Hand of Fire

Shandril saw the sky suddenly vomit forth whirling blades in a short-lived swirl that shredded a man spurring a horse among the wagons, then diced the horse, too. A ghostly dragon's head as high as eight men reared up into the sky, jaws gaping wide-but then collapsed and blew away as two blades met in the chest of the wizard who'd spun it. Sudden pillars of flame struck from the sky to immolate screaming warriors, and a lone crossbow quarrel sprouted in a man's head and snatched him from his feet, sword and dagger spilling from dead hands as he fell from view.

Ignoring all this tumult, the man who'd hurled green flame bowed smoothly to Shandril.

"Lady Shessair," he said pleasantly, "you may have noticed me earlier as Nargalarr the pot-seller, a somewhat half-witted man. Know that I am in truth the wizard Praulgar, and I desire to defend you against all who would take spellfire from y-"

A dagger flashed end-over-end past the nose of one of Praulgar's guards, and burst into nothingness against an unseen shield-but the dagger that spun in its wake sped right through where the exhausted shield had been, and bit through the wizard's throat.

Praulgar staggered, choking on blood, clutched at his throat, and took a few helpless, failing steps, his face suddenly pleading with Shandril as he struggled to speak… and managed no more than a bubbling scream.

"You'll defend no one, Zhentarim," said the man who'd hurled the dagger, striding into view with a sword ready in his hand. There was a second man at his elbow, and together they glared at the wizard's guards.

"D'you want to die, too?" the newcomer asked them softly. The nearest guard shook his head, turned, and drove his sword firmly through the dying wizard. Praulgar slid forward off that darkly glistening blade into a boneless heap on the ground.

"Nay," the guard replied, "not now you've rid us of this tyrant. We'll begone. Tymora smile on all!" He backed a few hasty steps away from the newcomers and then turned and fled, the other wizard's guards with him.

The two newcomers promptly buried their swords in the fallen Zhentarim, just to make sure, and gave Shandril smiles that were meant to be reassuring. "Well met, lady," one said in a deep voice. "I'm Brasker, and this is Holv-"

Shandril sighed and fed them both spellful-short, swift jets, right at their eyes.

Her aim was improving. Screaming, they staggered back, blindly slashing empty air with their swords. Brasker promptly tripped over fallen wagon gear, and Narm sprang up out of the wreckage, dagger gleaming, and pounced on the man. Setting his teeth, he stabbed down, hard.

Shandril struggled for breath, shuddering. She had almost no spellfire left, yet it tugged at her, calling for more of her, trying to pull her into oblivion in its wake.

Feeling empty and weak, she swayed, mastered herself, and sighed, "From the Zhentarim to the Cult of the Dragon. You were right, love-we should have gone on playing dead longer." She looked around the ruined wagon, largely so she wouldn't have to watch Narm clambering forward to gingerly slay Holvan, and sighed again. " 'Twouldn't have worked, though," she added sadly. "They've torn this wagon apart around us."

Narm came back toward her, pale-faced and gasping, bloody dagger in hand, and was promptly sick all over the split and splintered remains of a water-cask. "I-I-sorry, Shan, I-"

"Don't ever be sorry you're not good at slaying," she told him gently. "I hate it just as much as you do. I'll never be good at battle-tactics and lures and being ruthless and all that-and still this fire Mystra gave me eats men I should be fleeing screaming from, and I slaughter them in their tens and dozens." She shivered and managed a weak smile, putting her hand on his arm.

Narm drew in a deep, shuddering breath, nodded, and tried to smile. Someone shouted-a short, desperate, cut-off cry-and he looked back over his shoulder.

He couldn't tell who'd just died or who'd slain them. Several wagons were burning, and others lay scattered in shards and ashes, blown apart by this magic or that.

Narm shook his head, felt around in the wrack at his feet for a leather water-flask, and asked, "Why don't we find ourselves a wagon that's still intact and go play dead there?"

Shandril smiled slowly. "As Torm might put it: you say the sweetest things."

Narm winced, took a swig of water, and crouched low as magic flared out from behind a wagon. Small, sizzling balls of flame streaked across trampled, body-strewn Haelhollow at someone else, for once.

"On the other hand," he gasped, sitting down hastily amid the wreckage, "we could far more convincingly play dead right here!"

His lady burrowed through the tumbled heap of gear like a small whirlwind, hooting with laughter, to put warm arms around him.

Arauntar trotted into view, breathing hard and drenched in too much blood for it all to be his own. He held a drawn, dripping sword in either hand, and looked grim and dangerous. Peering at the heap of shattered gear, he scowled at the giggling mirth rising from it, and growled, "That's all we need! Dead men everywhere, a dozen wagons wrecked or gone, an' now the lass has gone mind-shattered on us!"

He glared at the sky. "A crazy woman with spellfire! Mystra, forgive me, but I really don't recall doing something so bad to you that I deserved this!"

The heap of wreckage surged with wild, redoubled laughter, and this time, helplessly, a second, slightly deeper voice joined in.

Shaking his head and growling, Arauntar waded forward into the hulk of the ruined ready-wagon.

"Dead Dragons preserve!" Thoadrin cursed softly, watching spells flash and men hack at each other-and more than one wagon cartwheel up into the sky, almost lazily shedding goods and merchants and harness. The ground shook as spell-blasts spat men and horses away into the Blackrocks like so many torn and dirty rags. More men came boiling out of nigh every wagon with wands leveled or rings winking on their hands or spells snarling from their lips.

The few Cult warriors who'd survived Shandril's attack to cower behind spellfire-scorched rocks with Thoadrin all gaped at the spellstorm below. Not a few of them drew back and cast him quick glances, as if judging the best time or chance to flee.

"We retreat when / give the order," he told them softly and held up a last cocked and loaded crossbow where they could see it. "Fleeing the Way can be so dangerous…"

One of his men looked at him, then at a knob of rock where spellfire had melted away a height like a small turret, leaving nothing of the four men who'd been crouching behind it but dark, greasy smears on stone. "So dangerous," he echoed, and laughed bitterly.

Thoadrin gave him a stony look but put the crossbow down again, unfired.

When the cursing priest of Bane ducked into the shelter of the dark, silent, horseless wagon bearing the sign that said "Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths," a quick glance was enough to reassure him that it stood empty. Any number of black-armored men might be lying still and flat on their faces amid all the blandreths, of course, but nothing moved, and he could hear no breathing but his own-great loud gasps that told the watching world Stlarakur of Bane was terrified, unaccustomed to hastening anywhere, and in need of a little time to catch his wind before hastening anywhere else.

Stlarakur of the Zhentarim wasted a little of his precious wind in a muttered, heartfelt flood of curses that branded Bane the cause of the bloodshed, affray, and ruin raging all around the wagon-and Bane's response to such an insult was swift and sure.

The shadows behind the wagon-curtain grew an arm with a blandreth clutched on the end of it-an arm that swung around in a vicious arc.

The dull, wet thud of Stlarakur's skull shattering was echoed by just as damp a splattering of Zhentarim brains on the wagon wall. The priest fell heavily to the floorboards, writhed in a momentary convulsion, and fell limp forever.