Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Her teeth were clenched, but with brutal strength he forced fingers into the corners of her jaws and got them apart enough to pour the contents of the vial between. Then he clapped a hand over her mouth and held her jaws together during the brief frenzy of convulsions that followed.

  When she lay unmoving under him and her breath seemed to be coming in deep, regular gasps, Tornar let go and hastily drew back.

  Only Sharantyr’s eyes moved to follow him. They regarded each other for a moment in the moonlight before her lips moved.

  “Thank you for healing me, Tornar,” she told him. “I-I know not how I came here. Was it by your hand? Are you taking me back to the Master of Shadows?”

  “I was ordered to slay you,” he replied slowly, “but I’ll not do it—or go back to Scornubel. I’ve no idea how you came to fall out of the sky onto me … but Lady, I do know one thing: I’ve never seen your like before or ever thought to.” He hesitated, and then asked, “Could you learn to trust me?”

  “I could,” Sharantyr replied, her eyes on his. “Why do you ask this?”

  “I—I’d like to part with you as a friend,” he told her, eyes steady on hers.

  She reached out one weak arm and squeezed his hand. “I think we can manage that.”

  Her reaching was the last insult to her much-slashed leathers, and they fell away from her shoulder and bodice.

  Wordlessly Tornar plucked up her ruined garments and held the scraps back up in position. “The night’s cold,” he said simply.

  She looked at him, smiled, and then glanced up at the tree. “Is there room on your branch for two?”

  The man from Scornubel made a horrible wheezing sound, then, and doubled over. It was three anxious breaths later, when the crawling lady ranger of Shadowdale reached his side to see what was wrong, that she realized Tornar the Eye was laughing.

  20

  HARPING THROUGH SPELLFIRE

  How many dying men and maids have heard harping, haunting yet soothing, lacing on as their life and hearing fade, telling them that beauty endures, that life goes on, that they’ll not be forgotten? Not enough. Never enough. Wherefore get up and draw sword, strike harp, and play! Play, before the gods take us all!

  The character Brokenhelm the Harper

  in Aukh Rammantle’s play The Leaping Fish

  Year of the Thirsty Sword (first performance)

  Campfires flared up in hungry threads of flame to join the leaping, everchanging web of spellfire above them. Its roar was almost deafening, and it stabbed out with arc after arc of fire that made wagons explode in fury at a touch.

  “Gods above!” Mirt said, his merchant’s soul shocked at the waste all around him, trade-goods and the wagons that held them crumbling into raging flames. “Has the lass gone mad?”

  He was speaking to empty air. Asper was already running forward with her slender blade drawn. The two Chosen of Mystra who’d brought them here were flying through the air as swiftly as the spitting bolts of spellfire they were dodging. The two Sisters flew with arms spread and silver fire awakening at their fingertips. As Mirt watched, Laeral shouted, “We must control or at least deflect her spellfire, or she’ll slay everyone here!”

  Alustriel nodded and gestured. In unison they looped in opposite directions through a stabbing forest of reaching bolts of spellfire to come at Shandril Shessair from opposite sides in hopes that one of them, at least, might get through.

  The lass was standing in the white-hot heart of a great fountain of spellfire, the grass and the earth beneath it melted away into whirling ash. On all sides men were either fleeing headlong into the night or trying to reach the maid of Highmoon. Those who sought to attack her were struggling against the heat and the rushing air as if trying to advance into a gale. The forces roiling around Shandril plucked their crossbolt bolts and hurled blades from swift and deadly trajectories into spiraling, tumbling orbits around the lone figure.

  Mirt stared in awe at the inferno, then saw Asper struggling against it, slowing and trembling as she fought the force of the spellflames.

  “Asper! Lass, come back!” he roared hoarsely, and launched himself into pursuit of his lady, wheezing and crashing ahead into the blistering heat desperately.

  Overhead, the Lady Mage of Waterdeep sliced through spellfire as she dived down out of the sky, parting the all-consuming fires with an arrowhead of silver fire shimmering where her outstretched hands met. “Shandril!” she cried, as she came. “Shandril Shessair! In the names of Gorstag and Elminster and Sharantyr, I call for parley! Quench your flames!”

