Hand of Fire

"Huh. Well, Shandril undoubtedly did," Beldimarr said dryly, pointing at the men shuffling uneasily around the fire he'd told them to stay by. "Well, you've seen our new blades. Impressed as much as I am?"

"As they all seem to be able to walk without falling over an' wear swords as if they know how to use 'em, I'd say about half of them'll be Thayan snakes under orders from the Red Wizard Thavaun," Arauntar grunted. "But we expected that. I distinctly remember you telling me we'd be up half the night talking over how to mount guards with so few blades, an' not a new one we can trust. What's really gnawing you?" Beldimarr cast a wary glance over his shoulder, and then muttered, 'Voldovan. He looked at me like he didn't recognize me for a moment, and when he talks his words are stiff an' somehow careful… something's not quite right."

"Was he out of your sight at all?"

"For a few breaths when a Harper I've never seen before signaled me and gave me a message for Twilight Hall; 'Soon the Three Laws will apply in every city.' Mean anything to you?"

Arauntar shook his head. "No doubt 'twill-in time to come, an' too late to save us any trouble."

He sighed, and shook his head again. "Gods above- Voldovan, too?"

Beldimarr scratched at some private itches. "You expected this life we've chosen to be easy?"

"No," Arauntar grunted, "but I was hoping the gods would serve up the worst entertainments no more'n three disasters at a time, if y'know what I mean. I'm not getting any younger."

Beldimarr shrugged. "If we don't handle this just right, my friend, we'll neither of us be getting any older, either."

"Marlel," said the cold, calm voice out of empty air in front of him, "your patience impresses me."

The Dark Blade of Doom stood very still as icy terror gripped him, but he managed to keep his own voice soft and steady. "And so?"

"And so I believe I can use you in this little matter of spellfire, rather than destroying you right now. Sit down and pour yourself some of that vile thrusk you're carrying. We must talk."

Marlel was neither a foolish man nor a slow one. He sat down.

Her breath had barely slowed from facing down the shadow-wraith when she heard it again.

Not slowing her quiet, steady walk, Sharantyr felt her little gem-pouch with her fingertips until she'd trapped a particular stone. Drawing it out, she broke it in the approved ma

When the gentle feathery feeling was done, the ranger swung her backpack off her shoulder and spun around under the uncaring stars.

A particular bush trembled just a bit more than it should have.

"Come out, whoever you are," she told it wearily. "You've been following me for a long time, and I'm growing tired of your clumsy rustlings."

Silence was her reply.

Sharantyr let it stretch, then sighed and added flatly, "Come out or I'll blast you."

More silence.

Keeping her eyes on the bush, she raised one hand to counterfeit the gestures of a spell, wiggled her fingers just so, and a crossbow bolt whipped out of the night-right into her!

Ironguard or no ironguard, a battle-hardened ranger moves when death comes reaching out of the air. She twisted away with lightning speed-too slow by far-and the war-quarrel flashed through her, biting through her belt right beside Lhaeo's gift and catching in the leather baldric down her back. If she'd been whole, it would have torn right through her. As it was, it certainly looked like it was stuck through her.

Sharantyr scowled at it and snapped, "Get out here, or I'll blast the whole hillside!"

The bush trembled reluctantly, and a man slowly rose into view, lifting his empty hands tentatively. It was Tornar the Eye.

Sharantyr nodded, her lips thin. "I thought so. Sent by the Master of Shadows to slay me because I Know Too Much, aye?" It was Tornar's turn to nod.

"My patience for being followed is at an end," Sharantyr told him, showing no signs of pain from his crossbow bolt, though it protruded boldly enough from her belt. "Turn around and go home, or I'll slay you."

"But… but…"

Sharantyr drew a tiny bone knife from inside the cuff of her left boot, and slashed off a lock of her hair. Her next slash, as she kept her eyes steadily on Tornar, was across the back of her own hand. She licked her little fang clean and put it away again, then held the hair in the blood welling out of the wound she'd made.

His eyes widened, then narrowed. Sharantyr strode straight to him, and held out the bloody lock of hair. "Take Belgon this, tell him you succeeded, and look to see me no more in Scornubel."

Tornar looked startled, but he nodded, gingerly took the hair, and hastily backed away.

Sharantyr nodded again. "Now go."

Tornar scrambled up the hillside, dodging between bushes, until he reached a bare rocky place a good way off. There he turned in the growing moonlight, smiled crookedly down at the ranger, and called, "Oh, I'll be telling him of my success, rest easy on that. My bolt was poisoned."

"I know," Sharantyr replied, plucking it nonchalantly out-Tornar's eyes widened-breaking it between her fingers-Tornar's eyes grew even larger-and then tossing it into the ditch. "Bloodbite. You should refrain from using a venom half Faerun takes no harm from. All it does is make me itch-to slay idiots who use it on me."

She ended her words with a pleasant smile and advanced steadily up the hillside at Tornar, until he whirled around and sprinted away.

The lady ranger watched him go, head to one side to listen.

When she was quite sure he wasn't circling around again-not nearby, at least-and no other large creature was on the move close at hand, either, Sharantyr resumed her long, solitary walk.

A few paces along the road she told the stars softly, "The gem-dust on that hair will force you away from me for as long as you carry it, Tornar. Wasteful magic, perhaps-but if that wraith comes back, these gems will probably end up as so many crumbling pebbles, and it'll be just my wits and blades against the world."

Her voice was wry, a few steps later, when she added, "That's what it always comes down to."

Another few strides of road fell away behind her before she lifted her head again and asked the stars softly, "I wonder what mages do when their magic fails them or runs out in a fight, and they've never learned swordplay or how to hide or anything else?"

As usual, the stars declined to answer.

Fire in The Night

When fire leaps up in the night, best have blade ready to hand. Dwarves, men, and elves all seem to feel better when they die doing something-even if it's just screaming and ru

Belmast Thaurondur, Scrollmaster of Suzail

Don't Let It Be Forgot: A Scribe's Life

Year of the Haunting Harpy

Few folk in Triel had even seen the grandest table in town. It gleamed mirror-smooth and bright in a heavily guarded upper room of a granary Elvar had died thinking still held the best cheeses, wines, and smoked meats he'd been able to assemble.

Its new owners had tossed the foodstuffs down the stairs like so much rubble, readying the room for more important uses.

Sitting around a great table staring at a lone tlame dancing in the air by their heads, for instance.

A man with a face like coldly angry stone and the smallest of razor-straight beards tufting the corners of his jaw leaned forward and asked, "Highest, what should we do now?"

"Unfold to me who on this caravan and harrying it is seeking spellfire-agents, not dreaming-of-luck merchants or hireswords. Everyone from the outset at Scornubel, not just who's still in the hunt now."