Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Aumlar smiled as wands that obeyed his will rose into view on all sides of the Thayan, and began to fire.

  Shields flared instantly into wailing brightness around the floating wizard, who sneered. “Really, Aumlar, is that the best you can do? I expected rather more than this from such a widely feared flower of the Zhentarim!”

  A shield failed with a sound like shattering crystal, followed by the one beneath it.

  Aumlar spread his hands and replied mockingly, “Pray accept my apologies, Pheldred. These feeble efforts of mine were intended to punish but not slay a young lass untutored in magic. If you’d announced your arrival, I’d have prepared something more suitable, but perhaps my paltry wands are about right for dealing with a Red Wizard? There goes another of your shields, and—oh, my—another!”

  The Thayan snarled, his dark eyes snapping with anger, as his third and fourth shieldings collapsed. His hands were moving in the gestures of a spell Aumlar didn’t recognize, but the Zhentarim did not intend to stand still and be blasted. He started to clamber and walk through the scattered goods along one wall of the wagon, aiming to get around Pheldred to the entrance, where he could control when his unwanted guest departed. With even a shred of blessing from Mystra, he could end this menace from his past without even losing his dreamwhisper spell, and—

  The Mystra he’d just cursed. Umh. Ah, well …

  Grinning fiercely, Pheldred finished his spell just as another of his shieldings disintegrated. Those that were left expanded sharply outward, hurling back the beams of the wands in spark-spitting chaos.

  Smoke arose from at least one singed carry-bag on the wagon floor, but Aumlar was too busy worrying about the Thayan’s magic to see which bag it was. Pheldred’s spell wasn’t just a new set of shields, it was something that sought to drink in the ravages of his wands and twist their energies to forge another spellblade, this one shimmering longer and larger and brighter already.

  One of Aumlar’s wands burst with a tiny “pop,” like a candle snuffed by an overenthusiastic servant. A thread of smoke trailed up from its splintered end. There was no sign of the explosion that might have turned the wagon into a crypt for both wizards. Pheldred must have drained it, and—

  Another wand died, and the Red Wizard’s smile widened. Aumlar was almost between him and the entrance, now, but the Thayan showed no signs of alarm or of movement beyond turning in midair to face his foe. His hands were moving again.

  Aumlar’s face tightened, and he bent his will to calling forth everything from the wands. Even the spellfire-wench couldn’t handle much power flowing into her too swiftly, and if Pheldred was going to drain them all anyway …

  The floating wizard started to glow, and his spellcasting gestures faltered and stiffened in pain. Aumlar gave him back his own fierce, cruel smile, delighting in the first signs of pain and doubt in those dark, glittering eyes.

  “Zhentarim dog!” Pheldred spat, his spell finished.

  “Thayan worm,” Aumlar replied mockingly, stepping swiftly sideways again. There had been no flash or crash yet, and he wasn’t sure what this latest spell was supposed to accomplish—but in case it struck more swiftly than the still-solidifying spellblade, he didn’t want to be standing immobile and so offering himself to it.

  Something flickered at the corner of his eye, and he leaped in the opposite direction even before turning to look at it. The Red Wizard laughed as Aumlar landed hard on a heap of coffers and a keg and scrambled hastily upright again.

  This new spell was a dark, spiraling force of some kind that had brushed the wagon walls at its forming. Now it was tightening and shrinking rapidly as it spun, closing down around the only Zhentarim wizard in the wagon.

  Aumlar slashed it to ribbons with three of the wands, spinning them around just for an instant to sever Pheldred’s spell in three places, then sweeping them back to strike the Thayan again.

  The floating Red Wizard gasped as the beams fired by the wands struck his shields once more. His body shuddered in the flickering heart of his diminishing defenses, and he groaned aloud. Then slowly—as if fighting to do so in the gathering radiance around him—he moved his hands in the gestures of yet another spell.

  Aumlar cast a quick glance back at Pheldred’s dark spiral, saw its last shreds fading away, and bent all his will on searing through the Thayan’s shields before Pheldred could do anything else.