  The lass outlined against the flames looked up and seemed to peer through her spellfire, head to one side as if she couldn’t quite see or hear who approached.

  “Shandril!” Laeral cried again. “We come in peace! Turn aside your flames!”

  Something dark and gigantic was towering over the two flying Sisters now, reaching hungrily out of the night with long hands. From beneath that reaching gloom Shandril sprang into the air, flying on a stream of spellfire, and raised one clawlike arm to lash the Lady Mage of Waterdeep with all-consuming fire.

  Streamers of spellflame raced at Laeral from all sides and struck home. Mirt had a brief glimpse of the Lady Mage arched backward, mouth agape in a soundless scream of pain, before silver fire flashed out from her, obscuring everything.

  When it died away he could see Laeral spinning away across the night sky like a shooting star, arms and legs flailing. She was hurled far across the Blackrocks, north and west, and disappeared.

  “Shandril Shessair!” Alustriel cried as she began her own dive into roiling spellflames. “We come in peace! Cease fighting! Dim your flames, please!”

  Spellfire raged on, so fiercely that Asper was sent staggering back, and Mirt was able to catch up to her. Wrapping one stout arm around her, he plucked her off her feet. “This is no battle for us, gel,” he roared, carrying her back from the roiling flames. “I see snakes in armor, yonder, who’d be better off dead, though! Let’s smite them and leave Shandril to the High Lady!”

  Asper nodded her head, seeming almost dazed by the sheer outpouring of howling force. It was like facing an angrily erupting volcano. Mirt shook his head to banish that brief, long-ago memory, set his teeth, and dragged his slender lady away from where the air itself was crackling and complaining.

  Behind them, the bright figure hurled more spellfire, and in answer the High Lady’s silver fire flared up into a shield. Spellfire and silver fire wrestled, and rushing streams of spellflame melted apart into a wild webwork of many holes—but still roared with frightening speed, streaming over the silver fire as a river rushes over rocks, and hurled Alustriel back.

  Mirt had one glimpse of the High Lady’s grim face before she sank down into a raging whorl of flames, and could be seen no more at the heart of their snarling, behind fires that reared up castle-high in their bright battling.

  He became aware of a sudden sharp pain in his ear, and shook his head, bewildered. Asper had twisted in his arms to bite him, and he dimly became aware that she’d been shouting at him for some time, trying to gain his attention.

  “Aye, what?” he roared, and she pointed with her blade.

  “Look!”

  Mirt looked, and saw a man behind Shandril—a slender, darkly handsome man with a wand in his hand. He’d just fired it, seen its magic race at Shandril’s back and be swept toward the stars by billowing spellfire, shaken his head in disgust, and crouched low to crawl closer.

  Mirt cast a glance at the maid from Highmoon. She was out of control, to be sure, but even if taking her down became needful, a wand-blast that might send miles of Faerûn skyward wasn’t the way to do it.

  “I’ll take him, leaving yon merry blades in yer hands,” he growled in Asper’s ear, and pointed to the handful of warriors struggling against the flames on Shandril’s other side. She clapped him on the arm, whirled to give him a fierce, hot kiss, and then raced away.

  Mirt watched her go with a smile—gods,
what a beauty! What spirit! Gods keep her safe!—then turned and began his own sprint around the flames, toward the man with the wand.

  He’d hoped to cut in close around the lass. The night was growing darker, so her flames must be fading a bit … yet they seemed to be raging as furiously as ever. Off to one side the silver fire that hid Alustriel from view flared up, but it, too, seemed dimmer.

  Mirt glanced up as his boots skidded on something wet, and saw that the stars were blotted out. The dark thing, whatever it was, loomed over most of the camp, now, and seemed—by Mirt’s familiar feeling of being under scrutiny—to be watching events below.

  He shook his head and ran on. The gods certainly seemed to enjoy piling one misfortune atop another, enthusiastically providing three perils where one would do, and curse all the men-twisting bunch of them if that dog with the wand wasn’t standing up behind Shandril to try sending death again!

