Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Before whatever it was had attacked him, slashing at him with too much power to master in so short a time, the Laeral-she had spoken with others about “real power,” and the word “spellfire” had been uttered. Now, that was something to seek, surely. An amount of power that the Laeral-she spoke of with respect must be great indeed … and just what he needed.

  Yet his approach must be cautious, lest bright flames burn him once more.

  The shadowy thing that had been Rathrane of Jethaere sank into the glittering carpet of small magics that was Waterdeep’s Castle Ward, dreaming of spellfire … and greatness.

  13

  DEATH AND DARK SURPRISES

  Life holds moments of joy and glee and glory. Try to brand them into your memories, to take out and clutch close and comfort in when life serves up its far more abundant harvests: of fear, cold, loneliness, rage, death and dark surprises.

  Tessaril Winter, Lady Lord of Eveningstar

  No Greater Honour: My Service To the Dragon

  Year of the Crown

  The wagons were rolling along the Trade Way into the bright morning of another day. Arauntar and the other guards spurred their horses up and down the rumbling line with renewed vigor after an uneventful night. The Blackrocks looked as wild and windswept and empty of beasts as ever on all sides of Voldovan’s caravan, as Narm sat on the wagon-perch beside Shandril and gave her his four hundred and sixth anxious sidelong look since awakening.

  This time, Shandril looked back at him and snapped, “Are you going to do that all the way to Waterdeep? ’Tis me! Shan, not some crawling, shiny-scaled monster!”

  “What’s wrong?” he asked quietly, by way of reply.

  Shandril abruptly looked away, saying nothing, and they sat side by side in silence for a time as the wagon bounced and rumbled on.

  There came an especially violent crash and lurch, and Narm flung his arm around his lady as he always did. This time Shandril clung to him when the rocking of the wagon subsided and murmured into his chest, “The spellfire: I’m starting to dream of it, now, just blazing away endlessly. It boils up in me, making me hot, and drives me awake … and when I waken, I find it leaking out of my fingers, as little flames.”

  “I know,” Narm replied, even more quietly. “That’s why yon blanket was wet this morn. It started to smolder and woke me. I dunked it in the fire-bucket.”

  “Without waking me? The bucket must’ve been right beside you!”

  “That’s where it’s been these last few nights … ever since you scorched me.”

  Shandril gasped and stared up into his face. “I—you never told me!”

  Narm gave her a thin smile. “Why? To keep you awake worrying about it, or have you insist on sleeping outside the wagon or somewhere else where I couldn’t touch you or guard you? How would that help either of us?”

  They stared at each other for what seemed like a very long time, as the wagon rocked and rumbled, before Shandril asked pleadingly, “Narm, what am I going to do?”

  Narm opened his mouth twice, then closed it again before uttering a word. They both knew he had no answer to give her.

  “Patience,” Korthauvar Hammantle murmured, leaning forward over a crystal ball that mirrored the whirling glow of his still-forming farscrying spell. “The Cult warriors lie in wait, and the caravan has almost reached them. Whatever befalls, our tarrying is almost at an end. It won’t be long now.”

  Hlael Toraunt threw up his hands with a loud sigh. “Cult warriors!” he echoed. “Swordheads who serve the Dragon-worshipers, not us! Drauthtar’s not going to like this!”

  “Pray let me be the judge of what Drauthtar does and does not like,” a voice said crisply and coldly out of the tall, half-empty decanter hard by Korthauvar’s elbow. The two Zhentarim wizards stiffened in unison, knowing all too well who they were hearing.

  “D-drauthtar?” Hlael asked faintly. “You—you approve, then? Or desire us to act differently?”

  “I’ve desired the two of you to act differently for years,” was the curt reply, “but I entertain similar desires for most lesser mages of the Brotherhood. I see far too much wild, ruthless ambition and far too little obedience to orders and diligence to decreed strategies—too much treachery and too little teamwork. Yet my patience outstrips Korthauvar’s as the sun outshines a candle. Manshoon himself—dragonriding, no less—went boldly after spellfire and was forced into flight. Many, many more Brotherhood mages after him made their own reckless snatches at spellfire and paid with their lives. If you have more success than they did, I’ll overlook the time you took.”