  The glow around the floating man flared to painful brightness, and the Red Wizard seemed to be struggling in pain or to do something he just couldn’t manage. A wand burst with the sort of explosion Aumlar had been dreading, but its racing force was sucked into the crackling force racing around Pheldred, and—

  The Red Wizard was suddenly spinning across the wagon, screaming in pain, as bright forces rushed everywhere, struck the wagon walls like waves crashing on rocks, and came racing back again to shock together in the bright heart of nothingness.

  Pheldred was gone, teleported away to somewhere safer, scorched and hopefully worse. Aumlar Chaunthoun flung himself to the floorboards as magical forces snarled and fought above him, and prayed loud and long to Mystra for his deliverance, pleading for divine forgiveness for his every slighting oath and careless transgression … while the back of his robes smoldered and melted away, his hair sizzled, and the top of his wagon quietly ceased to be.

  The day might belong to raging Tempus the Wargod, but Mystra certainly seemed to be listening attentively today.

  15

  FIERCE MAGIC BEYOND

  WITHSTANDING

  We warriors burn and pillage and plunder what we can reach, but when wizards make war, all Faerûn stands in harm’s way.

  Ortharros of Zazesspur

  Bright Banner Above Me: A Swordlord’s Life

  Year of the Turning Wheel

  “It’s past time for pretending to sell spices,” Malivur said softly, his green eyes gleaming back the blazing fire of the scene in the depths of his scrying-whorl.

  The ginger-bearded seller of clockworks nodded. “In this, we’re agreed. He’s weak and not looking to see who strikes at him while those flames rage. There’ll be no better time. ’Tis best for the Cult, and us two—and all civilized Faerûn—if Aumlar Chaunthoun goes down into dust and darkness right now.”

  “Then stand back, Krostal! Thereafter, move not and say nothing,” the dark-robed wizard snapped. “For the greater glory of the Dead Dragons, let him die now!”

  The Cult thief nodded and retreated a few swift, smooth steps down the wagon before crouching to watch.

  “Mystra guide me,” Malivur breathed, and carefully began to cast one of his best spells.

  Krostal’s hands drifted to the hilts of both his throwing-knives, loosened them, and settled into comfortable grips—just in case.

  He smarted from minor burns in a dozen places, and the roofless ruin of his wagon was afire, plumes of smoke rising all around him. “Aumlar Chaunthoun, mighty mage,” he mocked himself in a whisper as he crawled to the small, nondescript coffer that held a precious healing potion—and his last and most precious items of magic.

  He’d been saving them for a dark and dire time … like right now. This caravan was a-crawl with mages, sorcerers, fell priests, and the gods alone knew what else, and the demise of one Aumlar of the Zhentarim would give great satisfaction to many of them. His fellows in the Brotherhood would probably be the most delighted of all.

  So it would not do to be noticed in his weakness just now. Not until—

  The air behind him surged into a sudden, rising roar, and Aumlar flung himself forward in frantic haste, snatching up the coffer and diving out of the wagon without even looking to see what hostile magic had erupted. Pheldred, no doubt, returning to—

  He hit the ground hard on an already bruised shoulder and rolled, kicking out to keep himself moving and letting his tumble carry him around to the left. If that spell flared out in a straight path …

  He managed to cradle the coffer from damage and come to a twisted
halt facing his wrecked wagon. Breathing hard against the coffer—clutched to his chest like a breastplate—Aumlar stared at a cloud of emerald radiance that was whipping through where he’d been in a rising, howling spiral. A whirlwind of bones—no, teeth, the fangs of myriad beasts—slashed and shredded cloaks, weather-covers, and chests alike inside that eerie glow.

  The Cult of the Dragon! Well, it could be a Malarite spell, too, but what interest would the howling beast-lovers have in—never mind. The rotting Gamepiece Carvers Guild of Tharsult might put in an appearance working war against this caravan! Everyone was after spellfire, and—

  The emerald whirlwind abruptly lifted from its slow, methodical destructive drift across the wagon floor and tumbled out its riven front, heading straight for him!

