Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  He had no cloak to warm her with, and if he laid down to keep her warm with himself, he’d fall asleep and they’d be food for wolves or worse. He had a sudden vision of an orc spear striking down out of darkness to impale them both, pinned together to twist and scream and die, and shook his head.

  Something howled, faint and very far off to the east and was answered by something else nearer. It was already cold. If he went for help, Shan would have no one, and he’d probably not be able to find her again, no matter how many folk with torches came back with him. If they came with swords, hunting her to slay, though, they’d find her soon enough. Tymora and Beshaba between them always saw to that.

  “I’m not going to leave her,” he whispered to himself, as he looked around at labyrinthine tangles of dark branches and moonlit rocks—then up at a sudden, throat-freezing movement, to see bats swooping across the clear night sky. Anything could be lurking out there. “Whatever happens, my death if need be, I stay.”

  Shan made a small sound, like a tiny, quizzical protest, and Narm crouched over her, putting his arms around her and his cheek to hers. Her skin was uncomfortably hot, now. Touching her was like putting his bare foot down on a hearthstone too close to a crackling fire.

  He didn’t want to make noise and attract beasts or brigands or awaken her if she was going to flare up into spellfire, perhaps die screaming in flames that ate her before she could gather strength to quell them … but he wanted to comfort her, to let her feel his hands holding her, to …

  Gods, but she was hot! Moist, now, too. Sweat suddenly all over her like dew, though she lay still and silent under him. Narm bit his lip, looking around into the close and tangled darkness. It was filled now with tiny scuttlings and whirrs of night creatures emboldened by the silence of the two humans who’d blundered so spectacularly to this spot. He wondered again what he was going to do. Or what the night was going to do to them both.

  “I think she’s asleep,” Sabran murmured into the ear of his partner. “That leaves just this Narm dolt. Think we can take him down in silence, without waking her?”

  “Easy,” Mhegras muttered back, baring his teeth in an unlovely smile. “I’ve just the spell to—”

  “No,” Sabran said flatly, “no spells. I don’t want magic touching her. How do we know it won’t make her spellfire boil up and snatch her awake, furious and looking for whoever awakened her?”

  The Zhentarim wizard scowled, flexed his fingers as if he wanted to hurl a dozen fireballs, and hissed, “So?”

  “You brought your dagger, didn’t you?”

  “And cast the protections you ordered on us both. What’re you going to—”

  “Drug our little lady of flame so she doesn’t waken and make fire-char of both of us. Now save your brawn and bluster. We’ll be wanting to carry her far enough away from here that we can find a stream and go wading in it a good long way, to keep from being tracked come morning.”

  “Think of everything, don’t you?”

  “Just keep on learning, lad, and hold that temper down with both hands, and someday you’ll think of things just as fast as I do. Possibly faster.” The priest held up a hand for silence and crept forward on hands and knees. Another dozen feet or so would bring him around the last rocks, to a clear crawl downslope to where the spellfire-wench and her so-called wizard lay.

  Mhegras watched Sabran go and marveled once more at the man’s uncanny silence. He’d have to remember that when it came time to kill him.

  Shandril suddenly moaned, twisted, gasped something unintelligible, and thrust herself violently upward under Narm. “No,” she gasped, panting as if she’d sprinted a long way, “No!”

  “What is it, Shan?” Narm cried, hastily sitting back to let her rise, as she clawed at him and her voice rose almost into a shriek of terror.

  “Don’t—don’t you—”

  Drenched with sweat, she stared around wild-eyed, not seeing Narm, and flung out her hands. Spellfire spat from her fingers into the night, and a sudden wash of it rolled down her shoulders and arms and away across the ground, eerie flames racing away over moss and rotting leaves and crisscrossing roots, to fade into drifting wisps of smoke.

  Her gaze found him then, and she murmured, “Oh, Narm.” Shaking her head, she held up her hands. Spellfire burst from her fingertips, flaring up in tiny jets. She watched them blaze for a moment, frowned, and they all sank down in unison and died.

  Nodding her head, she said grimly, “It obeys me again.” She drew in a deep, ragged sigh and added despairingly, “But look how swiftly it’s come back! I was drained, and now—so strong, and still building!” Unshed tears were glimmering in her eyes.

