Hand of Fire

The impediment shook his ponderous balance, and the armored giant windmilled with his arms, caught his axe on the doorframe and so avoided falling. He managed to get himself turned around in time to greet one of the stones of Sharantyr's hard-swung maiden with his nose.

He bellowed with pain as his nose broke-probably for the fourteenth or fifteenth time, by the looks of it-and blood streamed forth. The other stone temporarily blinded him and sent him hopping and howling in pain, clutching at his broken browbone and bruised eye and cheek. The axe clattered to the floor, and Sharantyr booted it as hard as she could, sending it skittering only a few feet. Dazedly the guard tried to reclaim it, snatching twice at flagstones close to it. His second attempt brought his bull-thick neck within easy reach of Sharantyr's cord.

She garroted him in a single, catlike pounce and held on grimly through the frantic struggles that followed. Thrice he battered her against the passage walls, trying to dislodge this creature clinging to his head and clawing at his eyes as he gulped and choked and sobbed for air that he could not get… ere he crashed to the flagstones and left her to stagger clear of him, wincing.

She'd loosed her cord the moment he'd started to fall, and he lived still. Sharantyr's own gasps for breath almost drowned out a faint gasp from behind one of the closed doors-but she heard it, looped her cord about its handle in a trice, and hauled it open.

A slender figure was whirling away from her to flee down a passage beyond; Sharantyr threw her stonemaiden at his ankles and plunged after him. Thus she was in just the right spot, when his ru

The man wore three daggers strapped to him, and at least one of them was smeared with something Sharantyr didn't like the looks of. She claimed them all, sheaths and straps, and was pleased to learn that they had black wooden hilts and leather-wrapped grips, so the magic on her wouldn't force her to just drop them the moment she drew them.

Wearing her newfound armory on her forearms and inside her left boot, the Knight of Myth Dra

The room beyond was large and cavernous and almost empty. In one corner stood two lamps, flanking a large old wooden desk heaped with parchments and ledgers. A mountain of a man sat behind it, peering and writing. His eyes were pale, thoughtful things, sunk deep like those of a hound above jowls that would have served many a Dales laborer as a meal.

Sharantyr watched him for a moment, then shifted to look through the spyhole in other directions. A lot of the room- along the wall nearest to her-she couldn't see, but the rest of it seemed empty, so she reached out and calmly opened the door.

The man looked up and quickly acquired a sharp look of surprise. "Who," he said, reaching even more swiftly for something behind his stacks of papers, "are you?"

"Why, Belgon, I'm deeply disappointed that you recognize me not! Tessaril Winter, Lady Lord of Eveningstar, at your service."

The Master of the Shadows scowled. "You're not Tessaril," he snapped, raising the bowgun in his hand until she could -see it clearly. It was aimed right at her face. "Try for the truth again."

"Tessaril sent me, so I thought using her name might get me to you with minimal bloodshed," the lady ranger replied. "It's worked-more or less-thus far." She glanced about the room, seeing two other doors besides the open one next to the one she was standing in, but no other immediate menaces, and added, "I'd like that tradition to continue, if possible, between us. I've no quarrel with you, Master of the Shadows-though if you fire that toy of yours, things may change on that score rather swiftly."

Bradraskor lifted one world-weary eyebrow. "So you're here why, exactly?"

"I'm trying to catch up to two friends of mine-a young couple, he a mage, she a kitchenmaid. Their names are Narm Tamaraith and Shandril Shessair, and Tessaril sent them here to Scornubel to join a caravan under the mastery of Orthil Voldovan. You can't have failed to notice them or learn all of this already; Tess holds you in no small respect."

The Master of the Shadows did not-quite-smile. "So you seek no more of me than information?"

"Indeed."

"Learning things costs me, therefore I sell what I learn."

"I'm quite prepared to pay the going market rates," his visitor said with a smile, "and reward outrageous overpricing appropriately, too."

The fat man behind the desk sat back, his chair creaking in protest, but the aim of his bowgun strayed not one fingerwidth from her right eye. "Are you now? That's good to know. So we come to an agreement, and I impart information to you on, say, the current whereabouts, conditions, and pursuits of this Narm and Shandril-then what? Do you attack me? Leave Scornubel forthwith? Call in lurking allies? Seek for yourself what everyone else interested in these two persons seems to be after?"

"Well, now," the lady who was not Tessaril Winter replied with a twinkle dancing in her eyes, "it begins to seem as if I have information I could sell to you, too."

Belgon Bradraskor sighed. "I'm not interested in crossing tongues with you just now. I'm busy, and be aware that my time costs coins, too. You've already wasted about as much of it as I'm willing to part with freely." The bowgun lifted warningly, and then returned to its former dead-on aim.

"Let's trade truths," his lady visitor said calmly. "Simple, utter truth, line for line. I desire to reach Narm and Shandril as swiftly as possible so I can escort and protect them. Now, what can you tell me of where they are, right now?"

Bradraskor raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Protect them? You? Lady, do you know what spellfire can-"

"Ah, careful!" the beautiful woman in leather armor said warningly, raising a finger. "You don't want to leave yourself owing me two answers, do you?"

The Master of the Shadows sighed, sat back, and waved a dismissive hand. "Lady, who are you?"

"Three answers, I'm afraid," Sharantyr told her finger disappointedly.

Belgon Bradraskor stared at his visitor-gods, but she was beautiful, too!-leaned forward, and said flatly, "If you promise me you don't intend to harm me or my works or work any magic on me or my goods at all and also tell me who you are, I'll give you safe conduct out of Scornubel, tell you exactly where your Narm and Shandril may be found, and give you a fast horse to catch them on-without delay. I'll even throw in whatever wine and food my men can swiftly find, ere you ride. Deal?"

"Add to it that you won't harm, detain, or deceive me in any way, and yes, we do," the lady in leathers told him. "Acceptable?"

"Agreed," Bradraskor told her.

"Good," she said with a smile. "Put your bowgun down, and I'll quell this slaying spell I've been holding back from you, all this time."

"What slaying-ne'er mind." The man behind the desk set down his bowgun, lifted both hands and waved them, palms out and open, so she could see that they were empty and where they were, and then said, "I'm going to ring a bell now, and summon here a man who'll fetch you that horse. 'Twill not be lame or unbroken or of nasty temper, I assure you."

Sharantyr nodded. "Do so," she replied, "and know that I am Sharantyr by name, a Knight of Myth Dra

"A Knight of-? The defenders of Shadowdale?"

"The same. To cross me is also to cross Storm Silverhand, the wizard Ehninster-and in this case, the War Wizards of Cormyr, too."