Hand of Fire

What it did have was warm, yielding, gently snoring bodies-or at least one. Sharantyr landed hard atop it, and was aware of a male, human, rather unwashed smell as she sank deep into its source with a crash of snapping branches and sliding boots.

The incoherent oaths of a man jolted awake in startled pain accompanied them both to the ground, as they fell out of the tree together.

Sharantyr landed hard on a particularly unyielding surface of the scenic Blackrocks, and lay there twisting and gasping in helpless agony, her breath driven out of her and what felt like roiling fire in its place.

The man was more fortunate. Tornar the Eye had been sleeping in a tree somewhere in the Blackrocks for safety against marauding beasts-not an altogether successful tactic, it seemed. He did, however, land with one knee atop whatever had pounced on him, and bounced back and away from it, to land on his feet in an angry crouch, blade hissing out.

The moonlight clearly showed him the ranger Sharantyr writhing on the rocks, her face contorted in pain. He stared down at her and slapped at his pouch with an oath. Thin wisps of smoke were rising from it, and when he slapped at it frantically, backed swiftly away from the pain-wracked woman on the rocks, and tore it open, out fell a flaming, sizzling tangle of-hair?

Her hair. Some sort of magic, obviously. He shook it all out, dug fingers in where it had been, and rubbed to make sure no smoldering was left. Frowning, he shook his head and turned back to Sharantyr.

She'd made no move to draw a weapon or do anything more than curl up like a child, clutching her gut and trembling in what seemed to be utter agony. Yet she bled not, nor seemed cut. He frowned down at her, then sheathed his blade, knelt, and put out a cautious hand to where her own agonized hands were clutching.

Sharantyr shuddered, sobbed, and tried to twist away from him, kicking at the rocks beneath her. Tornar winced. He'd seen a man do that, once, while dying with his guts torn out by the horns of an enraged bull. She must be hurt badly…

"Lie still," he hissed, putting a hand on one trembling shoulder. "Easy, there!"

Sharantyr moaned beneath him, a despairing bleat of hopeless pain, and he dug hastily in another of his belt-pouches, seeking one of his most precious items of booty: a steel vial that never left him.

Her teeth were clenched, but with brutal strength he forced fingers into the corners of her jaws and got them apart enough to pour the contents of the vial between. Then he clapped a hand over her mouth and held her jaws together during the brief frenzy of convulsions that followed.

When she lay unmoving under him and her breath seemed to be coming in deep, regular gasps, Tornar let go and hastily drew back.

Only Sharantyr's eyes moved to follow him. They regarded each other for a moment in the moonlight before her lips moved.

"Thank you for healing me, Tornar," she told him. "I-I know not how I came here. Was it by your hand? Are you taking me back to the Master of Shadows?"

"I was ordered to slay you," he replied slowly, "but I'll not do it-or go back to Scornubel. I've no idea how you came to fall out of the sky onto me… but Lady, I do know one thing: I've never seen your like before or ever thought to." He hesitated, and then asked, "Could you learn to trust me?"

"I could," Sharantyr replied, her eyes on his. "Why do you ask this?"

"I-I'd like to part with you as a friend," he told her, eyes steady on hers.

She reached out one weak arm and squeezed his hand. "I think we can manage that."

Her reaching was the last insult to her much-slashed leathers, and they fell away from her shoulder and bodice.

Wordlessly Tornar plucked up her ruined garments and held the scraps back up in position. "The night's cold," he said simply.

She looked at him, smiled, and then glanced up at the tree. "Is there room on your branch for two?"

The man from Scornubel made a horrible wheezing sound, then, and doubled over. It was three anxious breaths later, when the crawling lady ranger of Shadowdale reached his side to see what was wrong, that she realized Tornar the Eye was laughing.

Harping Through Spellfire

How many dying men and maids have heard harping, haunting yet soothing, lacing on as their life and hearing fade, telling them that beauty endures, that life goes on, that they'll not be forgotten? Not enough. Never enough. Wherefore get up and draw sword, strike harp, and play! Play, before the gods take us all!

The character Brokenhehn the Harper in Aukh Rammantle's play The Leaping Fish

Year of the Thirsty Sword (first performance)

Campfires flared up in hungry threads of flame to join the leaping, everchanging web of spellfire above them. Its roar was almost deafening, and it stabbed out with arc after arc of fire that made wagons explode in fury at a touch.

"Gods above!" Mirt said, his merchant's soul shocked at the waste all around him, trade-goods and the wagons that held Asper nodded her head, seeming almost dazed by the sheer outpouring of howling force. It was like facing an angrily erupting volcano. Mirt shook his head to banish that brief, long-ago memory, set his teeth, and dragged his slender lady away from where the air itself was crackling and complaining.

Behind them, the bright figure hurled more spellfire, and in answer the High Lady's silver fire flared up into a shield. Spellfire and silver fire wrestled, and rushing streams of spellflame melted apart into a wild webwork of many holes-but still roared with frightening speed, streaming over the silver fire as a river rushes over rocks, and hurled Alustriel back.

Mirt had one glimpse of the High Lady's grim face before she sank down into a raging whorl of flames, and could be seen no more at the heart of their snarling, behind fires that reared up castle-high in their bright battling.

He became aware of a sudden sharp pain in his ear, and shook his head, bewildered. Asper had twisted in his arms to bite him, and he dimly became aware that she'd been shouting at him for some time, trying to gain his attention. "Aye, what?" he roared, and she pointed with her blade. "Look!"

Mirt looked, and saw a man behind Shandril-a slender, darkly handsome man with a wand in his hand. He'd just fired it, seen its magic race at Shandril's back and be swept toward the stars by billowing spellfire, shaken his head in disgust, and crouched low to crawl closer.

Mirt cast a glance at the maid from Highmoon. She was out of control, to be sure, but even if taking her down became needful, a wand-blast that might send miles of Faerun skyward wasn't the way to do it.

"I'll take him, leaving yon merry blades in yer hands," he growled in Asper's ear, and pointed to the handful of warriors struggling against the flames on Shandril's other side. She clapped him on the arm, whirled to give him a fierce, hot kiss, and then raced away.

Mirt watched her go with a smile-gods, what a beauty! What spirit! Gods keep her safe!-then turned and began his own sprint around the flames, toward the man with the wand.

He'd hoped to cut in close around the lass. The night was growing darker, so her flames must be fading a bit… yet they seemed to be raging as furiously as ever. Off to one side the silver fire that hid Alustriel from view flared up, but it, too, seemed dimmer.

Mirt glanced up as his boots skidded on something wet, and saw that the stars were blotted out. The dark thing, whatever it was, loomed over most of the camp, now, and seemed-by Mirt's familiar feeling of being under scrutiny-to be watching events below.

He shook his head and ran on. The gods certainly seemed to enjoy piling one misfortune atop another, enthusiastically providing three perils where one would do, and curse all the men-twisting bunch of them if that dog with the wand wasn't standing up behind Shandril to try sending death again!