Hand of Fire

First one wand, and then the other crumbled into dust that fell away between her fingers into the air. Shandril opened a mouth that had spellfire raging in it and shrieked, "No! Once and forever, nooooo!"

Spellfire roared forth like raging waters bursting a dam. The bright flood of flame thundered into the whirlwind and overwhelmed it, streamers of spellflame spi

Malivur and Krostal of the Cult of the Dragon were hurled high into the air with spellfire raging through them. They screamed as they died, but Malivur's face wore an expression of excited awe before it burst apart… awe at the feel of more raw, raging power than he'd thought possible.

Shandril was screaming now, too. She stood with arms stretched wide and mouth agape, spellfire still roaring forth from her, and her entire body shook and wavered as if clawed by a mighty gale.

As Narm watched, her feet rose off the smoldering floorboards as the torrent of spellflame roared on. She hung in the air, body arched like a star, spellfire streaming from her in a great swath of devouring flames.

That fire raced across Haelhollow, devouring everything in its path, tumbling wagons for an instant before they disintegrated and swallowing all else whole.

Shandril turned her head toward him, and streams of spellfire raced out from her eyes. Narm sprang back, and she looked away hastily, tears of fire streaming down her cheeks. "Narm!" she screamed. "Help me! Help meee!"

"How, Shan?" he cried, ru

"I-" Shandril was crying openly now, shaking her head. Streams of flame leaked from her eyes as cried, "I-I can't control it! The spellfire is-eating me! Taking me awayyyy!"

She hung in the air, weeping bitterly… and suddenly she was flying, as Narm gaped up at her and wondered what by all Mystra's grace he was going to do.

His lady soared across Haelhollow on a jet of spellfire, her arms shaping and directing her streams of flame once more, lofting them at last up and out of the hollow, to the line of rocks where she'd struck down the crossbowmen. Those rocks vanished into smoke and dust, followed by more trees behind them.

Narm shook his head in despair and did the only thing he could. He started ru

Behind him, Aumlar of the Zhentarim staggered to his feet in the waist-deep wagon clutter, wincing in pain. There! The lad who'd dealt him such agony! With a wordless snarl he raised his hands to work a slaying spell.

Something else stirred in the wrecked and tumbled gear behind the wizard. Aumlar ignored it, intent on pronouncing the first words of the incantation. That was all the time Arauntar needed to rise up, shedding coffers and scraps of cloak and broken keg-staves, and reach out. His hands went around the Zhentarim throat in front of him and tightened.

Choking, the throttled wizard started to kick and struggle, so the Harper set his teeth, brought his strength to bear, and broke Aumlar Chaunthoun's neck.

"Aumlar's down!" Mhegras Master-of-Furs hissed, clutching the wagon-flap so tightly that his knuckles went white.

" 'Down' as in dead?" Sabran the Weaver asked calmly.

"Yes!" Mhegras snarled, shaking his head and then dropping the flap and turning to face the priest of Bane. "Gods, what a slaughter! That's three Dragon Cultists at least, and five of the Brotherhood gone! They're dropping like buzzflies at first frost out there!"

Sabran shrugged. "If spellfire was easy to take, Lord Manshoon would have had it long since and none of us would be out here in these wolf-prowled wilderlands, clawing at each other. I won't be surprised if the Red Wizards, the Arcane Brotherhood, and half a dozen lesser cabals have their agents in the wagons-or ru

Mhegras shook his head again and burrowed among their things for his fourth travel-flask of ieirith-wine. Sabran watched him drink deeply of the black, salty stuff-and how does a mage of the Brotherhood come to prefer a vintage of hot, savage Mhair, anyway?-and waited for his partner's next outburst.

Mhegras wiped his mouth, restoppered the flask with a sigh, and said quietly, "Well, if they are, they're likely dead. A lot of them, anyway. That little minx is flying around on her spellfire right now, melting down every wagon and rock she looks at! There aren't going to be many guards or merchants left for them to guard, if this goes on."

"So?" the priest asked calmly.

Mhegras gave Sabran a dark look. "You were right. We take no part in this battle and go right on playing happy heads-down merchants until we've a better chance to take this Shandril." His eyes strayed to a particular coffer.

Sabran smiled. "The drugs to make her sleep are fine. The full array's unscathed; I've just checked. I doubt nightfall will bring us a good chance. Even if all this burning people wearies the maid, there'll likely be Voldovan and his two head dogs everywhere, growling and prowling. Perhaps in Triel."

Mhegras nodded, then gave Sabran a sudden grin. "After she's cooked another dozen of our rivals, hey?"

The priest shrugged. "As tempting as I find that idea, we should do a little prowling of our own tonight. Voldovan's sure to hire guards in Triel, and Thay and the Cult both have their own eyes and ears there, awaiting our arrival."

"I've full spells ready right now," Mhegras muttered. "Tonight it is, then." He reached for the wine flask again.

"Hand of Talos!" Thoadrin swore, as another rock was suddenly smoke and dust, spellflames raging through where it had been to sear away stunted felsul trees and thornbushes alike. If there'd been any better forest here, the wench would've had it all afire already, blazing away to the horizon and choking everyone with its smoke. Instead of just strangling his warriors.

Shaking his head in grim disbelief, Thoadrin of the Cult scrambled a little way farther down from the spellfire-scorched height of rocks. He'd watched spellfire melt away most of that rampart of stone as easily as it turned Cult warriors to ashes. Even a glancing lick of spellflames had been enough to turn armor to bubbling ruin and leave the leg beneath it scorched.

Wherefore Thoadrin was limping now, and his every breath was burning pain. He dared not try to cross the road to the rocks on the other side of Haelhollow again, but there'd been no one left alive there the last time he'd checked, not unless they'd fled a good way into the wilderlands… where the leucrotta and wolves and ore raiding bands were no doubt lurking and watching the fun.

Another few ridges along this side, and he'd be sure of the fates of the rest of his men. Ashes, most of them; he knew that already.

Was he the last? Of all the hardened Dragon warriors he'd led out here?

Gods above, that one girl could deal all this death…

Someone blackened rose up from a tangle of fire-scorched branches in front of him, sword in hand, and Thoadrin felt for his own blade.

"Easy," the man gasped." Tis me, lord Laranthan."

Thoadrin stumbled forward, managing a grin. "You'll forgive me if I don't embrace you," he gasped, almost falling over.

Laranthan shot out a hand to steady him, and gasped, "We're the last. Spellfire comes expensive, it seems." He coughed, then, a raw, rasping anguish that would not stop as he doubled over, shaking.