Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [128]
There was a loud sizzling, as blood scorched up into smoke. Beldimarr jerked upright in Arauntar's grasp and screamed hoarsely.
That long, agonized cry ended with him staring fixedly at Shandril, as smoke streamed out of his mouth – and when Arauntar laid him gently back down, his stare never changed.
The guards leaned forward, but not a man took a step closer to the woman kneeling on the grass as she started to sob.
They could all see Beldimarr wasn't breathing.
Where his gaping wound had been, the blood was gone. In its place was a deep brand in the shape of Shandril's hand. "Gods," a guard said hoarsely. "A hand of fire!" "Cooked his innards," another muttered.
Shandril stared pleadingly into Arauntar's eyes as she wept. "Lass," he said quickly, his voice raw,
"you did what you could." She shook her head despairingly, sprang to her feet, and fled into the wagon, the ashes of her tunic trailing behind her in a scattering, drifting cloud.
Narm moved to block the wagon-mouth, his face bleak. Voldovan took two deliberate steps forward until he was stopped by Sharantyr's blade again, and said grimly over it, "Guard her close, lad. She hasn't many friends standing here right now, if ye know what I mean!"
The young wizard swallowed, nodded, and disappeared into the wagon.
Arauntar rose from his knees beside Beldimarr and said heavily, "Get to yer posts, men. I'll stand guard here."
"No," Voldovan said curtly, "Ye're needed to keep our verges tight, beyond the lanterns. Yon lass hardly needs guarding, with spellfire ready in her hands!"
Arauntar gave the caravan master a dark look but nodded and turned away. "Let no man touch Beldimarr's body," he snapped, whirling around again. "I'll see to it."
Voldovan nodded. "'Twill be so." He waved a hand in dismissal, more to the last few lingering guards than to Arauntar, then turned to Sharantyr and asked,
"Are ye going to stand here in my own camp and menace me with steel all night, woman? Mind telling me yer name, first?"
"I am Sharantyr," she said, "Knight of Myth Drannor – and death to any who seek to harm Shandril Shessair."
"Well, then, Lady Death," the caravan master said gruffly, "I am Orthil Voldovan, this is my caravan, and in this camp, my word is law. Remember that."
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