  The Old Wolf put his head down and ran, cutting in closer to Shandril than he’d yet dared, dodging hungry tongues of spellfire to get to this newest peril, and knowing he hadn’t a blessed hope of reaching the man in time.

  Yet Shandril was no fool. The curtain of spellfire cloaking her back was thicker than it raged anywhere else, and twice the man with the wand had to duck down as spellflames suddenly spat at him. The second time he ended up on his chin on the scorched turf, flattened out as low as he could, while an arm of silver fire wrestled with spellfire uncomfortably close above his head.

  Mirt tried not to think about the fact that he was hurling himself at that particular snarling conflagration much too swiftly to stop or even veer with any hopes of putting himself where he wanted to be—out of the way of a swiftly raised blade, for instance.

  He ducked back out of the way of flame, his racing feet skidding out from under him, and all time for thinking was past.

  He crashed down hard on his back and bounced, slithering on, and saw the wand-wielder give him a startled look and rise again, as a drift of silver fire swept spellfire away like a hand clawing aside a tapestry, leaving the way to Shandril’s back momentarily clear.

  Marlel grinned savagely as he triggered his wand, and then swiftly ducked down again in case the wench should explode.

  His magic sped as swift as any arrow, straight at the maid’s unprotected back. Nothing could stop it now! He was going to be the one who laid low this Sh—

  The great gasping walrus of a man who’d come running out of nowhere flung himself up into the air with a roar that made Shandril whirl around. The wand-bolt struck him squarely in the chest.

  Mirt was flung away as an angry child throws a rag doll, and the last, fading traces of wand-fire reached Shandril.

  She shuddered, spellfire already racing up and down in her limbs in a fresh halo, and the Dark Blade of Doom heard her cry out in pain.

  His grin widened as he fired again, and he was still grinning when spellfire sped back along the path of his bolt, snatching up and reversing the racing wand-fire to stab back and make all Faerûn a single blinding-bright roar.

  Asper saw something small and black tumble past her. From out of its whirling teeth gleamed at her, set in a broad grin, and then the blackened, blazing head was gone into the smoke and wandering flames of the many spreading grassfires.

  She whirled from the business of dealing death to Zhentilar and launched herself into a run. Mirt had been trying to reach that man …

  Spellfire reached for her, but silver fire lashed out again from the blazing ball of warring flame on the far side of Shandril, and the maid of Highmoon turned her attention back to it.

  Asper saw Narm Tamaraith rise from his knees, recognize her, and begin to weave a spell. It did not seem a hostile magic, somehow, and she flung herself to the ground, rolled under the lone tongue of spellfire, and found her feet again to race on.

  She almost tripped over Mirt, a few hard-running moments later, and screamed.

  Spellfire snarled at her almost instantly but was turned aside, and as Asper looked up wildly, Narm gave her a grin and a wave. His magic was settling over her like a bright net, torn and plucked at by spellfire but keeping its full fury away from where Asper frantically fumbled at her belt and scabbard for the vials that held her healing potions.

  The Old Wolf groaned, and smoke poured from his mouth. Asper bit her lip, snatched the seal off one vial, and practically threw its contents down his throat.

  Mirt erupted into a storm of coughing, wheezing, and snorting beneath her, and she rode him like a lover, grinding herself against him to keep him down low to the ground as a fresh storm of silver fire, then spellfire swept Narm’s spell away to claw at each other just above Asper’s head.

  “Easy, Old Wolf,” she soothed him, tugging a second cork out of a vial with her teeth. “Easy, love. Here, drink this.”

  She rolled off him to give him a chance to breathe and swallow, then held the potion to his lips when his trembling hand could not. She didn’t want to look at the ravaged ruin of his chest or wonder if all the healing magics she carried would be enough. Instead she risked a glance through the storms of streaming, whirling flame to where Narm stood, to wave him thanks.

  He was casting another spell now, and as Asper watched she saw the caravan master Voldovan run up behind him, sword in hand, and stab Narm viciously, his second thrust running right through the young wizard’s chest.

  “Shan!” Narm screamed, staggering forward. “Sha—” His second cry ended in a gurgling of blood, and he lurched forward, clutching at his throat, as Voldovan ducked away and disappeared into the drifting smoke.

