Ed Greenwood - Hand of Fire

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 tunnel. Shandril looked down it and then flung herself at the distant figure she saw there, riding her flame a long, dark way.

Halfway to that distant robed man, he became aware of her. Glittering dark eyes widened, hands wove frantic spells, and the tunnel she raced down began to come apart.

"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.

A blue-white web of force suddenly glowed around Hesperdan, and the spellfire that clawed at it rebounded across the room at the wizard with the scepter.

His shielding was a thing of mingled crimson and emerald fire, and it wrestled desperately with the spellfire. The scepter smoked and burst apart, followed into oblivion by two rings that took Eirhaun's hissing snake-fingers with them. Spellfire scorched and sizzled about the walls, shattering pillars and gargoyles alike, then faded and fell back down the shaft.

The two wizards looked at each other-Hesperdan's cold and dark smile meeting the glare of the Maimed Wizard. The older wizard had deflected the spellfire that sought his life at Eirhaun Sooundaeril, who'd in turn thrust it aside into the walls of his stronghold. That massive peak of stone was old and huge and girt with many spells, but there was no one and nothing it could deflect spellfire into.

Wherefore cracks had already appeared in the walls and the vaulted ceiling, and the floor beneath the two men was shuddering and starting to move. Explosions rumbled far below, and ravaged stone screamed like a man in anguish. A chasm opened in the rippling floor between the two wizards.

Stone fell away with a rush and a roar. Hesperdan and Eirhaun the Maimed stared at each other across the gulf as rooms fell away beneath them, one after another, crashing down into the dust and screams below.

"Oh, dear," Hesperdan remarked mildly. "I do believe your stronghold is collapsing."

The Maimed gathered the spell around him that would whisk him away and replied menacingly, "We will meet again, Old Man."

Hesperdan smiled again. "Indeed. I'm counting on it."

He vanished an instant after his longtime foe-but just before the shattered floor he'd been standing on cracked and fell away with a roar.

Shandril went to her knees as she wept, spellfire raining down with her tears. More spellflames raced along her arms to roll away into the night. "Oh, Mystra, aid me!" she cried.

"Shan?" a voice as grief-ridden as her own asked her, from very close by. "Is there anything I can do?"