Hand of Fire

Ruled by a Madman

Narm eyed the ropes Arauntar and Beldimarr had bound around the untidy stack of wagon wheels and shook his head. He knew how valuable they and the axles heaped beside them were to any caravan. He might be a novice wizard who knew even less about road-travel than about magic, but to him they still looked like hazards waiting impatiently to topple and crush a certain Narm and Shandril.

The alternative was for them both to sit out all day on the perch where arrows could readily find them as they bounced and rumbled along through the Blackrocks, while everyone in the caravan watched Shan struggling to hold back her spellfire. Voldovan had curtly installed them in a wagon so crammed with cargo and gear salvaged from wagons now gone-the roster of the vanished had grown frightening- that there was barely space inside for two to sit touching knee to knee, let alone lie down or try to get away from things they might set afire.

"Easy, Narm," Shandril murmured. "Stop fretting. Whatever happens will happen, without a single word or lifted finger from us."

Narm sighed." 'Tis just that I can see these crashing down and bouncing all over the place, right out onto the perch to sweep you under our wheels-and the hooves of all the beasts pulling the wagons behind!"

"Try to see less," she suggested innocently, from where she sat cross-legged at his heels, "and finish your dawnfry. Voldovan doesn't sound like he'll wait for us or anybody, angry gods included."

Narm snorted. "Does he ever sound any different? He should have been a warmaster somewhere or the tyrant of his own warrior kingdom!"

"Don't," Shandril said severely, "give him any ideas. That man can hear flies crawling on horses at the far end of the caravan!"

Narm snorted again. "A pity he hasn't the tact of a typical biting fly. I wish he did. I wish-"

He sighed, turned until their knees touched, and put his hands on her shoulders. "I wish a lot of things. I wish I was a strong, calm war-leader like Florin and an archmage as mighty as Elminster, but with Jhessail's cheerful openness. I wish neither of us had ever heard of spellfire. I wish-"

"I wish, I wish," Shandril reproved him teasingly, "does nothing but get one in trouble if the gods hear and waste the lives of those doing the wishing. Up, lord and master of my heart. Let's have our horses ready when the raging flame that's Voldovan comes snarling past."

As they rose, Narm said quietly into her ear, "Speaking of raging flame…"

"I'm still weak," she murmured back, "and we'd probably both be dead now if Arauntar hadn't carried me back here. Prowling leucrotta and wolves don't really care what powers I might have, if I'm too asleep to keep them from tearing out my throat."

Narm winced. "You're the swaggering hero of us two, and I more the shy maid. I'm… I'm just not made for this! I feel so-"

"Helpless?" Shandril put her arms around him. "I'd hate to share my life, my bed, my chatter time, and my dreams with some swash-booted, jaw-wagging strutter. I like the man I have, sensitive and a little bumbling. So don't turn into Torm of the Knights on me, now."

Narm snorted. "Small chance of that," he replied, "unless you remember all the lewd jokes for me."

They glanced one last time around the wagon, made sure the waterskins were handy but safely stowed, and took seats on the perch. Their familiar battered shields were ready to hand. As he hefted them to make sure neither was jammed but both were secure against the bouncing and wagon-wallowing to come, Narm glanced at his lady and said softly, "You were more than a little upset last night, love. You said some… dark things. As if you expected to die soon."

Shandril met his gaze, her eyes calm. "I do. If I lose mastery over my own body again, I might even welcome death."

Narm shuddered. "I-this is so sudden, talk like this from you. Where's the lass who blasted beholders and Zhentarim like an army of archmages? Who set out in a fury to slay Manshoon?"

Shandril put her hand on his. "She slipped away some time ago. Every day changes us all, but it changes me more swiftly than most, and I fear I haven't much time left. If each of our lives is a candle, mine gets plunged into forgefires daily and melts away like butter in the sun."

Narm opened his mouth to say something and found that he could think of no words at all. Shandril leaned forward and kissed him, softly and deeply. As her tongue probed his, he felt heat and just a smarting trace of flame.