  Whoever was behind that spell must be able to see him! With trembling fingers Aumlar tore open the coffer, hastily thrust the two wands it held through his belt, snatched out the stopper of the potion flask and drained it in choking haste, then plucked up the ring that should spin him a shielding to withstand all but … spellfire.

  That thought was still bright and bitter in his brain as the keening of the whirlwind rose before him, the ring settled home onto his shaking middle finger. It crumbled away to nothing, its enchantment somehow fled.

  For a moment Aumlar just stared at it, numbly unable to believe that his long-cherished magic was gone, now when he most needed it. The green glow fell upon him, dust stung his hands and cheeks, making his eyes water.

  He was going to die! Here and now, not in his own richly appointed crypt in his own kingdom somewhere centuries hence when his last age-defying potion failed, but right now, unless—

  The dreamwhisper! Yes!

  He could use it as an anchor! Stumbling backward to buy himself the handful of seconds he needed, Aumlar closed his eyes and firmly forced his will down, down to the right reverie. Seize on the thoughts of those two, and snatch himself to them. ’Twould cost him the link itself and the most powerful of his long-prized stored magics and would take him not all that far from these whirling bones, but to remain here was certain death, and if he could run nimbly enough once he was face to face with young Lady Spellfire, perhaps he could …

  Ah! He found and seized on the increasingly familiar “voice” of Narm Tamaraith’s mind and rode a rueful thought about being grateful for Arauntar’s arrival and at the same time wishing the Harper—Harper? Bane ride Mystra, but the watching gods above must be laughing themselves sick at all this entertainment!—had chosen some other time to wade in, just when Shan’s lips were closing hungrily on his, and she was so soft and warm against him …

  Well, it was nice to know someone besides the gods was enjoying themselves in this, Aumlar thought savagely as there was a flash of green radiance and the world around him changed.

  He was standing in a ruined wagon that was nowhere more than waist-high—larger than the one he’d left, which should be right over there—yes, with an emerald whirlwind now tossing up ragged bodies of dead guards and merchants as it quested this way and that for him, in vain.

  Here, smashed casks and coffers were everywhere, tumbled and fallen amid swirled cloaks and draperies. The magic of his own arrival and the dying dreamwhisper were snarling and crackling around him as short-lived, stabbing fingers of lightning.

  The head of the guards, that great foul-mouthed swaggering brute called Rauntar or some such name, was standing amid the wreckage not three paces away—frozen in silence with eyes staring and mouth open wide, Aumlar’s lightnings playing around his battered armor.

  Aumlar snatched at his belt, trying to get out a wand. He wasn’t going to be in time.

  The man took one stride toward him, reaching out for Aumlar with a large, hairy hand. His eyes flickered and went dark, he let out a long, whistling groan, and toppled over into the wreckage with a crash.

  The Zhentarim gasped with relief. The guard was lying quite still, sprawled on tumbled rope and hand-kegs. So where were the two lovebirds and the Harper?

  Was Tymora going to be whimsical enough to let him get clear away?

  No. Of course not. Something was stirring in the clutter beyond the fallen guard. Oh, gods—spellfire!

  Aumlar spun around to flee and found his way blocked by a heap of casks that would undoubtedly crash down atop him and roll if he blundered into them. He turned back again in time to see a debris rise up like a wave, scattering pans and ladles in all directions. The whirlwind of fangs was moving nearer, and there was no escape from it except right through whoever was now clawing their way free of—

  A man’s hand! This must be Narm! Aumlar set his teeth and charged. If he could just bowl the lad over and keep going, to get clear before Shandril—wherever she was—scorched him, he could—

  A last fold of cloak was wrenched aside when Aumlar was a bare running stride away, and he stared right into the wild eyes of a tousle-haired, alarmed-looking Narm Tamaraith. With a snarl, he kept right on going.

  Narm flung himself aside, knowing that a tangle of lanterns and iron-shod lantern tripods lay behind him amid the tangled weathercovers. He wasn’t quite sure why the usually smiling carver of pipes was charging at him, but it seemed likely that Norlaund the Finecarver was just one more wizard after spellfire.

