Hand of Fire

Korthauvar Hammantle gasped, gulped, choked, and could not stop choking. He convulsed, flopping about on the ground like a fish cast up out of the water with his own blood like iron in his mouth… an endless flood of it. Frantically he reached up to Hlael for aid… and died seeing Hlael Toraunt shaking his head grimly and pitilessly and backing away.

A Failing Hand of Flames

Even the mightiest wither and falter. It just takes longer for them to be laid low than those unfortunates they can send warriors to harvest for them. Hold this thought as consolation when the King's blades burst through your door.

Malivur Stonecastle

Fallen From Grace: A Cormyrean Noble's

Year of the Dracorage

Hlael Toraunt ran as he'd never run in his life before. Even that young Tamaraith fool might be able to scorch him with a spell, and if the guard Arauntar caught up with him… well, he didn't want to ever get to know what a few feet of hard, cold steel sliding through his guts felt like.

He needed warriors-men sworn to the Brotherhood and as good with blades as these ragtag caravan guards. The Zhent magelings had some, and he needed them, now. If he had to blast a few Brother wizards to ashes to get them, well… it wasn't as if the Brotherhood lacked a surplus of such dolts…

Panting, Hlael rounded the wagon that held Deverel of the Zhentarim, masquerading as a dealer in cheeses from Elturel. He skidded to a halt as the point of a ready sword thrust up almost into his face.

"Yes?" its owner asked coldly. "You have business with Master Rinthar?"

Hlael drew in a deep breath, met the Zhentilar's cold regard with ice of his own, and said, "Yes. Tell him it's his brother-the one called Deverel. I've come from Manshoon, and I'd like to buy some cheese!"

"Stop!" Shandril yelled, into the storm of steel. "Stop, or you'll kill each other!"

She spat a tiny line of spellfire between their snarling faces, to make them heed-and it worked. Arauntar reeled back, blinking, and risked a quick glance in her direction. "Well, aye, Lass, when you take steel to someone, that's the usual aim," he growled.

"Gods, no," the maid of Highmoon cried. "Not you two!"

Sharantyr and Arauntar stared at her, and then at each other over their blades, blinked, and asked more or less in unison, "So who by Leira the Deceiver are you?"

Arauntar lurched up to the wagon, waved a weary arm back at the pole-lanterns flickering behind him-one of a small legion of such that now lit the camp with their glows- and growled, "That's the last of 'em lit. Order reigns. I doubt there's a man or maid in camp still asleep, but most of 'em are back in their wagons an' not ru

"Good," Orthil Voldovan grunted." 'Now' is all I'm worried about, until morning. Why by all the drunken dancing gods every man along on this run feels the need to butcher the next man every chance he gets, I know not, but-"

He fell silent and strode past Sharantyr and her raised and ready blade to glare at a man who staggered as he approached. "An' what by Beshaba's bright smile befell ye?"

Beldimarr managed a grin that would have been more handsome if blood hadn't bubbled from between his teeth and leaked in a long stream out of the corner of his mouth.

"Jus' a lucky thrust," he panted, as he reeled up to them, clutching his side with a hand whose fingers were slick with blood. "I took him down, mind-an' he was a Zhentilar, or I'm a dead man."

"I hope he was a Zhentilar," Arauntar said grimly, ru

The head guard looked up from where he knelt beside his sagging comrade to ask Shandril roughly, "Lass?"

Shandril stared down at Beldimarr, then at Arauntar's grim gaze, and at the guards gathering around as if by magic, and all the color slowly went out of her face. "No," she gasped, shaking her head. "Oh, no!"

The wizard Rathrane drifted away from the lanterns, writhing and shuddering in pain. Sometimes he seemed almost solid, a dark man in dark robes, cloak billowing out impossibly long from his shoulders. More often he was but shifting, batlike shadows, roiling in pain around something bright and flickering in his midst, something tnat hurt, mm but that he cradled as if it was precious.

Such agony, unending… but he had to have this. How could he not hunger for such power? He must learn from these last few wisps of spellflame, as they flickered out in his grasp, how to adapt himself so as to drain this peerless might without harm… like so. Yes! Thus! This was the way.

The caravan master glared at the slip of a girl kneeling on his wagon-perch and growled disbelievingly, "Ye won't heal him? Why not? Ye did before!"

He took an angry step forward and found himself facing Sharantyr's swordtip.

"Dare to use that on me, Lady Whomever-Ye-Be, an' ye'll end up a mite diced by yon blades," he snarled, waving at the gathered guards.

"Dare to menace Shandril Shessair, and you'll be dead, and it'll be a mite late for you to take comfort in whatever may happen to me," the ranger replied coolly, lifting her blade to-almost-kiss his throat.

Voldovan jerked back as if he'd burned himself in a suddenly flaring fire, looked up at the wagon-perch, and found himself meeting Narm Tamaraith's furious glare. The caravan master swallowed whatever he'd been going to say and took another pace back.

"Bel," Shandril said pleadingly, "I daren't try to heal you. My spellfire is out of control! I could end up killing you!"

"I trust you, lass," he gasped, blood bubbling forth with every word.

"You shouldn't," Shandril wept, shaking her head violently. "Oh, Bel, you shouldn't!"

"Heal him!" one of the guards snapped. "Aye, try it," another echoed. "Y'did it before!"

"Heal him," others muttered, as Voldovan nodded. Shandril bit her lip and shook her head, face twisted.

"Please, lass," Beldimarr gasped from where he sat in Arauntar's arms, fresh blood fountaining forth.

"He's a dead man if you don't, lass," Arauntar growled, and Shandril sighed, shut her eyes, shook her head again- and came down from the wagon.

"I… this is not going to go well," she moaned, going to her knees beside the stricken guard. "I don't want to do this!"

"We all have to do things we don't want to do, lass," Voldovan growled. "Get on with it."

Shandril gave the caravan master a tearful look, turned imploringly to the guards, and whispered, "You don't understand, any of you!"

"Please, lass," Arauntar growled, leaning forward as if to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but sitting back even before Sharantyr's sword lifted warningly. "None of us'll blame you if Bel goes down. He'll be dead very soon if you try nothing."

Shandril nodded wearily and looked into Beldimarr's eyes. "I… do you…"

The wounded Harper managed a bloody smile, and said, "Whatever befalls, Shan, 'twill be a relief. Do it, an' if the gods gather me, well then…"

Shandril nodded slowly, swallowed, and whispered, "Very well. I'll try." She closed her eyes and held out one hand. Spellflames licked and flickered up and down her arm immediately, charring her tunic, before flaring brightly from her fingertips.

Shandril bit her lip and brought her hand down on Beldimarr's bared and bloodsoaked side.

There was a loud sizzling, as blood scorched up into smoke. Beldimarr jerked upright in Arauntar's grasp and screamed hoarsely.

That long, agonized cry ended with him staring fixedly at Shandril, as smoke streamed out of his mouth-and when Arauntar laid him gently back down, his stare never changed.