Hand of Fire

The Old Wolf put his head down and ran, cutting in closer to Shandril than he'd yet dared, dodging hungry tongues of spellfire to get to this newest peril, and knowing he hadn't a blessed hope of reaching the man in time.

Yet Shandril was no fool. The curtain of spellfire cloaking her back was thicker than it raged anywhere else, and twice the man with the wand had to duck down as spellflames suddenly spat at him. The second time he ended up on his chin on the scorched turf, flattened out as low as he could, while an arm of silver fire wrestled with spellfire uncomfortably close above his head.

Mirt tried not to think about the fact that he was hurling himself at that particular snarling conflagration much too swiftly to stop or even veer with any hopes of putting himself where he wanted to be-out of the way of a swiftly raised blade, for instance.

He ducked back out of the way of flame, his racing feet skidding out from under him, and all time for thinking was past.

He crashed down hard on his back and bounced, slithering on, and saw the wand-wielder give him a startled look and rise again, as a drift of silver fire swept spellfire away like a hand clawing aside a tapestry, leaving the way to Shandril's back momentarily clear.

Marlel gri

His magic sped as swift as any arrow, straight at the maid's unprotected back. Nothing could stop it now! He was going to be the one who laid low this Sh The great gasping walrus of a man who'd come ru

Mirt was flung away as an angry child throws a rag doll, and the last, fading traces of wand-fire reached Shandril.

She shuddered, spellfire already racing up and down in her limbs in a fresh halo, and the Dark Blade of Doom heard her cry out in pain.

His grin widened as he fired again, and he was still gri

Asper saw something small and black tumble past her. From out of its whirling teeth gleamed at her, set in a broad grin, and then the blackened, blazing head was gone into the smoke and wandering flames of the many spreading grassfires.

She whirled from the business of dealing death to Zhentilar and launched herself into a run. Mirt had been trying to reach that man…

Spellfire reached for her, but silver fire lashed out again from the blazing ball of warring flame on the far side of Shandril, and the maid of Highmoon turned her attention back to it.

Asper saw Narm Tamaraith rise from his knees, recognize her, and begin to weave a spell. It did not seem a hostile magic, somehow, and she flung herself to the ground, rolled under the lone tongue of spellfire, and found her feet again to race on.

She almost tripped over Mirt, a few hard-ru

Spellfire snarled at her almost instantly but was turned aside, and as Asper looked up wildly, Narm gave her a grin and a wave. His magic was settling over her like a bright net, torn and plucked at by spellfire but keeping its full fury away from where Asper frantically fumbled at her belt and scabbard for the vials that held her healing potions.

The Old Wolf groaned, and smoke poured from his mouth. Asper bit her lip, snatched the seal off one vial, and practically threw its contents down his throat.

Mirt erupted into a storm of coughing, wheezing, and snorting beneath her, and she rode him like a lover, grinding herself against him to keep him down low to the ground as a fresh storm of silver fire, then spellfire swept Narm's spell away to claw at each other just above Asper's head.

"Easy, Old Wolf," she soothed him, tugging a second cork out of a vial with her teeth. "Easy, love. Here, drink this."

She rolled off him to give him a chance to breathe and swallow, then held the potion to his lips when his trembling hand could not. She didn't want to look at the ravaged ruin of his chest or wonder if all the healing magics she carried would be enough. Instead she risked a glance through the storms of streaming, whirling flame to where Narm stood, to wave him thanks.

He was casting another spell now, and as Asper watched she saw the caravan master Voldovan run up behind him, sword in hand, and stab Narm viciously, his second thrust ru

"Shan!" Narm screamed, staggering forward. "Sha-" His second cry ended in a gurgling of blood, and he lurched forward, clutching at his throat, as Voldovan ducked away and disappeared into the drifting smoke.

Shandril whirled around and stared at her man. Then she howled, "Noooo!" in a voice that must have deafened folk abed back in Triel, and hurled a river of bright fire at Narm.

It was a brighter sustained torrent than Asper had ever seen before-just looking at it made her eyes stream-and somehow different, shot through with spiraling bright motes that seemed larger and softer than sparks. It enfolded Narm and drove him fully upright, arms flung wide, and seemed to surge through him, pouring forth from mouth and nostrils… even from his eyes, as a storm of bright sparks.

Narm screamed again, a high, wordless cry of agony, and collapsed, falling over stiffly like a tree toppling into flames.

"Narm!" Shandril howled, "NARM! Answer me!"

The maid of spellfire crouched in her inferno, her face wet with tears, staring in despair at where the man she loved had stood. There came no reply from him, nothing but the roaring of flames. Her healing had served her beloved just as it had Beldimarn.

"No!" Shandril screamed at the skies. "No! Everyone DEAD! Death, death, all I do is slay!" Her voice mounted into a great shriek of grief and rage, and her body erupted in spellfire.

If Asper had thought the camp a place of blinding-bright flame before, she knew better now. She had to turn her head away, eyes shut tight, against the now-screaming brilliance, and shuddered atop Mirt, whimpering, as the ground beneath them flared into uncomfortable heat and slumped slightly. Closer to Shandril it must be melting and flowing, sinking into a pit… a pit that would claim them both if she didn't drag her Old Wolf to safe ground.

Evaereol Rathrane had never known power like this before. He was as large as a dozen dragons, a great glowing dark cloud with power enough now to solidify at will or even to make this gigantic form striding, earth-shaking reality. He dared not do so, just yet, as spellfire and something even stronger-these silver flames he'd never seen the like of before-raged below him. Soon, though, all this greatly changed world would tremble and bow down before Evaereol Rathrane, archwizard of archmages, mightiest of all weavers of Art! Smiling inside, the darkness that was Rathrane looked south and west, where a fell and cold awareness had awakened to his presence and now regarded him.

Larloch, he named that foe, and laughed at it, mind-to-mind, knowing he could sweep away the lich at will… and knowing the distant lord of liches knew it, too.

Yes, he was now greater than the mightiest of Netheril had ever been, a colossus of flowing magic-and still the spellfire flowed into him from below, and he grew mightier. The little female who was its source was capering and wailing now, gone from rage to grief, but her pull on the Weave was as strong as ever, and the power-the power!

Ah, still it flowed, bright and searing, painful now as it flooded on into him. Endless, fiery, delicious… Rathrane exulted, throwing up hands to the stars as if he could reach them, towering ever higher. He was shuddering helplessly in the grip of pain, now, as the spellfire flowed on, but he'd master it as he'd mastered it before.