  “And if we don’t?” Hlael managed to ask through a very dry throat.

  “The time for overlooking will then be past,” the decanter replied. “Both on the part of your superiors in the Brotherhood and of this Shandril who hurls spellfire at annoying mages.”

  Hlael Toraunt started to tremble so violently that the decanter rattled on its tray, but the voice came no more. Even after Korthauvar let his spell collapse to snatch up the decanter and hurl it into bursting shards and wet-spraying wine against the nearest wall, neither mage felt any the less watched.

  Zhentarim wizards seldom do.

  “They’ve moved swiftly,” Thoadrin said approvingly. “Better light for us to shoot and scramble in, and even more weariness for their beasts!” He looked up and down the men ranged along the rocks, and growled, “Remember: no man looses a quarrel until my signal!”

  Not waiting for their nods and muttered replies, he peered across the gulf of air to the rocks that rose on the far side of the Trade Way—straight into the eyes of Laranthan, who gave him a reassuring nod and the fist-on-chest gesture that warriors use to mean “All is ready, and I await your signal.”

  Good. He wanted no one to have time to turn and flee or rush off out of bowshot and then scramble up into the rocks to come creeping along after his men. Let them all rumble right into his trap. If his men downed enough beasts of the first few wagons, they’d doubtless crash or stop in disarray, forming a barricade for the rest to crowd up behind. The road would become a shooting-gallery—hopefully long enough to reduce Voldovan’s guards to nigh-none.

  The Cult of the Dragon might not have the fell reputation of all these high and mighty wizards, these Zhents and Thayans and Arcane Brotherhoods, but their claws were real enough—and one of them, now smiling grimly at the approaching dust-cloud and thunder of wagons, was named Thoadrin.

  Soon it would be blood time, and they’d send their bolts hissing down. Thoadrin crouched behind his rock smiling in satisfaction. A near-perfect ambush; slaughtering Voldovan’s men would be a trifling amount of trouble.

  “In fact,” he said aloud to the heedless air, “no trouble at all.” He raised his hand, making sure both Laranthan and his own line of men could see it, and held it high as the first caravan guards trotted past below him. Tense, he awaited just the right moment to bring it down and unleash hissing death.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Narm said suddenly, snatching up the shield from its hooks. “Look at Beldimarr—and Arauntar, too! They’re—”

  “I can see,” Shandril said harshly, eyes dark and hair stirring around her shoulders. Narm looked at her, opening his mouth to tell her to raise her own shield, and saw spellfire rising from her arms and flickering out of her face. He shuddered, said nothing, and lifted the old shield, leaning as close to her as he dared. The air itself crackled and howled past his ear and cheek as spellfire rose. Someone shouted ahead, someone screamed, Beldimarr cursed horribly, and the air came alive with the sound of a dozen crossbow bolts.

  The guard beside Voldovan took one in the throat, threw up his arms, and pitched over backward, falling from his saddle like a felled tree.

  The caravan master snarled out an oath and grabbed at the shield bouncing on its hooks on the dead man’s saddle, trying to get it free. The next quarrel took him through the arm and sent the frightened horse with the empty saddle leaping away from his roar of pain. Q
uarrels were thudding into Narm’s shield and piercing half through it, burning into his ribs, and he was too busy scrambling and flinching away and gasping out curses of his own to see more.

  Shandril took one look at the chaos of archery and dying horses and men and shouted, “Take my legs! Hold me up!”

  Letting his shield slide and hang from its straps, Narm scrambled to obey her. Shandril stood up on the perch, flung her arms wide, and gathered spellfire around herself in a great snarling cloak of rushing flames.

  Crossbow bolts leaped into those flames and hissed away to ashes, one of them crumbling and falling away inches from Narm’s nose. He yelped but clung grimly to his lady’s thighs, hooking his feet around the edges of the wagon-perch door, trying as best he could to brace her against the jarring and bouncing. The horses reared and tossed their heads and snorted, reins swung slack like wild ribbons in the air … and Shandril’s spellfire roared out over their heads, lashing the rocks on either side of the road with leaping, scorching flame.

