Hand of Fire

His shoulders rose again, and he was tall enough to see small winking wisps of silver fire in a distant crater in the wilderlands rock that had not been there before, wherein a spreadeagled and broken Lady Mage of Waterdeep lay staring up at the same stars he stood among.

He could reach out and pluck her life as easily as a thought… but drew back, even as the thought quickened in him, out of mistrust of that silver fire. There was something" too fey about it, too… strong.

Bah! What could be stronger than he? Well, this pain, for one thing…

As he convulsed and moaned and collapsed in earnest, Rathrane began to realize for the first time that the endless flow of spellfire was going to rend and overwhelm him, extinguishing all that was Evaereol Rathrane-and there was nothing, absolutely nothing, he could do to stop it. He tried to tear himself away from the great colossus, becoming a small and flying thing of shadows once more, but He could no longer gather all that was Rathrane together, even if he let all this newfound power slip away and became naught but a ghostly sentience once more… even less than he had been, for all that long, dark time…

He was going to die at last, he was going to be lost, drowned and torn apart in this sea of endless, gnawing power. He was-doomed. He was… going… at last…

The darkness above her was alive. Riding her grief and lost in it, Shandril barely cared as the awareness overhanging her faltered and then failed, and thoughts that were not her own invaded her.

They came in a whispering flood as the great wraith-cloud dwindled and died and… faded away. Caring little, Shandril let them rush over her and into her, imparting their secrets like storm-blown leaves slapping her weary face.

Rathrane, the gloating ghost had been, a wizard of Netheril-of course; were not all these awakened ancient evils from that fell time and realm above realms, where wizards had thought themselves kings? This Rathrane had drunk magic as some carters gulped ale, and grown strong, and in his towering, this last little while, had touched many minds…

Shandril shivered at some of those thoughts, even as she realized dimly that her striving had worked-once spellfire had slipped from her control and raged unchecked, the magic-draining phantom was doomed.

Narm, none of this will bring back my Narm, she whispered bitterly into the darkness, as thoughts opened up like night-blooming flowers around her, catching her unwilling interest as if they had hooks, and showing her…

… Orthil Voldovan had been slain in Triel, and his likeness and place taken by the Red Wizard Thavaun…

… Alustriel of Silverymoon and Laeral of Waterdeep had ridden her spellfire here, bringing her friends Mirt and Asper to her aid-and now she'd harmed them all…

… Sharantyr had been hurled away, wounded, by magic, somewhere into the night…

… the man staggering up to his feet in front of her, tossing down the empty vial that had held the third healing potion he'd poured down his throat in swift succession, was a worm of a wizard. "Hlael of the Zhentarim," she named him aloud. A man ruled by terror, who'd been ordered to seize spellfire by the mage Drauthtar and sent here into this battle by a fell, much-feared Zhent, the wizard Hesperdan.

Narm is gone, she hissed into his mind, as Hlael became aware of her regard and stiffened in alarm, and you shall pay for it! You'll all pay for it!

Shandril reached down into herself so deep that it hurt her sorely, dug her fingers like claws into all the spellfire she could handle, sobbed with the pain of that heaving, and hurled it at Hlael Tor aunt.

The Zhentarim managed to open his mouth to scream before his mind and then his body burst apart, but Shandril scarcely noticed his dying. She rode her bright and deadly flood on into the darkness, leaping along a scrying-linkage to another cold-hearted wizard-the one who'd been watching Hlael from afar.

"Drauthtar," she snarled as she reached him, "die!"

Spellfire roared and swirled, and the lass who was its source and its rider turned away without another glance, seeking the next Zhentarim to slay, gathering her energies to seek Hesperdan.

Power in plenty, but no spells to seek a man hidden. Shandril screamed in rage when the energies roiling around her served her not, and hurled herself like a lightning bolt back across miles of wolf-haunted night to where Alustriel of Silverymoon was emerging from a self-spun fortress of silver fire to seek her stricken Sister, Laeral.

"Child," Alustriel told her gravely, as their gazes met, "let fall your flames, and know comfort."

There was no trace of fear in the High Lady's voice, but Shandril heard pity and let it spur her on to greater rage.

"Show me Hesperdan!" she screamed, shaking.

Spellfire and silver fire snarled and clawed each other once more, but Alustriel nodded through their striving and with the barest trace of a smile replied, "I can do that."

Silver fire swirled into a tu

Halfway to that distant robed man, he became aware of her. Glittering dark eyes widened, hands wove frantic spells, and the tu

"No!" Shandril screamed through fresh tears, hurling spellfire in frantic haste. "Mystra, let him not escape me! Lady of Magic, hear me!"

Her cry seemed to roll out across vast distances, echoing and booming, but the figure ahead was fading into darkness. As her spellfire leaped after it, she could not see where the flames went.

Everything was dissolving into darkness and tears, the stink of smoke and burned flesh growing stronger around her.

Flames burst forth out of empty air where no flame should have been able to kindle, and men drew back in murmured alarm to leave the gleaming black tiles before the high seat of Manshoon bare.

A line of black flames outlined by angry red fire descended to the floor-and vomited forth a blackened man in robes, his hair afire.

"Spellfire," Drauthtar gasped, shuddering in the aftermath of his desperate teleport, "destroys all! Seek it not!"

Many priests and mages gaped at him as he staggered a few paces across the floor of the Zhentarim stronghold, leaving footprints of flame in his wake.

By the time he turned to face Dread Lord Manshoon- who'd risen hastily from his throne, rings winking into life-Drauthtar was little more than a husk filled with raging flame. As his face twisted into a smile and he opened his mouth to deliver a dying curse on the leader of the Zhentarim, he toppled forward.

His last magic unworked, Drauthtar Inskirl collapsed into swirling, spitting flames that scorched out to almost lick the boots of Lord Manshoon.

The leader of the Zhentarim stared down at the dying flames until they were gone into drifting smoke, and then turned without a word and walked away.

A young mageling named Imvoran shivered, then was violently ill all over the gleaming black tiles in front of him. He'd heard of spellfire and seen many a mage die by magic, too-but it was the first time in his dozen years of service to the Brotherhood that he'd ever seen fear on the face of Dread Lord Manshoon.

The old man ascended the lightless shaft like a racing wind, hurling aside shield-spells and helmed horrors alike, and sprang into the midst of the startled gargoyles before the mage with serpent-fingers and floating eyeballs could do more than snatch up a long, dark-spired scepter with a heartfelt curse.

"Hesperdan, you-" the Maimed Wizard began, but whatever colorful description Eirhaun had intended to snarl was lost in the flash and roar of spellfire leaping up the shaft, tumbling helmed horrors into smoke and shards, and stabbing into the shadows.