Hand of Fire

Somewhere behind them, a man and a horse screamed in unison, raw and loud, as if each was trying to drown out the other.

"This is madness!" Shandril shouted to the wounded guard. "We've got to get the horses stopped, before we-"

Fire burst into being off to the left-Narm's doing?-and by its light the ready-wagon's horses saw the rugged stone wall of the cleft rising up in front of them, very near and growing nearer as each plunging hoof came down. They swerved away from the fire, almost spilling Thorst and Shandril from the perch and dragging a raw roar of pain from the drover that rose almost into a shriek as the wagon tipped alarmingly… then crashed back to earth with bone-numbing force.

Along the widening cleft and out into the gathering night the horses ran, the wagon rumbling more slowly and heavily now. It felt as if something had half-fallen from it and was being dragged. Perhaps that, or perhaps simply training and long habit, made the horses turn again to stay on the road rather than ru

They were past the cleft, and-as the horses swerved around a smashed and splintered wagon that had overturned, then been dragged until its harness broke and its beasts had fled-out beyond the fray, into the deepening night.

Crossbow bolts came humming out of the trees at them. Thorst gasped as one smashed his fingers and drove his bowgun right out of his hand. Others slammed into the boards around him with loud thocking sounds.

Shandril crouched low and brought one hand up under her breasts to drive her collection of rusting armor plates up in front of her nose like a wall. She ducked her head just as a bolt shattered against the boards and showered her with its tumbling splinters.

Another glanced off the perch beside her boots and numbed her arm from fingertips to shoulder, and she heard one of the horses scream.

They were going to die here, shot down like cart-targets paraded slowly before archers, unless-unless she Shandril Shessair sprang to her feet and slashed out into the night with spellfire, scorching trees on one side of the road, then the other. A bolt speeding toward her exploded in flames, came snarling on-and fell away into ashes in the air right in front of her as she frantically poured flame at it.

Panting, she sent spellfire streaking the way it had come, wondering just when Toril would run out of men trying to slay her… and knowing the answer was: never.

Well, at least she could thin their ranks a bit. Flames kindling in her eyes, Shandril leaned low over the perch as the wagon slowed still more, and fed spellfire into the night.

Dark Deeds By Night

'Tis something no warrior ever forgets: that satisfying moment when your sword slides deep in.

Lyonar "Lightmane" Huntsilver

Forty Summers With Drawn Sword

Year of the Lion

Yelling a stream of obscenities that often dipped into repetitive nonsense, a brigand bounded out of the night onto the perch of a bouncing wagon in the heart of Voldovan's caravan. With a wordless roar of glee he slashed his sword viciously through the belly of a fat merchant who was still scrambling to his feet in a confusion of reins.

That belly parted like ripping cloth, leaving no blood or cry of pain in its wake-and the brigand barely had time to gape in astonishment ere the merchant whipped a long, slender dagger from somewhere under that slashed paunch-and drove it up under the outlaw's jaw, snatching the man's sword out of his hand even before he started to sag.

A solid kick sent the corpse plunging to one side to vanish under the wheels of the wagon-which promptly crashed and shuddered their way over him-and the merchant quickly sat down on the perch again, leaving his seized sword pinched in the slashed guts of his false belly, crosswise across his knees, ready to be hauled forth and used in an instant.

"Not so elegant a victory as the Dark Blade of Doom is famous for," the lone merchant murmured to himself, feeling behind him for the shield he'd found in the wagon earlier, "but 'twill do, for now. Must change this robe before someone sees me in good light, too."

Marlel shook his head, wondering how well the man he'd supplanted had been known by others along on this caravan… and therefore, how much of this disguise could quietly be dispensed with when this fray was over.

Another brigand spurred past, threw him a look, and turned with drawn sword and unlovely smile to greet the merchant properly. He slowed his horse to get within easy reach of the cowering man at the reins-and Marlel sprang up with perfect timing to put his new-won sword in the man's face, slashing across brow and nose to blind the man with his own blood.

Shrieking curses, the brigand fell away behind the rumbling wagon, and Marlel sat down again, humming a merry tune.

"Shan!" Narm snarled and suddenly ducked away from Narbuth, springing down from the wagon perch. The guard grabbed at the young mage but missed. With a curse he leaped off the wagon after Narm, leaving it unma

"Shan, I'm coming!" Narm shouted, darting ahead into the chaos of plunging horses, hurled lances, and ru

Narbuth wasted no breath on cries but put his head down and grimly sprinted after the younger, slimmer wizard, hoping to catch up with him ere he made his escape or blasted them all with his spells. Deadly young bastard! Storstil's slayer, too, no doubt!

Ahead of him, Narm turned his ankle, hopped with a cry of pain, stumbled, and almost fell. Narbuth made another grab for him-then Faerun was suddenly full of a rearing horse as big as all the sky and a whooping brigand leaning down from his saddle with a glittering blade sweeping nearer-nearer A bright blue magical radiance crackled from behind the brigand, and that sweeping sword tumbled past Narbuth harmlessly as the horseman threw back his head, flung up his arms, and fell from his saddle with a crash.

"Sorry," Narm panted. "I almost didn't see him in time- are you-?"

Narbuth growled, got both hands on the young mage's throat, and hauled him down to the ground by main strength. They were still there when rough hands tore them both apart and Orthil Voldovan and another of his guards glared down at them.

"Luckily, lad, I saw that," the caravan master growled, "so you'll live-for now,"

Something very cold and hard struck the side of Narm's head, and the last things he perceived, as everything swam and started to plummet, were Narbuth's grimacing face and Orthil's snarled words: "Tie his hands ere he wakes!"

Horsehair sizzled and stank right under her nose as stray spellfire licked along manes. The snorting horses made sounds very like a human's frightened sob and bolted.

Shandril sighed and wasted spellfire on a huge roiling cloud right in front of them that brought them to an abrupt, rearing halt-just long enough for her to snatch Thorst's nearest dagger out of its sheath and bring its point stabbing down on one tight-stretched harness strap.

Worn leather parted like damp parchment, leaving one file of horses nearly free. Side-straps and lead reins still held the two beasts to their fellows, but only one harness-root was still attached to the wagon. It slewed around sharply as those still-tethered horses tried to turn away from the, flames and run hard away.

A few crossbow bolts came leaping out of the flames roiling in the air around her, and one of them thudded into the flank of a horse. It shrieked, bucked, and tried to twist away from the sudden fire in its side. Shandril's world became a confusion of flying reins and frightened horses.

Snarling, she stood up and determinedly aimed spellfire down both sides of the road, as low among the tree trunks as she could, seeking to slay or drive away whoever was firing at her. Leaves melted away into ash, and charred branches crumbled and fell into dying flames.