Hand of Fire

Gri

Smoke arose from at least one singed carry-bag on the wagon floor, but Aumlar was too busy worrying about the Thayan's magic to see which bag it was. Pheldred's spell wasn't just a new set of shields, it was something that sought to drink in the ravages of his wands and twist their energies to forge another spellblade, this one shimmering longer and larger and brighter already.

One of Aumlar's wands burst with a tiny "pop," like a candle snuffed by an overenthusiastic servant. A thread of smoke trailed up from its splintered end. There was no sign of the explosion that might have turned the wagon into a crypt for both wizards. Pheldred must have drained it, and Another wand died, and the Red Wizard's smile widened. Aumlar was almost between him and the entrance, now, but the Thayan showed no signs of alarm or of movement beyond turning in midair to face his foe. His hands were moving again.

Aumlar's face tightened, and he bent his will to calling forth everything from the wands. Even the spellfire-wench couldn't handle much power flowing into her too swiftly, and if Pheldred was going to drain them all anyway…

The floating wizard started to glow, and his spellcasting gestures faltered and stiffened in pain. Aumlar gave him back his own fierce, cruel smile, delighting in the first signs of pain and doubt in those dark, glittering eyes.

"Zhentarim dog!" Pheldred spat, his spell finished.

"Thayan worm," Aumlar replied mockingly, stepping swiftly sideways again. There had been no flash or crash yet, and he wasn't sure what this latest spell was supposed to accomplish-but in case it struck more swiftly than the still-solidifying spellblade, he didn't want to be standing immobile and so offering himself to it.

Something flickered at the corner of his eye, and he leaped in the opposite direction even before turning to look at it. The Red Wizard laughed as Aumlar landed hard on a heap of coffers and a keg and scrambled hastily upright again.

This new spell was a dark, spiraling force of some kind that had brushed the wagon walls at its forming. Now it was tightening and shrinking rapidly as it spun, closing down around the only Zhentarim wizard in the wagon.

Aumlar slashed it to ribbons with three of the wands, spi

The floating Red Wizard gasped as the beams fired by the wands struck his shields once more. His body shuddered in the flickering heart of his diminishing defenses, and he groaned aloud. Then slowly-as if fighting to do so in the gathering radiance around him-he moved his hands in the gestures of yet another spell.

Aumlar cast a quick glance back at Pheldred's dark spiral, saw its last shreds fading away, and bent all his will on searing through the Thayan's shields before Pheldred could do anything else.

The glow around the floating man flared to painful brightness, and the Red Wizard seemed to be struggling in pain or to do something he just couldn't manage. A wand burst with the sort of explosion Aumlar had been dreading, but its racing force was sucked into the crackling force racing around Pheldred, and The Red Wizard was suddenly spi

Pheldred was gone, teleported away to somewhere safer, scorched and hopefully worse. Aumlar Chaunthoun flung himself to the floorboards as magical forces snarled and fought above him, and prayed loud and long to Mystra for his deliverance, pleading for divine forgiveness for his every slighting oath and careless transgression… while the back of his robes smoldered and melted away, his hair sizzled, and the top of his wagon quietly ceased to be.

The day might belong to raging Tempus the Wargod, but Mystra certainly seemed to be listening attentively today.

Fierce Magic Beyond Withstanding

We warriors burn and pillage and plunder what we can reach, but when wizards make war, all Faerun stands in harm's way.

Ortharros of Zazesspur

Bright Ba

Year of the Turning Wheel

"It's past time for pretending to sell spices," Malivur said softly, his green eyes gleaming back the blazing fire of the scene in the depths of his scrying-whorl.

The ginger-bearded seller of clockworks nodded. "In this, we're agreed. He's weak and not looking to see who strikes at him while those flames rage. There'll be no better time. 'Tis best for the Cult, and us two-and all civilized Faerun-if Aumlar Chaunthoun goes down into dust and darkness right now."

"Then stand back, Krostal! Thereafter, move not and say nothing," the dark-robed wizard snapped. "For the greater glory of the Dead Dragons, let him die now!"

The Cult thief nodded and retreated a few swift, smooth steps down the wagon before crouching to watch.

"Mystra guide me," Malivur breathed, and carefully began to cast one of his best spells.

Krostal's hands drifted to the hilts of both his throwing-knives, loosened them, and settled into comfortable grips-just in case.

He smarted from minor burns in a dozen places, and the roofless ruin of his wagon was afire, plumes of smoke rising all around him. "Aumlar Chaunthoun, mighty mage," he mocked himself in a whisper as he crawled to the small, nondescript coffer that held a precious healing potion-and his last and most precious items of magic.

He'd been saving them for a dark and dire time… like right now. This caravan was a-crawl with mages, sorcerers, fell priests, and the gods alone knew what else, and the demise of one Aumlar of the Zhentarim would give great satisfaction to many of them. His fellows in the Brotherhood would probably be the most delighted of all.

So it would not do to be noticed in his weakness just now. Not until The air behind him surged into a sudden, rising roar, and Aumlar flung himself forward in frantic haste, snatching up the coffer and diving out of the wagon without even looking to see what hostile magic had erupted. Pheldred, no doubt, returning to He hit the ground hard on an already bruised shoulder and rolled, kicking out to keep himself moving and letting his tumble carry him around to the left. If that spell flared out in a straight path…

He managed to cradle the coffer from damage and come to a twisted halt facing his wrecked wagon. Breathing hard against the coffer-clutched to his chest like a breastplate- Aumlar stared at a cloud of emerald radiance that was whipping through where he'd been in a rising, howling spiral. A whirlwind of bones-no, teeth, the fangs of myriad beasts-slashed and shredded cloaks, weather-covers, and chests alike inside that eerie glow.

The Cult of the Dragon! Well, it could be a Malarite spell, too, but what interest would the howling beast-lovers have in-never mind. The rotting Gamepiece Carvers Guild of Tharsult might put in an appearance working war against this caravan! Everyone was after spellfire, and The emerald whirlwind abruptly lifted from its slow, methodical destructive drift across the wagon floor and tumbled out its riven front, heading straight for him!

Whoever was behind that spell must be able to see him! With trembling fingers Aumlar tore open the coffer, hastily thrust the two wands it held through his belt, snatched out the stopper of the potion flask and drained it in choking haste, then plucked up the ring that should spin him a shielding to withstand all but… spellfire.