Hand of Fire

Mhegras cast a quick look back at the awakened lass through black fingers of spellfire-scorched branches that were wreathed in little plumes of smoke, and hissed, "No. Creeping back home seems very wise about now."

Sabran nodded silently and led the way, as stealthy as ever. Still shaken, Mhegras did strictly as he'd been told earlier, keeping only a hand-length behind Sabran's boots and putting his own hands and feet just where the priest had, without complaint. On hands and knees like slinking dogs they went, down a little gully and back up its far side, over a wooded ridge where the path burned by spellfire was clearly visible amid a sharp stink of woodsmoke, and across bright, moonlit rocks to another dark gully.

The way was tricky, through many vines and branches, and not even Sabran saw two dark figures rise up behind them like shadows.

Fingers fell like steel claws on two Zhent necks, heralded by a little, terrified chirp from Mhegras.

"Oh, no, you don't-either of you. Zhent dogs."

"Who-?" Sabran choked, as fingers closed inexorably around his throat, and went on closing.

"Our names are unimportant," said a soft, rough-edged, and somehow familiar voice, from behind the gargling, squalling Mhegras.

"Aye," the man throttling Sabran agreed, and the frantically twisting priest saw the glint of teeth catching moonlight in a grin. "In fact, you can call us Arauntar an' Beldimarr"

The priest spent precious air. He had to know "Wh- why?"

"Let's just say we've been known to harp," Arauntar murmured and broke the wizard's neck.

Ruled by a Madman

Many a spoiled whim-driven tyrant is deemed mad, but he who listens to his dreams of "might have been" and "should have been me" is truly ruled by a madman. Let such whispers whirl away like a cap plucked off by the wind, and ride on happier. There'll be time for regrets soon enough; when they're lowering you into your grave, if not earlier.

Storm Silverhand

Heed Your Heart But Follow Your Harp

Year of the Queen's Tears

Narm eyed the ropes Arauntar and Beldimarr had bound around the untidy stack of wagon wheels and shook his head. He knew how valuable they and the axles heaped beside them were to any caravan. He might be a novice wizard who knew even less about road-travel than about magic, but to him they still looked like hazards waiting impatiently to topple and crush a certain Narm and Shandril.

The alternative was for them both to sit out all day on the perch where arrows could readily find them as they bounced and rumbled along through the Blackrocks, while everyone in the caravan watched Shan struggling to hold back her spellfire. Voldovan had curtly installed them in a wagon so crammed with cargo and gear salvaged from wagons now gone-the roster of the vanished had grown frightening- that there was barely space inside for two to sit touching knee to knee, let alone lie down or try to get away from things they might set afire.

"Easy, Narm," Shandril murmured. "Stop fretting. Whatever happens will happen, without a single word or lifted finger from us."

Narm sighed." 'Tis just that I can see these crashing down and bouncing all over the place, right out onto the perch to sweep you under our wheels-and the hooves of all the beasts pulling the wagons behind!"

"Try to see less," she suggested i

Narm snorted. "Does he ever sound any different? He should have been a warmaster somewhere or the tyrant of his own warrior kingdom!"

"Don't," Shandril said severely, "give him any ideas. That man can hear flies crawling on horses at the far end of the caravan!"

Narm snorted again. "A pity he hasn't the tact of a typical biting fly. I wish he did. I wish-"

He sighed, turned until their knees touched, and put his hands on her shoulders. "I wish a lot of things. I wish I was a strong, calm war-leader like Florin and an archmage as mighty as Elminster, but with Jhessail's cheerful ope

"I wish, I wish," Shandril reproved him teasingly, "does nothing but get one in trouble if the gods hear and waste the lives of those doing the wishing. Up, lord and master of my heart. Let's have our horses ready when the raging flame that's Voldovan comes snarling past."

As they rose, Narm said quietly into her ear, "Speaking of raging flame…"

"I'm still weak," she murmured back, "and we'd probably both be dead now if Arauntar hadn't carried me back here. Prowling leucrotta and wolves don't really care what powers I might have, if I'm too asleep to keep them from tearing out my throat."

Narm winced. "You're the swaggering hero of us two, and I more the shy maid. I'm… I'm just not made for this! I feel so-"

"Helpless?" Shandril put her arms around him. "I'd hate to share my life, my bed, my chatter time, and my dreams with some swash-booted, jaw-wagging strutter. I like the man I have, sensitive and a little bumbling. So don't turn into Torm of the Knights on me, now."

Narm snorted. "Small chance of that," he replied, "unless you remember all the lewd jokes for me."

They glanced one last time around the wagon, made sure the waterskins were handy but safely stowed, and took seats on the perch. Their familiar battered shields were ready to hand. As he hefted them to make sure neither was jammed but both were secure against the bouncing and wagon-wallowing to come, Narm glanced at his lady and said softly, "You were more than a little upset last night, love. You said some… dark things. As if you expected to die soon."

Shandril met his gaze, her eyes calm. "I do. If I lose mastery over my own body again, I might even welcome death."

Narm shuddered. "I-this is so sudden, talk like this from you. Where's the lass who blasted beholders and Zhentarim like an army of archmages? Who set out in a fury to slay Manshoon?"

Shandril put her hand on his. "She slipped away some time ago. Every day changes us all, but it changes me more swiftly than most, and I fear I haven't much time left. If each of our lives is a candle, mine gets plunged into forgefires daily and melts away like butter in the sun."

Narm opened his mouth to say something and found that he could think of no words at all. Shandril leaned forward and kissed him, softly and deeply. As her tongue probed his, he felt heat and just a smarting trace of flame.

She drew her mouth away but kept her face close to his, their noses almost touching, and said urgently, "Narm, please don't let us waste time in strife. I may not have much time left. I know this bewilders you, my talking like this, but-hear me: Just a day ago, I could feel cool breezes on my skin, rough wood, or the stubble on your chin under my fingertips. Now all I feel is pain."

She looked away, to where the distant shouting figure of the caravan master was striding along the line of wagons, and shivered. "Pain," she added softly, "and the constant surging of spellfire rising in me. I'm going to explode soon or scorch half the Realms. Perhaps both."

Korthauvar Hammantle ran long, weary fingers through his hair. "If I hadn't hurled that spell…"

Hlael smiled crookedly. "Our spellfire-lass might be dead now, but more than a score of merchants and Voldovan's caravan guards would still be alive."

"Hurrh. A good half of them were acting for the Red Wizards or the Arcane of Luskan or the Cult, anyway."

"Or our Brotherhood. I'd say you thi