarled and slunk away from the wrack she found there, leaving gnawed bones in their wake. Fresh, bloody skulls lay shattered underfoot amid ruined wagons, dark bloodstains, and broken lances. There were rustlings in the trees on both sides of her as Sharantyr peered this way and that, seeking any sign of a certain young mage or his lady … and thankfully finding none.

  Flamewind snorted at those sounds and danced restlessly at the end of his reins. She held him firmly, plucked up two fallen skins of water to lash at his saddle, then strode on along the road, day drawing down or not.

  As they went, the rustling sounds kept them company. Sharantyr smiled mirthlessly and walked on, seeking death or spellfire.

  A popular quest it seemed, these days.

  12

  MERE MEMORIES OF MAGES

  I try not to remember dead wizards, and I write of them as tersely as possible. Even the memory of some mages can be dangerous. Some have the power to awaken again when folk think or talk too vividly of them. Best be careful what tales of magic you tell around fires by night … or you may end up sharing your fire with unexpected guests.

  Omnur Harlbraeth, Lord of Rolls and Records

  A River of Gold: How I Served Bright Amn

  Year of the Weeping Moon

  Shandril stared around at all that could be seen in the flickering torchlight—bare rocks and the stunted branches of long-dead trees—and wrinkled her nose. “So this is Orcskull Rise,” she murmured. “I can’t see why all the fluster and hurry to reach it, myself.”

  Narm grinned at her and nodded at the Rise, a ridge of smooth bare stone that rose out of the ground like the back of some great sleek monster, to break off in a jagged face of stone overlooking the Trade Way. The old mining trail could be seen winding down out of the hills along its flank. Arauntar was already waving and yelling and pointing, getting wagons parked in a neat row along it.

  “A defensible height, Voldovan said,” he explained, watching guards moving around atop the knoll. It was smaller than Face Crag, but higher than the rockpiles around it.

  “Hunh,” Shandril grunted, swinging down from the perch to clip leading-reins to the bits of the lead horses. “A good place to catch arrows or flee from snarling jaws and fall screaming from, more like.”

  “You,” Narm said with mock disapproval, “listened to too many minstrels at the Moon.”

  “I suppose so,” Shandril agreed wearily. “Adventure was all I craved then—and they brought me adventure, in vivid handfuls I could thrill to beside a familiar fire
.”

  “Regretting it all?” Narm asked softly, taking the rein she handed him, and walking with her toward the shouting windmill that was Arauntar.

  “Not all,” Shandril said with a smile, patting his shoulder and leaning close to brush against him as they walked. “Not all.”

  “Don’t fall over on me, fire-witch!” the grizzled guard roared at her, as if she hadn’t snatched him back from choking, agonized death earlier or ever exchanged even a smile with him. “Get along here! I haven’t got all night, ye know!”

  “Earlier today you didn’t, so much was sure,” she murmured to herself, with a wry grin. “Do you mean me, Arauntar?” she called cheerfully. “Or have you a secret collection of fire-witches I don’t know about? To warm your tent of nights, perhaps?”

  The guard gave her a dark look, and growled, “That’s not something to joke about, lass. I’ve been to Aglarond, ye know—and Rashemen.”

  “Have you now?” she replied softly, as she led their horses along his pointing arm. “I doubt I’ll live to see either of those lands. Stop by our fire and tell me about them some night, if you’ve time and inclination. Please.”

  Arauntar gave her another hard look but made no reply.

  Narm looked at Shandril anxiously as they helped to hobble the horses and unharness them, but she gave him a wordless smile and a kiss as if nothing was bothering her at all.

  Which meant, Narm knew as he frowned his way to the creek to fetch water in the wagon’s two old, battered buckets, that something was. Very much.

  Thoadrin reined in and nodded to Laranthan to scout ahead, where their trail joined the Trade Way. Wordlessly his best warrior nodded, slipped from his saddle and handed his reins to Thoadrin.

