Hand of Fire

And there was nothing-nothing-he could do about it. Perhaps, given years of unbroken study under a kind and capable master, he could become a mage of serviceable power-no meteor of mighty magic, but a careful caster of spells in some upcountry village where no one had ever heard of spellfire or the Zhentarim, either… but he wasn't going to have those years.

The jaws and claws of those who did not wish them well were closing around them now, despite all their capers and the many friends who'd aided them.

Harpers were just folks with a few secrets and a little boldness and a blade or two, not god-guarded workers of miracles. Even old Elminster couldn't be everywhere. Besides, he was more one who placed a careful word here, a crafty manipulation there, and the occasional stinging slap of a strong magic into the faces of foes when he had to. Narm could see that now.

In the end, out here in the wilderlands, they stood alone. Pray though they might, no one was going to save them. He and Shan were going to die soon at the hands of some greedy spellfire-seeker or other, and there was nothing he could do to protect his lady, or hide her, or snatch her away from all of this. He didn't even know if he'd dare to die for her or be given the chance to. If she was an angry flying ball of flame and archwizards were hurling spells at her like clouds of arrows, what by Tempus, Tymora, Azuth, and Mystra was he going to do? Stand and yell at them to stop?

He was supposed to defend his lady, to be strong enough to protect her, and all he had was a laughable handful of spells and soft hands that could give good foot-rubs!

There might even be wolves or beasts creeping closer right now, as he sat cradling Shan, and he didn't even know if he could safely carry her back to the hollow or if one of the guards would just put a blade through them both if he did.

All he could do was be with her, holding her and murmuring empty comfort.

It was different in minstrels' tales. Therein someone who had power could with a single blow or blast and a few heroic words set all the Realms to rights, cow villains into obedience, and as often as not step straight onto a throne. No ballads told of heroes, or anyone, crying tears of fire alone after cooking friends and foes and handy trees alike to ashes-yet not ru

Narm stroked her face, her chin and throat, her hands. Yes, warm, as if she had a fever. What if it was a fever? What happens to spellfire-folk when they get ill? He stole a gentle hand into the top of her bodice and felt down her front. Warm all over, but no warmer there than where she was bared to the night air, on face and hands. She was breathing slowly and shallowly, her face slack and empty. Hmmm.

He had no cloak to warm her with, and if he laid down to keep her warm with himself, he'd fall asleep and they'd be food for wolves or worse. He had a sudden vision of an ore spear striking down out of darkness to impale them both, pi

Something howled, faint and very far off to the east and was answered by something else nearer. It was already cold. If he went for help, Shan would have no one, and he'd probably not be able to find her again, no matter how many folk with torches came back with him. If they came with swords, hunting her to slay, though, they'd find her soon enough. Tymora and Beshaba between them always saw to that.

"I'm not going to leave her," he whispered to himself, as he looked around at labyrinthine tangles of dark branches and moonlit rocks-then up at a sudden, throat-freezing movement, to see bats swooping across the clear night sky. Anything could be lurking out there. "Whatever happens, my death if need be, I stay."

Shan made a small sound, like a tiny, quizzical protest, and Narm crouched over her, putting his arms around her and his cheek to hers. Her skin was uncomfortably hot, now. Touching her was like putting his bare foot down on a hearthstone too close to a crackling fire.

He didn't want to make noise and attract beasts or brigands or awaken her if she was going to flare up into spellfire, perhaps die screaming in flames that ate her before she could gather strength to quell them… but he wanted to comfort her, to let her feel his hands holding her, to…

Gods, but she was hot! Moist, now, too. Sweat suddenly all over her like dew, though she lay still and silent under him. Narm bit his lip, looking around into the close and tangled darkness. It was filled now with tiny scuttlings and whirrs of night creatures emboldened by the silence of the two humans who'd blundered so spectacularly to this spot. He wondered again what he was going to do. Or what the night was going to do to them both.

"I think she's asleep," Sabran murmured into the ear of his partner. "That leaves just this Narm dolt. Think we can take him down in silence, without waking her?"

"Easy," Mhegras muttered back, baring his teeth in an unlovely smile. "I've just the spell to-"

"No," Sabran said flatly, "no spells. I don't want magic touching her. How do we know it won't make her spellfire boil up and snatch her awake, furious and looking for whoever awakened her?"

The Zhentarim wizard scowled, flexed his fingers as if he wanted to hurl a dozen fireballs, and hissed, "So?"

"You brought your dagger, didn't you?"

"And cast the protections you ordered on us both. What're you going to-"

"Drug our little lady of flame so she doesn't waken and make fire-char of both of us. Now save your brawn and bluster. We'll be wanting to carry her far enough away from here that we can find a stream and go wading in it a good long way, to keep from being tracked come morning."

"Think of everything, don't you?"

"Just keep on learning, lad, and hold that temper down with both hands, and someday you'll think of things just as fast as I do. Possibly faster." The priest held up a hand for silence and crept forward on hands and knees. Another dozen feet or so would bring him around the last rocks, to a clear crawl downslope to where the spellfire-wench and her so-called wizard lay.

Mhegras watched Sabran go and marveled once more at the man's unca

Shandril suddenly moaned, twisted, gasped something unintelligible, and thrust herself violently upward under Narm. "No," she gasped, panting as if she'd sprinted a long way, "No!"

"What is it, Shan?" Narm cried, hastily sitting back to let her rise, as she clawed at him and her voice rose almost into a shriek of terror. "Don't-don't you-"

Drenched with sweat, she stared around wild-eyed, not seeing Narm, and flung out her hands. Spellfire spat from her fingers into the night, and a sudden wash of it rolled down her shoulders and arms and away across the ground, eerie flames racing away over moss and rotting leaves and crisscrossing roots, to fade into drifting wisps of smoke.

Her gaze found him then, and she murmured, "Oh, Narm" Shaking her head, she held up her hands. Spellfire burst from her fingertips, flaring up in tiny jets. She watched them blaze for a moment, frowned, and they all sank down in unison and died.

Nodding her head, she said grimly, "It obeys me again." She drew in a deep, ragged sigh and added despairingly,

"But look how swiftly it's come back! I was drained, and now-so strong, and still building!" Unshed tears were glimmering in her eyes.

"Oh, Narm," she asked, voice quavering, "what am I going to do?"

"Bane for fend, priest-what now?"

"We creep right back to our wagon again," Sabran replied coolly, "and wait for a better chance. Unless you want to find as swift and warm a grave as all the others along on this caravan who didn't wait."