Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [127]
Beldimarr managed a grin that would have been more handsome if blood hadn't bubbled from between his teeth and leaked in a long stream out of the corner of his mouth.
"Jus' a lucky thrust," he panted, as he reeled up to them, clutching his side with a hand whose fingers were slick with blood. "I took him down, mind – an' he was a Zhentilar, or I'm a dead man."
"I hope he was a Zhentilar," Arauntar said grimly, running to guide his friend to the wagon-perch. They didn't make it before Beldimarr went to his knees.
The head guard looked up from where he knelt beside his sagging comrade to ask Shandril roughly,
"Lass?"
Shandril stared down at Beldimarr, then at Arauntar's grim gaze, and at the guards gathering around as if by magic, and all the color slowly went out of her face. "No," she gasped, shaking her head.
"Oh, no!"
*******
The wizard Rathrane drifted away from the lanterns, writhing and shuddering in pain. Sometimes he seemed almost solid, a dark man in dark robes, cloak billowing out impossibly long from his shoulders.
More often he was but shifting, batlike shadows, roiling in pain around something bright and flickering in his midst, something that hurt him but that he cradled as if it was precious.
Such agony, unending… but he had to have this.
How could he not hunger for such power? He must learn from these last few wisps of spellflame, as they flickered out in his grasp, how to adapt himself so as to drain this peerless might without harm… like so.
Yes! Thus! This was the way.
The caravan master glared at the slip of a girl kneeling on his wagon-perch and growled disbelievingly, "Ye won't heal him? Why not? Ye did before!"
He took an angry step forward and found himself facing Sharantyr's swordtip.
"Dare to use that on me, Lady Whomever-Ye-Be, an' ye'll end up a mite diced by yon blades," he snarled, waving at the gathered guards.
"Dare to menace Shandril Shessair, and you'll be dead, and it'll be a mite late for you to take comfort in whatever may happen to me," the ranger replied coolly, lifting her blade to – almost – kiss his throat.
Voldovan jerked back as if he'd burned himself in a suddenly flaring fire, looked up at the wagon-perch, and found himself meeting Narm Tamaraith's furious glare. The caravan master swallowed whatever he'd been going to say and took another pace back.
"Bel," Shandril said pleadingly, "I daren't try to heal you. My spellfire is out of control! I could end up killing you!"
"I trust you, lass," he gasped, blood bubbling forth with every word.
"You shouldn't," Shandril wept, shaking her head violently. "Oh, Bel, you shouldn't!"
"Heal him!" one of the guards snapped. "Aye, try it," another echoed. "Y'did it before!" "Heal him," others muttered, as Voldovan nodded. Shandril bit her lip and shook her head, face twisted.
"Please, lass," Beldimarr gasped from where he sat in Arauntar's arms, fresh blood fountaining forth.
"He's a dead man if you don't, lass," Arauntar growled, and Shandril sighed, shut her eyes, shook her head again – and came down from the wagon.
"I… this is not going to go well," she moaned, going to her knees beside the stricken guard. "I don't want to do this!"
"We all have to do things we don't want to do, lass,"
Voldovan growled. "Get on with it."
Shandril gave the caravan master a tearful look, turned imploringly to the guards, and whispered,
"You don't understand, any of you!"
"Please, lass," Arauntar growled, leaning forward as if to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but sitting back even before Sharantyr's sword lifted warningly. "None of us'll blame you if Bel goes down. He'll be dead very soon if you try nothing."
Shandril nodded wearily and looked into Beldimarr's eyes. "I… do you…"
The wounded Harper managed a bloody smile, and said, "Whatever befalls, Shan, 'twill be a relief. Do it, an' if the gods gather me, well then…"
Shandril nodded slowly, swallowed, and whispered,
"Very well. I'll try." She closed her eyes and held out one