  In a few very quiet moments Laranthan was leading four men forward in the moonlight like eager shadows, down to where the rocks gave way to the countless wagon ruts.

  Thoadrin drew his night-blade—daubed with dull brown stain to keep it from flashing any betraying reflection—laid it across his high saddlehorn, and smiled approvingly at Laranthan’s stealthy search. It had been a hard, sore ride from the Two Pools, but it had been worth it. They were well armed again and ahead of the spellfire wench, with time in hand to rest.

  The Trade Way looked deserted, with nary a campfire in sight. Barring lurking beasts—and there were always lurking beasts; the trick was to know the deadly and ignore the rest—he’d have plenty of time to ready an attack.

  Orthil Voldovan’s caravan should reach this spot as the sun was sinking low on the morrow. They’d be tired and in haste to reach Haelhollow, a good way north on up the road, to make camp.

  Thoadrin smiled. There’d be no need for blades yet, only bows from amid the rocks. With so many bolts to loose, they could fire freely. Voldovan just might find himself in the Hollow with nary a guard left to fend off night-wolves.

  And darkness was the favorite fighting-time of Laranthan and most of the other bold warriors of the Cult.

  Ah, but the wolves were bad this year.

  Mirt the Moneylender sat back in his chair, hooked his thumbs into the pocket-slits of what could only be honestly described as his bulging waistcoat, and let out a gusty sigh.

  “Paraster, Paraster,” he rumbled, “what am I going to do with ye?”

  The man sitting across the littered desk from him smiled coldy, lifted his shoulders in the slightest of shrugs, and said, “Nothing. There’s nothing you can do.”

  “Aye, aye, I see the spark and sizzle of thy jaunty little shielding,” Mirt said with a wave of one dismissive little finger. “Feeble things to trust in, I feel ’tis only fair to remind ye.” He waved a pudgy and graying-haired hand around at the walls of his office and added sadly, “Ye stand—sorry, sit—within my power now, merchant. My magics can overwhelm ye … and if it comes to such open unpleasantness as drawn steel, why—I fear I can overwhelm ye.”

  “You?” The wine-importer sneered in open incredulity. “With your breath or mountainous fat perhaps, Old Wolf, but I hardly think—”

  “Aye, ye’ve hit upon it, Paraster: Ye hardly think.” The moneylender drew himself up behind his desk like a ponderously patient whale, folded his hands together—Paraster Montheir stared at them, having never quite noticed before how age-spotted they’d become, and laced with surface-standing green veins—and added mildly, “Rather than court the drastic violence ye allude to, let us do that very thing: think.”

  Mirt unfolded his hands, regarded the nails of one of them critically, and continued, “Think of my position: a respected, long-established merchant of Waterdeep, bound close by the laws and taxes and practices of this my chosen city, perhaps the greatest trading center yet known in Faerûn, a place justly called the City of Splend—”

  “Yes, yes,” the Athkatlan across the table said testily, “spare me the grand local pride. My city makes similar claims, remember, and the great ports of Calimshan sneer at the both of us, as does Tharsult, and … ne’er mind.”

  “Well enough,” Mirt agreed mildly. “Setting aside Waterdeep’s prominence or lack of same, grant me so much: that it is an important trading center, ye and I both sit in it right now, and by trading custom recognized among honest merchants across these Realms of ours, we are thus bound by its local rules.”

  Finishing his inspection of his nails, the Old Wolf lifted his gaze suddenly and disconcertingly to the Athkatlan’s face and added, “Wherefore, as a moneylender of standing within these city walls, I offend against all my fellow coin-traders and further, against all merchants who trade in anything, if I let ye break a bond and debt to me without penalty. If one may with impunity avoid solemnly contracted obligations and yet still trade within Waterdeep, flouting its laws with every coin spun while thy debt remains unpaid, then no merchant is safe, nor any honest citizen buying a radish, nor the city tax coffers, nor the—”

  “Much wind, old man, yet I stand unmoved,” Paraster sneered. “We both know that merchants claim to follow all laws and regulations, and yet they swindle, ‘forget,’ and misrepresent cheerfully and as abundantly as possible. ’Tis not that I can’t repay your loan; ’tis that I’ve sold all properties of mine you could seize, so there’s nothing you can do to harm me now. With the greatest of pleasure, I refuse to repay your loan.”