  Shandril whirled around and stared at her man. Then she howled, “Noooo!” in a voice that must have deafened folk abed back in Triel, and hurled a river of bright fire at Narm.

  It was a brighter sustained torrent than Asper had ever seen before—just looking at it made her eyes stream—and somehow different, shot through with spiraling bright motes that seemed larger and softer than sparks. It enfolded Narm and drove him fully upright, arms flung wide, and seemed to surge through him, pouring forth from mouth and nostrils … even from his eyes, as a storm of bright sparks.

  Narm screamed again, a high, wordless cry of agony, and collapsed, falling over stiffly like a tree toppling into flames.

  “Narm!” Shandril howled, “NARM! Answer me!”

  The maid of spellfire crouched in her inferno, her face wet with tears, staring in despair at where the man she loved had stood. There came no reply from him, nothing but the roaring of flames. Her healing had served her beloved just as it had Beldimarr.

  “No!” Shandril screamed at the skies. “No! Everyone DEAD! Death, death, all I do is slay!” Her voice mounted into a great shriek of grief and rage, and her body erupted in spellfire.

  If Asper had thought the camp a place of blinding-bright flame before, she knew better now. She had to turn her head away, eyes shut tight, against the now-screaming brilliance, and shuddered atop Mirt, whimpering, as the ground beneath them flared into uncomfortable heat and slumped slightly. Closer to Shandril it must be melting and flowing, sinking into a pit … a pit that would claim them both if she didn’t drag her Old Wolf to safe ground.

  Evaereol Rathrane had never known power like this before.

  He was as large as a dozen dragons, a great glowing dark cloud with power enough now to solidify at will or even to make this gigantic form striding, earth-shaking reality. He dared not do so, just yet, as spellfire and something even stronger—these silver flames he’d never seen the like of before—raged below him. Soon, though, all this greatly changed world would tremble and bow down before Evaereol Rathrane, archwizard of archmages, mightiest of all weavers of Art! Smiling inside, the darkness that was Rathrane looked south and west, where a fell and cold awareness had awakened to his presence and now regarded him.

  Larloch, he named that foe, and laughed at it, mind-to-mind, knowing he could sweep away the lich at will … and knowing the distant lord of liches knew it, too.

&nbs
p; Yes, he was now greater than the mightiest of Netheril had ever been, a colossus of flowing magic—and still the spellfire flowed into him from below, and he grew mightier. The little female who was its source was capering and wailing now, gone from rage to grief, but her pull on the Weave was as strong as ever, and the power—the power!

  Ah, still it flowed, bright and searing, painful now as it flooded on into him. Endless, fiery, delicious … Rathrane exulted, throwing up hands to the stars as if he could reach them, towering ever higher. He was shuddering helplessly in the grip of pain, now, as the spellfire flowed on, but he’d master it as he’d mastered it before.

  His shoulders rose again, and he was tall enough to see small winking wisps of silver fire in a distant crater in the wilderlands rock that had not been there before, wherein a spreadeagled and broken Lady Mage of Waterdeep lay staring up at the same stars he stood among.

  He could reach out and pluck her life as easily as a thought … but drew back, even as the thought quickened in him, out of mistrust of that silver fire. There was something too fey about it, too … strong.

  Bah! What could be stronger than he? Well, this pain, for one thing …

  As he convulsed and moaned and collapsed in earnest, Rathrane began to realize for the first time that the endless flow of spellfire was going to rend and overwhelm him, extinguishing all that was Evaereol Rathrane—and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to stop it. He tried to tear himself away from the great colossus, becoming a small and flying thing of shadows once more, but—but—

  He could no longer gather all that was Rathrane together, even if he let all this newfound power slip away and became naught but a ghostly sentience once more … even less than he had been, for all that long, dark time …

  He was going to die at last, he was going to be lost, drowned and torn apart in this sea of endless, gnawing power. He was—doomed. He was … going … at last …

  The darkness above her was alive. Riding her grief and lost in it, Shandril barely cared as the awareness overhanging her faltered and then failed, and thoughts that were not her own invaded her.