  “Oh, Narm,” she asked, voice quavering, “what am I going to do?”

  “Bane forfend, priest—what now?”

  “We creep right back to our wagon again,” Sabran replied coolly, “and wait for a better chance. Unless you want to find as swift and warm a grave as all the others along on this caravan who didn’t wait.”

  Mhegras cast a quick look back at the awakened lass through black fingers of spellfire-scorched branches that were wreathed in little plumes of smoke, and hissed, “No. Creeping back home seems very wise about now.”

  Sabran nodded silently and led the way, as stealthy as ever. Still shaken, Mhegras did strictly as he’d been told earlier, keeping only a hand-length behind Sabran’s boots and putting his own hands and feet just where the priest had, without complaint. On hands and knees like slinking dogs they went, down a little gully and back up its far side, over a wooded ridge where the path burned by spellfire was clearly visible amid a sharp stink of woodsmoke, and across bright, moonlit rocks to another dark gully.

  The way was tricky, through many vines and branches, and not even Sabran saw two dark figures rise up behind them like shadows.

  Fingers fell like steel claws on two Zhent necks, heralded by a little, terrified chirp from Mhegras.

  “Oh, no, you don’t—either of you. Zhent dogs.”

  “Who—?” Sabran choked, as fingers closed inexorably around his throat, and went on closing.

  “Our names are unimportant,” said a soft, rough-edged, and somehow familiar voice, from behind the gargling, squalling Mhegras.

  “Aye,” the man throttling Sabran agreed, and the frantically twisting priest saw the glint of teeth catching moonlight in a grin. “In fact, you can call us Arauntar an’ Beldimarr.”

  The priest spent precious air. He had to know. “Wh—why?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve been known to harp,” Arauntar murmured and broke the wizard’s neck.

  16

  RULED BY A MADMAN

  Many a spoiled whim-driven tyrant is deemed mad, but he who listens to his dreams of “might have been” and “should have been me” is truly ruled by a madman. Let such whispers whirl away like a cap plucked off by the wind, and ride on happier. There’ll be time for regrets soon enough; when they’re lowering you into your grave, if not earlier.

  Storm Silverhand

  Heed Your Heart But Follow Your Harp

  Year of the Queen’s Tears

  Narm eyed the ropes Arauntar and Beldimarr had bound around the untidy stack of wagon wheels and shook his head. He knew how valuable they and the axles heaped beside them were to any caravan. He might be a novice wizard who knew even less about road-travel than about magic, but to him they still looked like hazards waiting impatiently to topple and crush a certain Narm and Shandril.

  The alternative was for them both to sit out all day on the perch where arrows could readily find them as they bounced and rumbled along through the Blackrocks, while everyone in the caravan watched Shan struggling to hold back her spellfire. Voldovan had curtly installed them in a wagon so crammed with cargo and gear salvaged from wagons now gone—the roster of the vanished had grown frightening—that there was barely space inside for two to sit touching knee to knee, let alone lie down or try to get away from things they might set afire.

  �
��Easy, Narm,” Shandril murmured. “Stop fretting. Whatever happens will happen, without a single word or lifted finger from us.”

  Narm sighed. “ ’Tis just that I can see these crashing down and bouncing all over the place, right out onto the perch to sweep you under our wheels—and the hooves of all the beasts pulling the wagons behind!”

  “Try to see less,” she suggested innocently, from where she sat cross-legged at his heels, “and finish your dawnfry. Voldovan doesn’t sound like he’ll wait for us or anybody, angry gods included.”

  Narm snorted. “Does he ever sound any different? He should have been a warmaster somewhere or the tyrant of his own warrior kingdom!”

  “Don’t,” Shandril said severely, “give him any ideas. That man can hear flies crawling on horses at the far end of the caravan!”