  The firing was becoming more ragged as Thoadrin’s men ran out of cocked and loaded crossbows to snatch up and aim, but Orthil Voldovan’s run seemed ruined indeed. A wagon had crashed onto its side, ahead, dead horses were dragging in harness everywhere, and there were more guards sprawled lifeless on the ground under maddened hooves than were still running about swinging futile swords and shouting.

  Shandril saw Arauntar grimly scrambling up the rocks, sword in hand. Above him were the helmed heads of grinning warriors who’d gathered to stab him in the face the moment he climbed within reach. She sent spellfire roaring at those faces, and through the rock cleft where they’d been crouching. Letting anger take her, she poured on flames in a white, devouring roar that broke that line of rocks away and sent them spraying and tumbling into the wilderlands beyond.

  Men were hurled away as broken, boneless things amid those shards of rock. More fled headlong from behind other rocks before her flames could reach them, so she turned and served the rocks on the far side of the road the same way.

  About half of that second line of rocks were gone when the fires surging inside Shandril faltered for the first time. She shuddered and held back her spellfire, crouching down into Narm’s embrace.

  A head popped up around the side of an unscathed rock almost immediately, lowering a loaded crossbow to aim right at her. Shandril blasted the stone and all into nothingness ere the bolt could be fired. Beside her, Narm wrestled with the reins as their wagon slowed almost to a stop. One horse dragged limply in harness, and the others, for all their snorting terror, seeing nowhere to flee in the tangle ahead, turned in opposite directions, rocking the wagon wildly.

  “They’re fleeing for their lives!” someone shouted excitedly from behind Shandril—a moment before a splintering crash announced the arrival of the shouting merchant’s wagon into the rear of Narm and Shandril’s ready-wagon. Horses screamed, reared, and fell heavily. In the shouting, pitching confusion Shandril stood up to blast another bowman, missed her footing, and fell on top of Narm with a gasp.

  A crossbow quarrel promptly hummed right past both their noses and cracked off the side of the wagon, showering them with slivers of wood. “Enough adventure for you?” Narm grunted, as he tried to drag them both back inside while still flat on his back with Shandril twisted atop him. He failed miserably.

  “No,” she gasped back, with a short, choked-off laugh as her breath gave way, a single wisp of spellfire darting from her mouth, “there’s never enough!”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Narm muttered, trying again to worm his way back into the wagon. Another crossbow bolt tore through someone’s canvas nearby with a vicious zip.

  The horses all around them fell away into heaps of bone, and dark whirlwinds roared up from where their bodies had been to form a snarling, darkening cloud overhead.

  “Oh, bloody Mystra!” Narm gasped, awe suddenly warring with dread in him.

  Shandril nodded numbly. As the cloud grew larger and darker, men shouted in fear all around them … and the towering darkness seemed to lean forward as if it wanted to fall on her.

  “Theldarace Norlaund, Finecarver” said the sign on the side of the wagon, and the slender, swift-to-smile man who rode inside answered to that name. Neat, trim travel racks sharing the wagon with him securely held the wares he sold, which bore out his claim to be a seller and carver of long, curving pipes for the dedicated smoker of aromatic blends and both longhorns and songhorns for minstrels and musicians. Beautiful things, glossy-polished and as delightful to the eye as elven-work. No one had seen Norlaund do any carving during the run, but the road through the Blackrocks was hardly conducive to any exacting work—least of all tasks done with sharp knives that didn’t involve savage letting of blood.

  Orthil Voldovan had his suspicions about the carver and his two close-mouthed, armed-to-the-teeth servants, who doubled as Norlaund’s drovers—but then, Orthil Voldovan had his suspicions about everybody.

  In this case, however, the long-honed Voldovan instincts had been right to rise warily to the alert. Theldarace Norlaund also had another name, though few outside the Zhentarim knew it. He was one of their most capable and trusted—so much as any member of the Brotherhood is trusted, by fellow Zhents—ambitious young magelings and was proud to hear the name “Aumlar Chaunthoun” uttered with grudging respect by no less a personage than Sememmon, the Lord of Darkhold.