  “Paraster, Paraster, is this how men grow rich in Athkatla? And keep heads on their shoulders long enough to enjoy anything? Ye can’t have learned such imprudence at home! Why, I’ve been trading in Athkat—”

  “I know, I know, longer than I’ve been alive. Old man, spare me your wheezings. The plain truth is you can’t harm me right now, with all the shieldings awake around me. You can’t hurt me on my way out of Waterdeep from your quaint old mansion because of my magic and all of my guards—not just the ones you see waiting outside your gates, but others who have magic of their own. Even with the influence you shamelessly use by pretending to be a Lord of Waterdeep, you can’t seize any city properties from me, because I haven’t any! I don’t scare, I can’t be bluffed, and I don’t care. Old Wolf, you’re toothless! When all Athkatla, and Waterdeep, too, hears of this, it won’t be you they’ll be cheering or me they’ll be laughing at! Do you have any idea how many men have been itching for decades to see old Mirt the Moneylender get his comeuppance? Why, I’ll ride into Athkatla a hero!”

  The old man behind the desk raised one wintry eyebrow. “Paraster Montheir, importer of sweet wines from Lapaliiya, our hero? Nay, I can’t see that on banners fluttering above the Coinheap of Amn.”

  He stretched, showed his waistcoat some mercy by letting go of it, and continued, “Lad, lad, we both know ye haven’t been unburdened of properties at all! Ye’ve established three new trading companies whose sole staff are servants already in the pay of one Paraster Montheir, and ‘sold’ no less than three tallhouses—with tenant shops, mind—six warehouses, and two villas (the which ye no doubt hope I know nothing at all about) to these new-minted companies. The coins all three reap flow right back into
a purse emblazoned with the name of ‘Paraster Montheir.’ Have ye forgotten that the bankers in Waterdeep are—ahem—moneylenders? Think ye we never talk to each other? I suppose ye also think the tides come not in and the sun may decide not to rise every morn? The rules of our profession are clear: Debts must be repaid in full and on time, arrears attract Palace-set rates of interest, and deliberate or hostile debtors may be flogged by the creditor, who may choose to accept double the interest owing to refrain from cracking a whip over the miscreant who owes him, or not, or seize goods in lieu—purely as he chooses!”

  Paraster lifted a hand that glittered with many gem-studded rings, waved it dismissively, and said coolly, “Spit and snarl all you like, Mirt. Three facts remain unchanged for all your blustering: I’ve torn up my copy of our agreement, you won’t dare show yours to any court or guild here or in Athkatla because the last thing you want is for me to tell any city officials what shady and outright illicit activities you’ve been up to that the bond directly supports and turns upon, and I’m not afraid of the private, outside-the-law muscle you can command.”

  At that moment the Old Wolf’s young strumpet in black leathers hastened into the office through a curtained archway that Montheir had thought led only to an alcove. Had the doxy been listening to all of this? Well, silencing her would prove but a trifling trouble and hurt the old moneylender even more keenly! She knelt before the desk, head bowed.

  “Speak, lass,” the Old Wolf murmured casually, “then depart in all haste. Important trade matters are being discussed.”

  Asper looked up and gasped timidly, “If it pleases my Lord to know, the Lady Mage of Waterdeep has arrived.” Her left eyelid—the one on the far side from Montheir’s devouring gaze—dropped just a trifle, in a wink that let Mirt know that Laeral had been with her in the alcove, listening to all of the Athkatlan’s words.

  Neither she nor Mirt turned their heads so much as an inch in the wine importer’s direction, but they both knew how much he’d suddenly stiffened and gone pale at the mention of Laeral and the sudden thought that she just might be Mirt’s outside-the-law muscle.