She drew her mouth away but kept her face close to his, their noses almost touching, and said urgently, "Narm, please don't let us waste time in strife. I may not have much time left. I know this bewilders you, my talking like this, but-hear me: Just a day ago, I could feel cool breezes on my skin, rough wood, or the stubble on your chin under my fingertips. Now all I feel is pain."

She looked away, to where the distant shouting figure of the caravan master was striding along the line of wagons, and shivered. "Pain," she added softly, "and the constant surging of spellfire rising in me. I'm going to explode soon or scorch half the Realms. Perhaps both."

Korthauvar Hammantle ran long, weary fingers through his hair. "If I hadn't hurled that spell…"

Hlael smiled crookedly. "Our spellfire-lass might be dead now, but more than a score of merchants and Voldovan's caravan guards would still be alive."

"Hurrh. A good half of them were acting for the Red Wizards or the Arcane of Luskan or the Cult, anyway."

"Or our Brotherhood. I'd say you thinned the ranks of dangerous Scornubrian loyal-to-cabals skulkers for a good month at least. Your spell worked, the wench lives, and- who's left, of Voldovan's traveling band of spellfire-seekers? I don't mean grasping merchants who'd take it if it fell into their hands, but agents sent along on this run just for the purpose of getting their hands on one Shandril Shessair, or at least her spellfire. Who's left?"

Korthauvar reached for a handy decanter, scowling thoughtfully. "Well, now, I think we can agree Aumlar Chaunthoun is dead at last, and his two bully-blades, too. I'm not so sure that the Red Wizard who attacked him went down, though."

Hlael Toraunt held out an empty goblet to be filled. "Phel-dred? I doubt it. That one has survived more 'certain deaths' than even Aumlar."

The taller Zhentarim poured, sipped his own goblet, refilled it with apparent surprise at how much he'd just emptied it, and sighed. "So how many of us are left?"

Hlael made a wry face. "Considering the Brotherhood as a unified force? I don't think anyone since the High Imperceptor has made that mistake!"

Korthauvar gave him a look devoid of the slightest hint of mirth and replied, "Humor me."

Hlael set down his glass a little hastily. "Well, there're Mhegras and Sabran-a very dangerous priest. Mhegras is all temper and bluster, but with Sabran guiding him…"

"I've not seen either this morn. They were running around in the battle, but now seem to have disappeared."

"Yes, but we can't assume they're dead. Any two wagon-merchants could be them in spell-guise, or they could be skulking in the roadside brush, or-"

Korthauvar waved an impatient hand. "Who else?" Hlael held out his goblet again. "Praulgar and Stlarakur are dead, which leaves just three young magelings I know of, plus whatever hireswords they've brought along: Deverel, Jalarrak, and Rostol."

"More anxious to do each other dirty than to accomplish anything, of course," Korthauvar agreed, pouring,

"Of course. The most numerous opposition to the Brotherhood in the caravan remains the Cult of the Dragon-as usual, hereabouts. Our mighty young mage of a spellfire consort, Narm the Clueless, took down Praulgar's slayer, but 'twas really spellfire that slew him and his fellow blade, Brasker and Holvan. Another pair of Cult swords-their names, I know not-went down in the same battle by other hands. The worst of it all is, I'm not sure how many more Cult swordsmen and thieves like them are along posing as merchants. There was a flurry of signings with Voldovan, on and off, after he agreed to take Shandril Shessair's passage."

"Aye, every third wagon-horse could be a foe. Not a new worry. Count me out who else we do know."

"Well, the two really capable Cultists along are both dead: Malivur, who was rather carelessly playing a spice-merchant, and the thief Krostal. Another firewits mage with a wise guide."

"Ah, the clockseller. I thought I knew him from somewhere. He stole the Tiara of the Eyes from under our noses-and off Lady Thaulindra's head-in Sheirtalar some years back."

"That's the man. That leaves one more Krostal knew about, but I haven't spotted: a Cult wizard he considered 'powerful.' There were also whispers among Bluthlock's men that they'd best watch for a mage of Scornubel along on Voldovan's run who served the Cult but also quietly received messages from Luskan."

Korthauvar's brows rose, and he reached for the decanter again. "If both sayings are true and refer to the same man, he could well outstrip us both in spells."