  Thrice he’d been sent out on difficult missions, tasks he’d been expected to die trying to carry out, Aumlar had no doubt. Thrice he’d come back triumphant. His hand had falsified wills and trade treaties alike. He’d slain certain persons so there were no witnesses and naught was left of them but ashes and impersonated them thereafter for short but crucial times—such as guild meetings. As a result, no less than three Sembian merchant companies and one old-coin Sembian family were now Zhentarim-controlled … and knew it not. Moreover, several influential traders in Amn and Tethyr now took orders from the Brotherhood and knew it not. A Waterdhavian guildmaster knew all too well who held the leash about his neck, but he loved that neck too much to dare try to slip that leash and so bowed to the Brotherhood’s covert will. All these things were the work of Aumlar Chaunthoun.

  His latest orders had been to find and keep watch over one Shandril Shessair, the lass who wielded spellfire, to see exactly where she went, what she did, and whom she consorted with—no more.

  Aumlar was no fool. He lusted after spellfire but knew he’d never live to master it, even if he somehow wrested it from the maid out in the wilderlands. This caravan was a-crawl with Zhentarim, Dragon Cult, and other covert agents, all of them waiting to savage each other once any of them moved openly against Shandril.

  It was time to start that bloodletting, to thin the ranks of his rivals. Perhaps he could learn some secrets of spellfire he wouldn’t have to share—or at the very least, uncover the girl’s limitations.

  It was time. Tarry any longer, and Waterdeep would be too close—near enough to flee to, and close enough that ambitious Waterdhavians could ride out and launch their own snares and ploys and outright attacks. Now was the time.

  If he did it deftly, no one would know who’d launched the spell that started it. She’d rend it, of course, so all it had to be was large, overblown, and spectacular.

  The second spell slicing in behind it was the one he wanted to reach her—the one that might give him a whisper-link to Shandril’s mind, or failing that to the thoughts of her husband, the weakling Narm. A way to hear and see snatches of what they were thinking, and murmur the occasional suggestion into their dreams. A hook in the mouth of the most prized fish in Faerûn, a hook the fish hopefully wouldn’t even know was there.

  Now! Bane above, the lass had just stopped hurling spellfire and fallen. If it hadn’t been for her man, she’d have gone right off that wagon and been trampled! She must be drained or wounded! Now!

  On his knees in the wagon, Aumlar snatched the sack of horsebones. Slipping his
arm through a safety-sling to keep from falling, he thrust candles in through the little door of the swaying, dancing lantern that hung from the roof-tree. They seemed to take a very long time to catch alight, and he was hissing a steady stream of heartfelt curses against Mystra and Tymora ere he was able to sit down again, with blazing candles dripping hot wax all over his fingers, and ram them into the waiting iron prongs of his floor-brazier.

  Kneeling behind it, he was tall enough to see out over the perch into the chaos of wagons sideswiping each other—and keep his eyes on Shandril. “Stay where you are!” he roared to his two Zhentilar body-blades. They both made quick the double-slaps on their biceps that signaled they’d heard and would obey.

  Aumlar glared between them as he chanted the incantation and held ends of horse bone in both candle flames, keeping his eyes and will fiercely fixed on Shandril. The spell ended, the bones fell to dust in his hands, and the smoke became heavy green floor-crawling death-gas.

  Outside the slowing, rattling wagon, horses all around suddenly collapsed into clattering, bouncing bones, and dark streams of spell-smoke whirled up from where they’d been.

  One of his guards cursed under his breath, knowing just who’d spun this dark magic, and Aumlar grinned savagely as it took shape—perfectly. He’d only dared practice this stolen Mulhorandi spell once before, but it was coalescing faultlessly. A darkening, swiftly growing cloud was expanding above the knot of wagons, the life-force of dozens of horses snarling up into it like so many tiny cyclones feeding the same lord of storms overhead …

  As Aumlar bent his will on it and shook out of his sleeves what he’d need for his second spell, the cloud rose up like a dark castle tower, leaning over Shandril Shessair like a watchful hawk in the last moment ere it arrowed down to strike at her.