  The robed man smashed into the iron lanterns and tripod poles with a solid crash, winding himself and recoiling into a gasping stagger. Narm kicked the man’s legs out from under him, and Norlaund slammed facedown onto the floorboards, bouncing dazedly nose-to-nose with Shandril, who was crouching under several cloaks close enough for him to touch.

  Narm didn’t give the man a chance to lay a finger on Shandril. He put his boot as hard as he could into the man’s face, snapping the carver’s head back and spattering blood in all directions from a shattered nose, and grabbed hold of the man’s belt and tried to heave him away.

  Aumlar was too heavy, and Narm overbalanced and crashed down on top of him, rolling over in time to see what was making Shandril gasp, “Oh, gods, I don’t like the look of that!”

  An advancing whirlwind of teeth and talons was spinning around and around in a towering, emerald-green cloud, shredding the bodies of dead men as it came. It was heading right toward their wagon!

  The wizard thrust himself upward, spitting curses and tumbling Narm into some coffers. “Little bastard mageling!” he hissed, eyes blazing. “You’re going to die!” His hands stabbed down at his belt.

  Where Narm could see at least two wands. He snatched up a shattered lantern and hurled it into the wizard’s face.

  The mage stumbled back, slipping on the clutter underfoot, and Narm launched himself forward.

  Shandril came boiling up out from under her cloaks, forcing Aumlar to turn to face her, his hand rising with a wand in it. Narm smashed into him, driving him back into the tripod poles with a clattering crash.

  The impact sent fire through Aumlar’s elbow, and he almost dropped the wand. Snarling, he snatched it with his other hand and whirled to fire it right into Narm’s face—

  Just as Narm’s boot, driven with all the force the young mage could put behind it, slammed into Aumlar’s crotch. The two men fell heavily onto shifting coffers and the last of the tripod poles, the Zhentarim emitting a scream that was really more of a strangled chirp of pain. Narm snatched a wand from the wizard’s belt, tossed it to Shandril, and grabbed with both hands at the one the finecarver was holding.

  Aumlar held on grimly, so Narm punched him in the throat. As the wizard convulsed, he ended up with the second wand. The keening of the whirlwind was very close now, and Narm took it to Shandril rather than daring to throw it.

  His lady thanked him with a look, her hair whipping around her and her face as white as bone. The first wand he’d given her was already glowing in her grasp, tiny flames racing around it and up her arm to her shoulder, and she faced the spell of spiraling fangs and started to drain the second wand, snapping, “Narm! Get back! Behind me!”

  “N
o!” he shouted back in sudden anger, as the gale rose around them. “You can’t always be doing this alone! I’m your man—I stand with you!”

  Why by all the gods were people always attacking them? Why couldn’t folk just leave them alone?

  “Narm, no!” Shandril cried. “I need you out of the way!”

  Narm obeyed with a growl, wading and clambering through heaped coffers until he stood just behind her. The whirlwind was already shredding the front boards of the wagon with a shriek and moving hungrily nearer.

  The finecarver lay still in the wreckage in front of Shandril, as she stood facing the whirlwind. From somewhere a crossbow bolt came racing at her—only to be caught in the spell-winds and whirled up into the sky.

  Narm wondered desperately what magic he could use to help her, knowing the answer was “none at all.” For lack of anything better to do, he drew his dagger, watching Shandril anxiously.

  First one wand, and then the other crumbled into dust that fell away between her fingers into the air. Shandril opened a mouth that had spellfire raging in it and shrieked, “No! Once and forever, nooooo!”

  Spellfire roared forth like raging waters bursting a dam. The bright flood of flame thundered into the whirlwind and overwhelmed it, streamers of spellflame spinning off in all directions for a few deadly moments ere the emerald radiance was quenched and scoured out of the air, spellfire racing away from it to curve into a nearby wagon, which exploded with a roar.

  Malivur and Krostal of the Cult of the Dragon were hurled high into the air with spellfire raging through them. They screamed as they died, but Malivur’s face wore an expression of excited awe before it burst apart … awe at the feel of more raw, raging power than he’d thought possible.