Hlael nodded. "At least our tarrying has cleared the field of a handcount of other wizards, for when we have to move at last."

"What's your measure of the Arcane, the Red Wizards, and others? I confess I'm just peering and guessing, with not a single surety to my reckoning."

Hlael shrugged. "I wear the same cloak of doubt, but there are two persons for certain. One is Stlarakur's slayer, a sly rogue who calls himself the 'Dark Blade of Doom'-Marlel of Scornubel, being paid by I know not whom, and currently posing as Haransau Olimer, of 'Haransau Olimer's Best Blandreths.' "

Korthauvar nodded. "For all his oil, he's hard to miss. The other?"

Hlael shrugged. "Another Red Wizard, but I know not whom, or his guise in the wagons."

"There's never just one of them," Korthauvar said bitterly, his fingers idly caressing the velvet-smooth decanter.

Hlael smiled his crooked smile. "Aye, but which fat, cowering merchant is it?"

"I don't know," Korthauvar said slowly, "and I don't dare show myself trying to find out." He smiled suddenly, and added, "So we can tell Drauthtar we dare not move in to try to take spellfire yet."

A cold, familiar voice spoke from another handy decanter sharply and suddenly enough to make both Zhentarim flinch. "Consider me informed. As it happens-luckily for you-I concur with your assessment. The time to snatch spellfire is not yet. Proceed, but don't fail to take Shandril when the time is right, or your deaths will be as lingering and as painful as you deserve."

Korthauvar and Hlael shivered in unison, exchanged hasty glances, and murmured, "It shall be as you command."

"Indeed. Don't smash decanters this time. 'Tis a waste of good wine, drink that I've a feeling you're going to need."

Panting, Besmer risked a look back. They were still plodding after him, red-faced and scowling, swords out.

It had been a mistake, aye, but-a firespitting wand that anyone could use! How often in a life did one get the chance to snatch one of those?

Perhaps just once, if those bully-blades caught up to him. Pounds of heavy armor they were wearing, and still closing! Catching up despite the miles he'd loped, then walked, and now staggered since stabbing the merchant.

Most traders had guards who were only too glad to plunder the baggage and be gone when you slew their masters, but… most merchants didn't wander the Chionthar-bank trails with wands thrust through their belts, either.

He didn't need to see the face of the Master of Shadows to know all too well that the lady with the sword-gods, what a beauty! — had been right. He had to get out of Scornubel in haste or die.

Following the Chionthar couldn't get him lost but wasn't a road the Master's Eyes could ride swiftly along, seeking him. West it led, to Baldur's Gate, where he could take ship for Water deep to hide amongst the throngs.

Besmer knew better than to take a barge downriver. If he was spotted, signals could race to Scornubel and back, and his execution could be ordered without any warning to him.

What he hadn't known better than to do was put his dagger through the throat of that boastful merchant, after the man's pack-train had come out of nowhere to the pool Besmer was drinking from. Who'd have thought a dead man could command such loyalty?

Perhaps they just wanted the wand as much as he did. 'Twas a beautiful thing, a massive and smooth-wrought metal grip that fit the hand beautifully, mated to a jewel-studded carved wood shaft. As he staggered on, his hand went to its reassuring comfort time and time again. More like a royal scepter than a wizard's wand. Those were usually plain sticks of wood, but this gaudy thing was real enough. He'd seen that merchant blast a boar and clearly heard the muttered word that unleashed a ball of fire. It had streamed across the pool, trailing sparks, and cooked the boar before it could even begin its charge.

A dinner none of them would ever enjoy, now. He'd had the man's throat open and the wand in his own hand in a trice and been off through the tall grass before a single bodyguard had even shouted. They'd set off after him like hounds, not hesitating a moment, and not giving up as the miles passed and hills rose and fell under their boots.

None of them had turned back even after he'd given the two swiftest the wand they so wanted-or at least its fireballs, two air-shattering blasts that turned hard-striding men to whirling ashes. The surviving bodyguards had been careful to keep well apart from each other after that.

He touched the wand again. He'd never had magic at his command before, and gods, now he knew why wizards swaggered so! What power! Look at someone, point your wand, say a word, and wham! Knight or lord, priest or mage, they went down, gone in smoke at your whim.

