Hand of Fire

The guards leaned forward, but not a man took a step closer to the woman kneeling on the grass as she started to sob.

They could all see Beldimarr wasn't breathing. Where his gaping wound had been, the blood was gone. In its place was a deep brand in the shape of Shandril's hand. "Gods," a guard said hoarsely. "A hand of fire!"

"Cooked his i

Narm moved to block the wagon-mouth, his face bleak. Voldovan took two deliberate steps forward until he was stopped by Sharantyr's blade again, and said grimly over it, "Guard her close, lad. She hasn't many friends standing here right now, if ye know what I mean!"

The young wizard swallowed, nodded, and disappeared into the wagon.

Arauntar rose from his knees beside Beldimarr and said heavily, "Get to yer posts, men. I'll stand guard here."

"No," Voldovan said curtly, "Ye're needed to keep our verges tight, beyond the lanterns. Yon lass hardly needs guarding, with spellfire ready in her hands!"

Arauntar gave the caravan master a dark look but nodded and turned away. "Let no man touch Beldimarr's body," he snapped, whirling around again. "I'll see to it."

Voldovan nodded. "'Twill be so." He waved a hand in dismissal, more to the last few lingering guards than to Arauntar, then turned to Sharantyr and asked, "Are ye going to stand here in my own camp and menace me with steel all night, woman? Mind telling me yer name, first?"

"I am Sharantyr," she said, "Knight of Myth Dra

"Well, then, Lady Death," the caravan master said gruffly, "/ am Orthil Voldovan, this is my caravan, and in this camp, my word is law. Remember that."

The ranger lifted her shoulders in a shrug, lowered her voice so only he could hear, and said coldly, "I met Orthil Voldovan once, and I'm not looking at him now."

The caravan master's eyes went flat and dark, and he raised a hand as if to-do something that he abandoned in an instant, to let it fall again as he smiled and said, "Ye're welcome in my wagon, Lady, but forgive me if I turn not my back on ye, hey?"

"Likewise," she promised him calmly, her eyes as icy as his own.

She ducked past him and under his wagon like a speeding arrow. He was still whirling around, mouth open to roar, when she burst up into view again with a man dangling from her swordtip.

A robed wizard Voldovan had never seen before was gurgling his last breaths with Sharantyr's long sword through his throat.

Men with swords and bowguns and better armor than they should have possessed showing here and there through their leathers and cloth tunics raced around the corner of the wagon and recoiled from the sight of their newfound commander with his head crazily askew, dying.

The ranger shook Hlael Toraunt off her sword to the ground and told them bleakly, "Shandril's not unguarded. Go down, wolves!"

The Master of Shadows looked up from his littered desk with anger glittering in his pale eyes. The movement lifted his jowls from his mountainous chest, but the man in the doorway was too weary and in far too much pain to feel revulsion or take heed of warning signs. "Master," he croaked, "I've returned!"

Belgon Bradraskor crooked a dark eyebrow. "Why, thank you, Nesger. I could hardly have hoped to notice that fact without your able assistance."

Nesger shook his head as if to rid himself of tiresome thief-lords and their heavy sarcasm alike, sagged against the doorway, and clutched at it for support with hands that left bloody marks behind. The lips of the Master of Shadows thi

"Slaughter," Nesger told him bluntly. "The caravan torn apart and set afire. More wizards'nTve ever seen in m'life, all hurling spells… an' that wench torching them all, and their wagons too, with her spellnre." He shook his head. "I'd back her 'gainst an army, or Manshoon of the Zhents himself, or both together. 'Slike she's a god, blasting everything that stands against her!"

Without waiting for reply or dismissal he turned and staggered out.

The Master of Shadows stared at the empty doorway where Nesger had been, interlacing his ringers and rubbing them back and forth together thoughtfully. It would probably be best to just forget about the whole affair, at least until Tornar's return.

If, that is, Tornar ever did return.

The Zhentilar eyed the dead wizard and the lone, helmless woman standing over him, shouted, and surged forward as one, firing their bowguns.

Voldovan cursed and vaulted up inside his wagon, struggling to get out sword and signal-horn at the same time-as small but deadly bolts thudded home in Sharantyr's flesh.

She groaned and reeled back, dropping her blade to claw at Lhaeo's bag with the hand that hadn't stopped three bolts because she'd thrown it up to shield her face.

They were going to sword her, and she wouldn't have time.

The ranger rolled frantically in under the wagon, and only one blade slashed fire across her ribs ere she got the bag open and found the right stone.

Ironguard again, but that meant one small bone knife against a handcount of large, angry, armored men. Wonderful.

In the wagon overhead she could hear the muffled sounds of Shandril weeping-probably with her face buried in her bedding.

That was just about what Sharantyr felt like doing, right now, as she rolled over on her wounded arm, grunted at the pain, and snatched out the bolts. Their iron heads passed through her flesh like smoke, but blood spurted from the holes they'd made. There was one more healing gem…

The lantern light coming in under the wagon dimmed- and not just from all the men stabbing at her and cautiously squirming in under the wagon to reach her, either. This gloom was like a hungry shadow, gliding forward…

"Shan!" the ranger cried. "Get away from here! There's something dark, that drinks magic!"

She heard a startled oath from Narm and a wild shriek of grief and fury that must be Shandril. It was followed by a louder oath from Voldovan in the instant before the wagon above her burst apart in spellflames that sent the Zhentilar scrambling back with curses of their own. The darkness swirled hungrily up from beneath the wagon, reaching for Roaring white fire that crisped the shouting Zhentilar and the grass they stood in alike, in a single, terrifying instant, ere stabbing down at the darkness.

"Sharantyr!" Shandril shouted, from somewhere above and behind it. "Get clear-you can, can't you?"

"Yes!" the ranger shouted back, rolling for all she was worth. The darkness was swirling like leaves circling in a storm whirlwind, feeding on the flame that sought to destroy it. She had to warn Shandril about that, so the lass could-could… do what?

Dimly Sharantyr became aware, as she found her feet and, staggering, her balance, that the darkness was screaming. A shrill, high cry, words in an unfamiliar language that somehow reminded her of things she'd heard, down the years, then just pain again, shrieks that soared higher and higher.

There came a sudden coldness in Sharantyr's heart, and she looked down to see a swordtip emerging from under her breasts.

"Ye shouldn't have turned yer back on me," a voice whispered in her ear.

"And you," she snarled, as she whirled around and bruised her knuckles on Voldovan's nose and jaw in a solid punch that sent him flying, "shouldn't try to impersonate a caravan master who'd know better!"

She sank down, clutching herself with both hands against sudden, surging pain. Ironguards were great spells, but when a foe used an enchanted blade…