Ed Greenwood - Hand of Fire

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 thinned.

"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…

"Sharantyr!" Shandril cried, leaping out of the wagon in a halo of snarling spellfire. "Are you hurt?"

"I–I'll live," the ranger managed to reply, going to her knees. "I think."

Arauntar was pounding toward them across the camp, sword in hand and an endless bellow calling guards to him as he came. Several had heeded and were following him, but reluctantly and at quite a distance.

Behind Shandril, however, was a sight that shook Sharantyr more than anything she'd ever seen before. The screaming darkness was man-shaped, now, and thrice as tall as the wagon. As she watched, it grew swiftly larger, looming like a shadowy giant. Shuddering and writhing, it grew ever darker and more solid. It was drinking the spellfire that Shandril had hurled!

"Shan!" the ranger screamed, pointing. "Behind you!" The maid of Highmoon turned, saw, and pointed both her hands at the shadow-thing like a wizard gleefully hurling his first lighting bolt.

As Shandril poured spellfire into the looming giant in an eye-searing white storm that shook the very air it tore through, Sharantyr saw that the young woman's teeth were clenched, and her face was as white as bone. Fine fury, yes, but how could the lass prevail against something that could feed on spellfire?

Pain crashed over the ranger in a fresh wave, and she lost all sight of false Voldovans, running guards, shadow-giants and spellfire-hurling Shandril’s alike in a shuddering collapse onto her face and side, writhing on the trampled grass. What magic had been on that blade?

The ground was shaking so violently now that the ranger started to tumble from side to side, ending up on her back- in time to see the night sky split apart with spellfire.

Flames were arcing all over the camp as Shandril lashed out. "Die!" she spat. "All of you! Die and leave us all be! Touch not Sharantryr and Arauntar and my Narm! Leave us alone!"

Laeral gasped and swayed. An anxious apprentice dared much to reach out and touch her-then held the Lady Mage of Waterdeep, cradling her awkwardly as if she might shatter or burst in a fury of rending spells. Other apprentices in that chamber of Blackstaff Tower saw and fell silent, staring in awe.