Oh, he could see why they wanted this wand, all right. He didn't want to use it too often, lest there be some limit to the fires it held… particularly if he used it all before getting away from these doggedly pursuing men. His feet felt like two heavy-laden coffers, his lungs burned, and he was starting to slip and stumble. He had to catch his breath, win time to rest Blarrrgh! Besmer fell on his face, slid to a stop and hopped upright again, his ankle shrieking protest. He hobbled on, downslope, and had to look back. One of them was cresting the height he'd just left already, teeth bared in an angry grin.

Tymora claw Beshaba for me now! Nothing could stop that man from catching him before he reached the bottom of the slope. Besmer assumed a look of despair, drew the wand and held it concealed, close to his body. He waited until the man's thudding boots were growing loud behind him, then whirled, said the word, and pointed.

The blast of flame snatched him back off his feet and hurled him away, head ringing and half-blinded. He'd seen the man's agonized, spreadeagled body outlined by fire, ere he'd been whirled away, but… 'twas done.

Shaking his head to clear it, Besmer got up and stumbled on, never seeing the dark, wraith-like cloud descending out of the sky behind his shoulders.

Waterdeep had been glorious, a feast of magics, and Evaereol Rathrane had grown strong enough to manifest hands that could snatch and hold and carry. Greatness soon to come was more than a dream now.

Yet he still dropped things from time to time, and found it easier by far to drift along as a shifting, shapeless cloud, as he was drifting now, excited by his whelmed power but wary. The world had changed much since his days in Jethaere.

These humans would have marveled at Jethaere of the Towers, and might well have been less arrogant than to call their crowded, stinking harbor-huddle a "City of Splendors," but they rolled in magic-magic so carelessly and lavishly used as to seemingly be held of little value.

Yet Waterdeep had not been an unguarded treasure-house. Rathrane still shuddered at the remembered pain of its wards and leaping enchantments and the spells hurled by furious mages who saw him and lashed out without a moment's hesitation. Flames too bright and too close still burned more than they succored.

He'd fled from pain, lashed and hooked and scorched, out over wilderlands once more, drifting on from where a frantic flight from guardian-gargoyles had taken him in the painful aftermath of his last and worst attempt to snatch magic in Waterdeep. Wizards of Jethaere would never have spun spells in such a rough-and-tumble way, nor spent so much Art for clawing guardian beasts. Would every last mage's tower be girt with such fearsome sentinels as well as the more subtle, exacting, and expected wards? Such fastnesses should be out here, yes, far from Magic blossomed below, bright and sudden, and the shadowy thing that had been Rathrane of Jethaere smiled an unseen smile and sank swiftly toward that beckoning glow.

Mhegras of the Zhentarim groaned as he swam out of darkness and blinked awake. He lay still and silent on his back, hearing little rustlings in tangled and interwoven branches above him. He was weak and sore, and when he strove to lift a hand, it was some time before his quavering fingers rose into view. "Bane preserve me," he whispered hoarsely, watching them tremble.

"Pray indeed to our Dark and Dread Lord," a familiar voice said sourly from close by, "for by his will we're delivered from death." Sabran, no doubt lying here too. Those Harpers, a grip like iron…

Mhegras thrust away that frightening memory with a whimper, and weighed the priest's words. Bewilderment came. "H-he took direct interest in us?"

"Nay," Sabran snarled in low tones, "the spell that brought us back was mine, cast beforehand at the cost of a life for each of us, lives provided by those two idiot weavers in the squeaking wagon. Great Bane granted that spell to me. I didn't think much of your protective magics-rightly, as it turns out."

Mhegras scowled and tried to sit up. There was a moment of trees and sky whirling around, sickening weakness, and… he was lying on his back again, looking up at the sky, with fresh aches, and mists drifting through his thoughts. His neck…

He moved his head a little, to make the pain go away, but it got worse. He groaned again.

"Wait," Sabran hissed, "and be glad those two Harpers just broke our necks and threw us down in this ditch, that they didn't go chopping pieces off us or looting our pouches. If you give my magic time to finish its work, you'll be able to walk. If we can find something to eat, we'll soon feel as if nothing happened to us."

