Hand of Fire

That thought was still bright and bitter in his brain as the keening of the whirlwind rose before him. the ring settled home onto his shaking middle finger. It crumbled away to nothing, its enchantment somehow fled.

For a moment Aumlar just stared at it, numbly unable to believe that his long-cherished magic was gone, now when he most needed it. The green glow fell upon him, dust stung his hands and cheeks, making his eyes water.

He was going to die! Here and now, not in his own richly appointed crypt in his own kingdom somewhere centuries hence when his last age-defying potion failed, but right now, unless The dream whisper! Yes!

He could use it as an anchor! Stumbling backward to buy himself the handful of seconds he needed, Aumlar closed his eyes and firmly forced his will down, down to the right reverie. Seize on the thoughts of those two, and snatch himself to them. 'Twould cost him the link itself and the most powerful of his long-prized stored magics and would take him not all that far from these whirling bones, but to remain here was certain death, and if he could run nimbly enough once he was face to face with young Lady Spellfire, perhaps he could…

Ah! He found and seized on the increasingly familiar "voice" of Narm Tamaraith's mind and rode a rueful thought about being grateful for Arauntar's arrival and at the same time wishing the Harper-Harper? Bane ride Mystra, but the watching gods above must be laughing themselves sick at all this entertainment!-had chosen some other time to wade in, just when Shan's lips were closing hungrily on his, and she was so soft and warm against him…

Well, it was nice to know someone besides the gods was enjoying themselves in this, Aumlar thought savagely as there was a flash of green radiance and the world around him changed.

He was standing in a ruined wagon that was nowhere more than waist-high-larger than the one he'd left, which should be right over there-yes, with an emerald whirlwind now tossing up ragged bodies of dead guards and merchants as it quested this way and that for him, in vain.

Here, smashed casks and coffers were everywhere, tumbled and fallen amid swirled cloaks and draperies. The magic of his own arrival and the dying dreamwhisper were snarling and crackling around him as short-lived, stabbing fingers of lightning.

The head of the guards, that great foul-mouthed swaggering brute called Rauntar or some such name, was standing amid the wreckage not three paces away-frozen in silence with eyes staring and mouth open wide, Aumlar's lightnings playing around his battered armor.

Aumlar snatched at his belt, trying to get out a wand. He wasn't going to be in time.

The man took one stride toward him, reaching out for Aumlar with a large, hairy hand. His eyes flickered and went dark, he let out a long, whistling groan, and toppled over into the wreckage with a crash.

The Zhentarim gasped with relief. The guard was lying quite still, sprawled on tumbled rope and hand-kegs. So where were the two lovebirds and the Harper?

Was Tymora going to be whimsical enough to let him get clear away?

No. Of course not. Something was stirring in the clutter beyond the fallen guard. Oh, gods-spellfire!

Aumlar spun around to flee and found his way blocked by a heap of casks that would undoubtedly crash down atop him and roll if he blundered into them. He turned back again in time to see a debris rise up like a wave, scattering pans and ladles in all directions. The whirlwind of fangs was moving nearer, and there was no escape from it except right through whoever was now clawing their way free of A man's hand! This must be Narm! Aumlar set his teeth and charged. If he could just bowl the lad over and keep going, to get clear before Shandril-wherever she was- scorched him, he could A last fold of cloak was wrenched aside when Aumlar was a bare ru

Narm flung himself aside, knowing that a tangle of lanterns and iron-shod lantern tripods lay behind him amid the tangled weathercovers. He wasn't quite sure why the usually smiling carver of pipes was charging at him, but it seemed likely that Norlaund the Finecarver was just one more wizard after spellfire.

The robed man smashed into the iron lanterns and tripod poles with a solid crash, winding himself and recoiling into a gasping stagger. Narm kicked the man's legs out from under him, and Norlaund slammed facedown onto the floorboards, bouncing dazedly nose-to-nose with Shandril, who was crouching under several cloaks close enough for him to touch.

Narm didn't give the man a chance to lay a finger on Shandril. He put his boot as hard as he could into the man's face, snapping the carver's head back and spattering blood in all directions from a shattered nose, and grabbed hold of the man's belt and tried to heave him away.

Aumlar was too heavy, and Narm overbalanced and crashed down on top of him, rolling over in time to see what was making Shandril gasp, "Oh, gods, I don't like the look of that!"

An advancing whirlwind of teeth and talons was spi

The wizard thrust himself upward, spitting curses and tumbling Narm into some coffers. "Little bastard mageling!" he hissed, eyes blazing. "You're going to die!" His hands stabbed down at his belt.

Where Narm could see at least two wands. He snatched up a shattered lantern and hurled it into the wizard's face.

The mage stumbled back, slipping on the clutter underfoot, and Narm launched himself forward.

Shandril came boiling up out from under her cloaks, forcing Aumlar to turn to face her, his hand rising with a wand in it. Narm smashed into him, driving him back into the tripod poles with a clattering crash.

The impact sent fire through Aumlar's elbow, and he almost dropped the wand. Snarling, he snatched it with his other hand and whirled to fire it right into Narm's face Just as Narm's boot, driven with all the force the young mage could put behind it, slammed into Aumlar's crotch. The two men fell heavily onto shifting coffers and the last of the tripod poles, the Zhentarim emitting a scream that was really more of a strangled chirp of pain. Narm snatched a wand from the wizard's belt, tossed it to Shandril, and grabbed with both hands at the one the finecarver was holding.

Aumlar held on grimly, so Narm punched him in the throat. As the wizard convulsed, he ended up with the second wand. The keening of the whirlwind was very close now, and Narm took it to Shandril rather than daring to throw it.

His lady thanked him with a look, her hair whipping around her and her face as white as bone. The first wand he'd given her was already glowing in her grasp, tiny flames racing around it and up her arm to her shoulder, and she faced the spell of spiraling fangs and started to drain the second wand, snapping, "Narm! Get back! Behind me!"

"No!" he shouted back in sudden anger, as the gale rose around them. "You can't always be doing this alone! I'm your man-I stand with you!"

Why by all the gods were people always attacking them? Why couldn't folk just leave them alone?

"Narm, no!" Shandril cried. "I need you out of the way!"

Narm obeyed with a growl, wading and clambering through heaped coffers until he stood just behind her. The whirlwind was already shredding the front boards of the wagon with a shriek and moving hungrily nearer.

The finecarver lay still in the wreckage in front of Shandril, as she stood facing the whirlwind. From somewhere a crossbow bolt came racing at her-only to be caught in the spell-winds and whirled up into the sky.

Narm wondered desperately what magic he could use to help her, knowing the answer was "none at all." For lack of anything better to do, he drew his dagger, watching Shandril anxiously.