Hand of Fire

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 gri

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.

The wizard thumbed open both small coffers. In one were a few hairs he'd watched Shandril snag on a rough wagon-board, before tearing herself impatiently free. In the other were a few Narm had tugged out of his own head with impatient fingers. From them, Aumlar would with a few muttered words spin a darting thing of stealthy silence to race along in the wake of his Doom of Swords spell. It would do the real harm to the lass that some capricious god or goddess had seen fit to bestow spellfire upon.

"Is it you, Mystra?" he whispered aloud, as he held up a hair in each hand and called the right incantation to mind. "Are you testing us all, once more?"

Blue fire flashed through the dark corners of his mind, just for an instant, and for the first time in months Aumlar Chaunthoun tasted real fear, like cold iron in his mouth. What else could this be but an answer from the goddess?

She was watching him, by the Weave!

"Oh, Mystra," he whispered, voice quavering, and then found himself casting his second spell before he'd quite decided to start unleashing it.

He always thought, afterward, that his casting of the dreamwhisper was Mystra's doing.

The man who was not Haransau Olimer lifted the bowgun, took careful aim, and waited. The maroon-topped wagon was slowing and slewing around as the carter on the perch fought the reins, snarling horrible curses. In a moment its door-flap would be facing him, and A man's head thrust out, looking first to the left. The Dark Blade of Doom fired and saw the merchant who was really a Zhentarim turn back to face his deadly dart. The peering face suddenly grew the dart in its nose. Jerking his head back, the Zhent fell back out of view.

One of the horses reared, and the swearing carter almost fell off his perch. He hadn't even seen his master die.

Marlel smiled softly and went back to being patient.

The dark-robed figure floated up the lightless shaft, paying no heed to the helmed horrors who drifted nearer, coldly flickering-black blades extended menacingly before them. Drauthtar Inskirl had not lasted so long in the Zhentarim by being stupid, or easily cowed. When it pleased the gods-or some cruel superior or overreaching underling in the Brotherhood-to hand him death, his passing would befall, regardless of his desires. Wherefore he sought his pleasures where he saw opportunity, holding back nothing for later, and devoted his efforts to being as indispensable as it's possible for a Zhent wizard to be.

There was no mage more loyal or as well positioned in the evershifting tides of Brotherhood intrigue as the one now passing through the sudden ruby flare of a last defensive spell and stepping onto a platform high up in the dark and seemingly endless shaft.

This was not a stronghold known to many outside the Zhentarim, and the man who waited in its more exalted chambers was a mystery even to most of the Brotherhood. Eirhaun had been a trading partner and crony of Manshoon before the formation of the Zhentarim, and he now commanded the shadowy handful of Zhents who watched their fellow members of the Brotherhood for signs of treachery… or drifting overmuch in loyalty toward Bane and his most ambitious priest, Fzoul.

To speak of the incident that had left Eirhaun with a hand whose fingers were snakes, two empty eyesockets, and an escort of four tiny flying spheres that each sported a single humanlike eye, was to die swiftly and painfully. It had something to do with both Fzoul and Manshoon, Drauthtar knew, but he did as he always did: looked at that eyeless head and spoke to it, as if Eirhaun still had eyes like other men.

The Maimed Wizard stood in shadow, with four guardian gargoyles crouched on pillars around him, looking like the high arched back of a throne Eirhaun happened to be standing in rather than sitting upon. The hand of hissing snakes waved in greeting. "What news?"

"Hammantle and Toraunt still wait and watch. They've convinced themselves that they tarry out of clever strategy, not out of naked fear of spellfire or the sneaking desire to postpone our wrath as long as possible. I've let them spin their own dooms because I'm as interested as they are in the spellstorm that's going to erupt any moment now in that caravan."

"The Cult of the Dragon, the Red Wizards, the Arcane Brotherhood, and half the happy dancing gods and those who revere them are slavering after spellfire," Eirhaun responded. It was not a question.

"All of them have gone along on this caravan with the wench who wields spellfire in their midst. If nothing else, we can slaughter a healthy tally of rivals based in and about Scornubel, when the bloodletting finally starts."

"We?"

"Mhegras and Sabran, riding a wagon together; the ever-capable Aumlar-”

"Unh, that one. Trouble ahead for us all if he gets it."

"Spellfire?"

"Of course. Who else?"

"Praulgar, posing as a pot-seller, and the usual three or four magelings out to make a name for themselves."

"And your intention is?"

"To watch and wait even as Hammantle and Toraunt do, goading them into action if the Cult or the Thayans or someone else gets spellfire-and in the meantime do nothing. There's nothing to report, so I've kept silent."

"I shall do the same. Until something befalls to shift who holds power, spellfire and otherwise, there's no need to inform Manshoon. Those who come to the notice of our Dread Lord are wise to do so only in ways that please him."

Drauthtar inclined his head. "Indeed. I have no other news."

"And I, no orders for you at this time. You have leave to depart."

Drauthtar bowed his head again, and turned to go. He took two steps, then looked sharply to his right, to where the shadows were deepest. There had been the slightest of flickers "You're alone, Eirhaun?" he snapped, turning to face the disturbance. "No other mages?"

"None. Who could cleave all these shieldings? I was warned of your approach a dozen times, as you ascended." The Maimed Wizard strode forward, frowning in alarm even as his disbelieving denials rang out. His gargoyles sprang into the air, to swoop where he was heading.