Mhegras felt his fingers itching. When he lifted them into view, he saw that they were twitching uncontrollably. Marvellous for casting spells! He let his hands fall back, clawed the ground beside him in sudden fury, and announced harshly, "When I get my hands on that Arauntar, he'll wish nothing happened, too-for the few moments I give him, before my conjured brainbore-worm burrows into one of his eyes and starts gnawing his brain!"

They were coming for him now, and the sky was darkening strangely ahead, almost as if it was growing greedy, long-fingered hands, reaching for his wand!

Besmer stumbled back as the armored men came lumbering down the hillside with growls of triumph and was struck by a sudden, chilling thought: What if that merchant had been a wizard, after all? Was this his ghost, come to claim his wand back?

Gods, yes! He could see a dark face, now, two dark twinkling stars of eyes in a shadowy head that had no jaw, on shoulders with no chest below, only a cloud of swirling shadows and those two reaching arms…

Screaming, Besmer Altuth thrust his wand forward and gave the wraith fire-flame that dwindled to nothing!

The wandfire disappeared as fast as it erupted, hissing to silence as the wand sputtered and the tingling cloud of shadows settled over Besmer like descending nightfall.

Despairingly Besmer waved the wand like a blade, slashing at shadows, and spat out its word for fire again and again. Nothing happened, as the first swordsman's slashing blade took Besmer's dagger out of his hand along with two fingers, and the man's second blow brought Besmer more pain than he'd ever felt before.

He lost the wand during his helpless, agonized stagger, trying to drag out his sword with his other hand even though he knew the life was leaking out of him. The blade had gone right through him, down low on his right side, and Another running swordsman arrived with a shout, and Besmer saw his blade come whirring up Now there was too much pain to see anything or do anything but fall into the greedily reaching darkness.

The thunder of hooves faded as Arauntar and Beldimarr spurred forward, scouting ahead for a campsite. Darhabran Windhome watched them go, spat thoughtfully to one side, and told the man on the perch beside him unnecessarily, "Triel, right enough."

Orthil Voldovan refrained from snapping something sarcastic. Windhome was old and loyal, a good man, and was carrying his wounds better than many guards far younger. All day the old guard had worked the reins of this mismatched team of beasts expertly with no betrayal of his pain but the odd grunt or growl, and kept the battered wagon on the much-rutted road.

He leaned closer to the caravan master now and muttered, "Master, wouldn't it be best if we just put a knife in the lass right now?"

He did not have to say who "the lass" might be.

"Don't think I haven't considered it," Orthil grunted. "If we didn't need her fire to defend us on the run past Dragon-spear, I'd do it right now."

"We can't trust her!"

"I know, but we have to-unless you can grow me a dozen crossbowmen and two dozen good swordsmen, all of them in quarrel-proof armor and on quarrel-proof horses!"

The old guard gave Voldovan a sidelong growl of disgust. "She's a blade at our backs, I tell thee!"

Orthil put a hand on his arm. "Easy, Darhabran. Twon't be for much longer; of that, at least, I can assure you. And if we have to dagger her in a hurry-well, I know who I can call on."

Rathrane hung close above the grunting, brutally thrusting men until long after they'd leaned panting on their swords around the sprawled, much-hacked figure in the trampled grass. The crumbling remnants of the wand he'd drained were plucked up, tossed aside with sighs, and the men wiped their blades and wearily began looting the body of the man they'd slain.

Not a spark of magic shone about any of them, so the wraith-wizard drifted on, heading away from the river now. Distant echoes of recent great magic roiled ever so faintly off to the northeast. That was as good a direction as any.

The taste of the wand had awakened fresh hunger in him. He was so close to being able to materialize fully, to have a body once more, to stride this changed Faerun as boldly as any of these swaggering fools who called themselves wizards. He could taste once more, smell again, and feel the cool breezes he was riding.

Evaereol Rathrane would be a name heard again in Faerun, a name feared and respected. A name that would be spreading soon… he needed but a trifle more, and if these echoes were good indication of what lay ahead, he'd shortly have more than enough, perhaps more might than ever before.

