Hand of Fire

Yet no crossbow quarrels came humming out of the Blackrocks, and no beasts pounced, called, or even showed themselves on the heights. Once a merchant thought he saw the tiny shape of a dragon aloft, flying very high, but when he shouted and pointed, no one else caught sight of it. "Dragons," Orthil Voldovan growled, caressing the already glassy-smooth bone hilt of his handy belt-dagger with white-knuckled hands. "That's all I need!"

Just after the sun had started its long descent, they passed another caravan heading the other way-a fast-moving group of uniform wagons guarded by hard-eyed men in chainmail, all in matching hats and surcoats. Voldovan raised a hand in salute as they thundered past and growled, "Costers!" into the dust-cloud they left in their wake, as if it was the dirtiest oath imaginable.

The dust got into everything. Shandril's hair felt like the gnarled roots of some dead, dried-out plant. It left everyone coughing and spitting, but when they rumbled clear of it the road was as deserted as before, and Arauntar blew a horn-call a

Once more they bounced and thundered along, rocking dangerously, until Shandril shouted to the caravan master, "Is this prudent? You remember what happened last time!"

"If we're attacked, lass, 'twon't matter how fast we're going… might even make a few brigands think twice about daring to dispute with us," was the reply.

As the day wore on, the wheels turned, no misfortune fell, and it seemed as if Arauntar had been wise… for as the shadows grew long and the sun glimmered low behind distant crags, the veteran guard blew another, triumphant horn-blast, signaling all to slow, and turned his wagon up a side-trail onto a large, tilted plateau.

"This'll be where that coster run broke camp, this morn," Voldovan growled in satisfaction. "We've made good time!"

Narm and Shandril exchanged glances and smiles-wry grins that told each other wordlessly that they were both expecting more trouble in the night to come. The wagons' around them seemed to hold an endless supply of bold men seeking spellfire. '

Voldovan evidently thought so too. His first words as he swung down from the perch to see to the horses, before Narm could rise to help him or Shandril slip out the other side to chock the wheels, was "Try to stay out o' trouble this night, the pair of ye, hmm? I'll be sleeping first watch, and would appreciate yer keeping the slap'n'tickle and hurling of spells and cooking folk alive with spellfire to a minimum, hey?"

Narm and Shandril traded more glances, in which eyes were rolled expressively.

The dust cloud ahead was coming her way, fast.

Sharantyr watched it with narrowed eyes, then sighed, hurried down into the deepest part of the ditch, and flattened herself against the ground in the lee of a large rock. A coster caravan, coming fast. They'd ride her down with barely a shrug or put a quarrel through her at first sight for fear she might be some brigand lure.

The cloud grew, and with it a rumble that swiftly grew louder, shaking the ground her cheek was pressed against. She closed her eyes against the dust and waited for the din to simply pass over and leave her-in the dust, of course. She'd be choking on it for some time, as she walked in the wake of the hard-driven wagons.

"Shan, Shan," she asked the stone in front of her wryly, "couldn't you just have settled down in Shadowdale and endangered us all there?"

Then the Knight of Myth Dra

She'd almost caught up to Voldovan there but she'd had to get water and walk far enough beyond Triel that the inevitable lurking outlaws wouldn't decide she'd be easy prey while she slept. When at last Sharantyr found bare rock to leave the road on and cover beyond, she simply had to sleep. She was still weary now, but she was no longer staggering and finding her eyes drooping shut at every third stride. It would be so easy to just lie here, and sleep…

Aye, and be dined upon by the first night-prowling beast that followed her scent along the road.

With another sigh the ranger rolled over and up-and found herself staring at the still-quivering wreckage of a freshly crashed wagon. A wounded horse was thrashing in the road, others were trying to kick their way clear of their harness and away from the bodies of their dead fellows, and the brigands who'd wrought this were darting down from the rocks a dozen strong, or more.

"Kisses upon you, Tymora!" Sharantyr gasped. She'd been only a few strides from walking right under their noses-and by the looks of all the coster outriders sprawled in the road with quarrels standing up out of their backs, she'd have died wearing enough bolts to look like a porcupine.

Three surviving outriders were spurring desperately past her and away, one wearing a quarrel in the shoulder. The brigands wasted no time chasing them. They were already swording the kicking, twisting horse that had gone down- and the drover struggling to get out from under a tangle of harness beside it, too.

Other brigands plunged into the wagon and came out again with blankets and cloaks to toss over the heads of the horses they judged salvageable. There was a brief tumult of wrestling with frightened beasts, swearing, rolling away from deadly hooves… then the hooded horses quieted down to stamping and snorting where they stood, still harnessed. The brigands got down to serious looting. Nigh everyone charged into the wagon, and there were crashings, blows, and shouts of pleased discovery. Sharantyr sidled up behind the one man still outside and hastily ducked away behind the horses when he finally decided to turn and look down the road to make sure no one was coming back from the caravan for their missing wagon.

Calmly, as if she'd every right to be there, Sharantyr cut horse after horse out of harness, taking calm measure of each as she did so. When she'd settled on the one that looked the strongest, she sprang up onto its back. As it reared and bugled its surprise, she plucked the cloak from over its head and dropped it over the astonished face of that last brigand, following it with a hard kick to his jaw that almost unhorsed her. She got a good fistful of mane, and as the horse reared again she kicked out at other horses. One promptly bolted, and that set them all off, Sharantyr using her utmost strength to get the head of her chosen mount around the way she wanted it to go.

By the time the brigands inside the wagon had finished shouting profane queries and emerged from their plundering, Sharantyr of Shadowdale was riding hard along the road. North, in pursuit of Shandril Shessair-and spellfire.

It had evidently been years since this large thunderhooves had felt a rider on its back, and though she undoubtedly weighed less than the wagons it pulled, she was less than welcome. It tossed its head and tried to reach around and* bite her almost ceaselessly as the hills rose and fell beneath its hooves. Its ungainly gait started out weary and progressed through plodding to staggering until eventually Sharantyr tired of its plaintive snorting and tottering progress and swung herself down from its back.

She patted its flank as it tried a half-hearted kick in her direction and told it, "Sorry, old bones. Take your ease… until the wolves find you, I guess. Still, you'd soon be – roasting over a brigand fire if you weren't free now."

She ran a few steps to get clear of its hooves and teeth, then resumed walking.