Hand of Fire ss-3

by Ed Greenwood

The Cult warrior shook his gauntlet off his hand and drew forth the leather snake of coins from along his forearm, under the armor. He let its river of gold spill into the trader's bowl and had the satisfaction of seeing the trader shake his head and murmur, "Waukeen does smile upon you, lord."

  "True enough," Thoadrin agreed, noting-without appearing to look-his men checking the quivers they received by drawing random bolts forth, ere settling them in saddlebags and on baldrics. "Yet other gods call on me all too often and interrupt the time I'd fain spend with the Lady of All Coins." He nodded as the last coin fell into the bowl, then plucked another from a slit in his swordbelt and tossed it in, too. "Mention me to her in your prayers," he said, turning his horse away.

  "I shall," the merchant said, as they exchanged nods of respect. "What name shall I tell her?"

  Thoadrin smiled. "She knows me well. Just say, 'the dragonbone fool on the horse' and she'll know."

  The trader frowned. "Dragonbone?"

  The warrior shrugged. "Paerun holds a lot of fools on horses. A word to make me stand out."

  As he spurred away from Dowan Pool with his men riding at his heels, trailing the easy laughter of men laden with food, heavily armed, and eager to launch their next attack, Thoadrin murmured aloud the same unfortunate saving that the trader was probably mouthing about now, too: "One fate befalls fools who stand out."

  Marlel smiled softly as he peered out of his wagon-flap. The man with the heavy coffer was just setting it down behind Narm Tamaraith.

  The spellfire-lass mattered, but her lad did not. Of course, if this clumsy hireling-of Thay, if he had his rogues right- succeeded, the Dark Blade of Doom would have to move swiftly. Even the stupidest Zhent could figure out that a lone, grieving lass would have to sleep sometime…

  The Thayan turned and rose from the coffer in a single smooth movement, the knife in his hand a soot-blackened, unglinting fang that he drove viciously up Into empty air, as Narm spun away from him, kicking the back of the man's knee. As the Thayan stumbled, Narm's own knife flashed out and found a home in the man's left eye.

  As the Thayan fell, Marlel saw all the color drain out of the young lad's face. Narm promptly threw up all over the corpse.

  Marlel leaned forward for a better look and hastily ducked back from the flap as one of Voldovan's veteran dogs-Beldimarr-came hastening to Narm, casting a look in Marlel's direction as he did so.

  The man who was not Haransau Olimer cradled a cold belt-flask of thrusk-brewed this morning, and doubtless as bitter as a winter storm by now-and smiled in the dimness.

  So the young lad had grown claws, had he? A pity he was trapped facing a small forest of wise and deadly fangs.

  Four of them, magic leaping between their blades like blue fire as they charged her. Sharantyr bit her lip. This was going to hurt. Ironguard spells stopped metal, not magic.

  The one protecting her now was the variant that left her hands solid to metal, so she could wield her own blade but could also lose fingers or swordhand to hostile steel.

  Two foes coming straight at her, the other two circling wide to her flanks… now!

  She'd taken a wary step or two back, shifted her sword to point at one rushing brigand, then another, and put an expression of fear onto her face. Now, without any warning, she burst into a sprinting run, right at the gap between the man running to her right and the two coming head-on.

  She was tired. She'd have to end this quickly or have it ended for her. Despite her weariness, she was faster than any of these lumbering men, and one of them stumbled as he tried to turn too swiftly and almost pitched over on his side. Cursing and hopping on a turned ankle, he was far behind her, and she'd timed her move perfectly.

  A blade reached for her, slid past her shoulder as she leaned gracefully away from it. She passed the right-most of the two straight-ahead chargers and made her own leap to the left. She landed, spun, and leaped again, turning more quickly than any runner could, and found herself right behind the leader. He was whirling-straight into her blade as it swung through his throat. He hadn't even time for a shout as he choked, looked startled, and toppled, still swinging himself hard around.

  Sharantyr took the man who'd been running beside him next, the man she'd outflanked. He was still turning to follow her runs and leaps, with his back to her, and slaughtering him was hideously easy. Throat again, from behind as he turned into it, then a leap away to face the nearest surviving brigand, the flanker who hadn't hurt his ankle.

  His sneering smile was gone, replaced by anger and rising fear, as the lady ranger of the Knights of Myth Drannor-a title given her by folk of Shadowdale to distinguish her from Florin, who was the closest thing the Knights had to a leader; gods how she missed his easy smile and swift blade beside her now! — ran right at him, charging hard to stay ahead of the last, hobbling brigand.

  Their blades met, and she had to duck away and leap straight up to quell her momentum, so as to cross blades with him when she was properly balanced. This man was good. There'd be no fooling him with swift turns. She cast a glance at the other brigand-Mielikki damn him, he was close! — and came down charging at another foe. Best swing around him to put the stumbler between her and his blade-master fellow, and 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 aga
in. 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.

  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 Faerun, 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 Water-deep'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."