Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [104]
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.
"Pheldred? 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