  Narm snorted again. “A pity he hasn’t the tact of a typical biting fly. I wish he did. I wish—”

  He sighed, turned until their knees touched, and put his hands on her shoulders. “I wish a lot of things. I wish I was a strong, calm war-leader like Florin and an archmage as mighty as Elminster, but with Jhessail’s cheerful openness. I wish neither of us had ever heard of spellfire. I wish—”

  “I wish, I wish,” Shandril reproved him teasingly, “does nothing but get one in trouble if the gods hear and waste the lives of those doing the wishing. Up, lord and master of my heart. Let’s have our horses ready when the raging flame that’s Voldovan comes snarling past.”

  As they rose, Narm said quietly into her ear, “Speaking of raging flame …”

  “I’m still weak,” she murmured back, “and we’d probably both be dead now if Arauntar hadn’t carried me back here. Prowling leucrotta and wolves don’t really care what powers I might have, if I’m too asleep to keep them from tearing out my throat.”

  Narm winced. “You’re the swaggering hero of us two, and I more the shy maid. I’m … I’m just not made for this! I feel so—”

  “Helpless?” Shandril put her arms around him. “I’d hate to share my life, my bed, my chatter time, and my dreams with some swash-booted, jaw-wagging strutter. I like the man I have, sensitive and a little bumbling. So don’t turn into Torm of the Knights on me, now.”

  Narm snorted. “Small chance of that,” he replied, “unless you remember all the lewd jokes for me.”

  They glanced one last time around the wagon, made sure the waterskins were handy but safely stowed, and took seats on the perch. Their familiar battered shields were ready to hand. As he hefted them to make sure neither was jammed but both were secure against the bouncing and wagon-wallowing to come, Narm glanced at his lady and said softly, “You were more than a little upset last night, love. You said some … dark things. As if you expected to die soon.”

  Shandril met his gaze, her eyes calm. “I do. If I lose mastery over my own body again, I might even welcome death.”

  Narm shuddered. “I—this is so sudden, talk like this from you. Where’s the lass who blasted beholders and Zhentarim like an army of archmages? Who set out in a fury to slay Manshoon?”

  Shandril put her hand on his. “She slipped away some time ago. Every day changes us all, but it changes me more swiftly than most, and I fear I haven’t much time left. If each of our lives is a candle, mine gets plunged into forgefires daily and melts away like butter in the sun.”

  Narm opened his mouth to say something and found that he could think of no words at all. Shandril leaned forward and kissed him, softly and deeply. As her tongue probed his, he felt heat and just a smarting trace of flame.

  She drew her mouth away but kept her face close to his, their noses almost touching, and said urgently, “Narm, please don’t let us waste time in strife. I may not have much time left. I know this bewilders you, my talking like this, but—hear me: Just a day ago, I could feel cool breezes on my skin, rough wood, or the stubble on your chin under my fingertips. Now all I feel is pain.”

  She looked away, to where the distant shouting figure of the caravan master was striding along the line of wagons, and shivered. “Pain,” she added softly, “and the constant surging of spellfire rising in me. I’m going to explode soon or scorch half the Realms. Perhaps both.”

  Korthauvar Hammantle ran long, weary fingers through his hair. “If I hadn’t hurled that spell …”

  Hlael smiled crookedly. “Our spellfire-lass might be dead now, but more than a score of merchants and Voldovan’s caravan guards would still be alive.”

  “Hurrh. A good half of them were acting for the Red Wizards or the Arcane of Luskan or the Cult, anyway.”

  “Or our Brotherhood. I’d say you thinned the ranks of dangerous Scornubrian loyal-to-cabals skulkers for a good month at least. Your spell worked, the wench lives, and—who’s left, of Voldovan’s traveling band of spellfire-seekers? I don’t mean grasping merchants who’d take it if it fell into their hands, but agents sent along on this run just for the purpose of getting their hands on one Shandril Shessair, or at least her spellfire. Who’s left?”

  Korthauvar reached for a handy decanter, scowling thoughtfully. “Well, now, I think we can agree Aumlar Chaunthoun is dead at last, and his two bully-blades, too. I’m not so sure that the Red Wizard who attacked him went down, though.”

  Hlael Toraunt held out an empty goblet to be filled. “Pheldred? I doubt it. That one has survived more ‘certain deaths’ than even Aumlar.”

  The taller Zhentarim poured, sipped his own goblet, refilled it with apparent surprise at how much he’d just emptied it, and sighed. “So how many of us are left?”