Greywings were honking in the distant backlands as Beldimarr waved them off the road close by the crude gates of Triel.

Obediently Shandril guided their groaning wagon along a palisade of huge, graying old tree trunks toward the distant figure of Arauntar, who stood atop some rocks, directing wagons. As they bumped across the grassy but much-rutted field, Narm frowned. "Why aren't we going into Triel?"

Shandril shrugged. "Ask him," she said, waving a hand at the grizzled Harper, so Narm did.

Arauntar swung himself up on the perch and growled, "Just along here… aye… right, halt! Tether and hobble, lad. I'll chock your wheels."

"Well?" Narm prompted him, a few minutes of stooping and rein-wrestling later.

In a low voice Arauntar told them both, 'Ter short answer: Triel's ruled by a madman, Elvar the Grainlord. He's so afraid outlanders'll try to steal food from him-he who's no slouch at thieving himself-that he won't let any of us stay a night inside his walls."

Narm looked at the decaying but still formidable stockade, and muttered, "Is he one of those gigantic waddling gluttons?"

Arauntar grinned. "Ah, I see you've tasted the world a trifle already, young Lord o' Spells. No, he's just mad, that's all. He tasted a hard winter a score o' years back and has feared running out of food ever since. So inside you'll see dirt streets, little rickety shops an' taverns.. — and looming over 'em all, granary after granary, packed to the rafters. Folk in Triel go about with long jab-forks, to slay rats on sight, an' everyone has to keep traps an' patrol 'em proper, so no dead rat rots. They get pickled, see, in case there's need to eat them."

Shandril gagged, and Arauntar grinned happily. "Oh, an' he's mad another way, too: about the gods."

Narm, still slightly green from a vivid vision of curled-up rat claws sticking up by the dozens out of an open cask of pickling-wine, asked reluctantly, "Mad about the gods how?"

"Every four mornings or so-or swifter by now, I've not been in to see, yet-Elvar awakens after new dream-visions, and announces he now serves a new god. Not that he creates 'em, see-just not the god he went to sleep praying to. He's been around 'em all dozens of times by now, an' keeps his guards, poor dogs, busy rooting out regalia and holy symbols they hid away from the last time around for this or that Divine One."

"Anything else?" Shandril asked, a little faintly.

"Enough, be it not? That's why nary a caravan goes anywhere but around Triel or camps outside, here or over yon."

"What's that other road?" Narm asked, pointing.

"The Dusk Road, from Elturel. It joins the Trade Way at Triel midmoot, inside. That roof atop the knoll hard by is Duskview House-an inn outside the walls, for the likes o' you and me-or rather, for the likes of travelers who dare to stay there."

Shandril raised an eyebrow. "Particularly dangerous?"

"For the lady who hurls spellfire, every place we'll see is 'particularly dangerous,' but no, 'tis just too pricey for Master Voldovan's tastes. 'Tis a highcoin house, newly built an' all, sitting all serene on its height looking down the Dusk Road. It caters to the safety of the lone traveler, and charges accordingly."

"So why do I see Voldovan on his way there?" Shandril asked quietly.

"He has to look for replacement guards somewhere," Arauntar said heavily, "or we'll none of us live to see Waterdeep."

"Can we go inside by daylight?" Narm asked, squinting at the sky to judge how much day was left.

"I might lead an armed band inside to buy us food, later- a barrel of rats or two, whatever they'll sell," Arauntar growled amiably, "but you won't be along with me, nor any of these fat wagon-merchants."

Shandril raised the other eyebrow. "Thieves in the streets? Brawlers rule the taverns?"

"Exactly," the Harper snapped. "Taking down travelers is their sport an' their chief source o' coin, an' there's no law nor justice to appeal to."

He swung himself nimbly over Narm and down off the perch in one energetic lunge, landing boots-first on the ground with a solid thud, and squinted back up at them through the dust of his own landing.

"So stay here," he said sternly, "both of you. Triel's like Scornubel but a twentieth its size, thrice its desperation, an' no tense standoffs to forge peace. Here, 'tis every man for himself, an' daggers see heavy use."

Shandril smiled thinly. "So how exactly, Arauntar, is it different from anywhere else in Faerun?"