  Hlael made a wry face. “Considering the Brotherhood as a unified force? I don’t think anyone since the High Imperceptor has made that mistake!”

  Korthauvar gave him a look devoid of the slightest hint of mirth and replied, “Humor me.”

  Hlael set down his glass a little hastily. “Well, there’re Mhegras and Sabran—a very dangerous priest. Mhegras is all temper and bluster, but with Sabran guiding him …”

  “I’ve not seen either this morn. They were running around in the battle, but now seem to have disappeared.”

  “Yes, but we can’t assume they’re dead. Any two wagon-merchants could be them in spell-guise, or they could be skulking in the roadside brush, or—”

  Korthauvar waved an impatient hand. “Who else?”

  Hlael held out his goblet again. “Praulgar and Stlarakur are dead, which leaves just three young magelings I know of, plus whatever hireswords they’ve brought along: Deverel, Jalarrak, and Rostol.”

  “More anxious to do each other dirty than to accomplish anything, of course,” Korthauvar agreed, pouring.

  “Of course. The most numerous opposition to the Brotherhood in the caravan remains the Cult of the Dragon—as usual, hereabouts. Our mighty young mage of a spellfire consort, Narm the Clueless, took down Praulgar’s slayer, but ’twas really spellfire that slew him and his fellow blade, Brasker and Holvan. Another pair of Cult swords—their names, I know not—went down in the same battle by other hands. The worst of it all is, I’m not sure how many more Cult swordsmen and thieves like them are along posing as merchants. There was a flurry of signings with Voldovan, on and off, after he agreed to take Shandril Shessair’s passage.”

  “Aye, every third wagon-horse could be a foe. Not a new worry. Count me out who else we do know.”

  “Well, the two really capable Cultists along are both dead: Malivur, who was rather carelessly playing a spice-merchant, and the thief Krostal. Another firewits mage with a wise guide.”

  “Ah, the clockseller. I thought I knew him from somewhere. He stole the Tiara of the Eyes from under our noses—and off Lady Thaulindra’s head—in Sheirtalar some years back.”

  “That’s the man. That leaves one more Krostal knew about, but I haven’t spotted: a Cult wizard he considered ‘powerful.’ There were also whispers among Bluthlock’s men that they’d best watch for a mage of Scornubel along on Voldovan’s run who served the Cult but also quietly received mes
sages from Luskan.”

  Korthauvar’s brows rose, and he reached for the decanter again. “If both sayings are true and refer to the same man, he could well outstrip us both in spells.”

  Hlael nodded. “At least our tarrying has cleared the field of a handcount of other wizards, for when we have to move at last.”

  “What’s your measure of the Arcane, the Red Wizards, and others? I confess I’m just peering and guessing, with not a single surety to my reckoning.”

  Hlael shrugged. “I wear the same cloak of doubt, but there are two persons for certain. One is Stlarakur’s slayer, a sly rogue who calls himself the ‘Dark Blade of Doom’—Marlel of Scornubel, being paid by I know not whom, and currently posing as Haransau Olimer, of ‘Haransau Olimer’s Best Blandreths.’ ”

  Korthauvar nodded. “For all his oil, he’s hard to miss. The other?”

  Hlael shrugged. “Another Red Wizard, but I know not whom, or his guise in the wagons.”

  “There’s never just one of them,” Korthauvar said bitterly, his fingers idly caressing the velvet-smooth decanter.

  Hlael smiled his crooked smile. “Aye, but which fat, cowering merchant is it?”

  “I don’t know,” Korthauvar said slowly, “and I don’t dare show myself trying to find out.” He smiled suddenly, and added, “So we can tell Drauthtar we dare not move in to try to take spellfire yet.”

  A cold, familiar voice spoke from another handy decanter sharply and suddenly enough to make both Zhentarim flinch. “Consider me informed. As it happens—luckily for you—I concur with your assessment. The time to snatch spellfire is not yet. Proceed, but don’t fail to take Shandril when the time is right, or your deaths will be as lingering and as painful as you deserve.”

  Korthauvar and Hlael shivered in unison, exchanged hasty glances, and murmured, “It shall be as you command.”