Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [133]
The character Brokenhehn the Harper in Aukh Rammantle's play The Leaping Fish
Year of the Thirsty Sword (first performance)
Campfires flared up in hungry threads of flame to join the leaping, ever-changing web of spellfire above them. Its roar was almost deafening, and it stabbed out with arc after arc of fire that made wagons explode in fury at a touch.
"Gods above!" Mirt said, his merchant's soul shocked at the waste all around him, trade-goods and the wagons that held Asper nodded her head, seeming almost dazed by the sheer outpouring of howling force. It was like facing an angrily erupting volcano. Mirt shook his head to banish that brief, long-ago memory, set his teeth, and dragged his slender lady away from where the air itself was crackling and complaining.
Behind them, the bright figure hurled more spellfire, and in answer the High Lady's silver fire flared up into a shield. Spellfire and silver fire wrestled, and rushing streams of spellflame melted apart into a wild webwork of many holes – but still roared with frightening speed, streaming over the silver fire as a river rushes over rocks, and hurled Alustriel back.
Mirt had one glimpse of the High Lady's grim face before she sank down into a raging whorl of flames, and could be seen no more at the heart of their snarling, behind fires that reared up castle-high in their bright battling.
He became aware of a sudden sharp pain in his ear, and shook his head, bewildered. Asper had twisted in his arms to bite him, and he dimly became aware that she'd been shouting at him for some time, trying to gain his attention. "Aye, what?" he roared, and she pointed with her blade. "Look!"
Mirt looked, and saw a man behind Shandril – a slender, darkly handsome man with a wand in his hand. He'd just fired it, seen its magic race at Shandril's back and be swept toward the stars by billowing spellfire, shaken his head in disgust, and crouched low to crawl closer.
Mirt cast a glance at the maid from Highmoon. She was out of control, to be sure, but even if taking her down became needful, a wand-blast that might send miles of Faerun skyward wasn't the way to do it.
"I'll take him, leaving yon merry blades in yer hands," he growled in Asper's ear, and pointed to the handful of warriors struggling against the flames on Shandril's other side. She clapped him on the arm, whirled to give him a fierce, hot kiss, and then raced away.
Mirt watched her go with a smile – gods, what a beauty! What spirit! Gods keep her safe! – then turned and began his own sprint around the flames, toward the man with the wand.
He'd hoped to cut in close around the lass. The night was growing darker, so her flames must be fading a bit… yet they seemed to be raging as furiously as ever. Off to one side the silver fire that hid Alustriel from view flared up, but it, too, seemed dimmer.
Mirt glanced up as his boots skidded on something wet, and saw that the stars were blotted out. The dark thing, whatever it was, loomed over most of the camp, now, and seemed – by Mirt's familiar feeling of being under scrutiny – to be watching events below.
He shook his head and ran on. The gods certainly seemed to enjoy piling one misfortune atop another, enthusiastically providing three perils where one would do, and curse all the men-twisting bunch of them if that dog with the wand wasn't standing up behind Shandril to try sending death again!
The Old Wolf put his head down and ran, cutting in closer to Shandril than he'd yet dared, dodging hungry tongues of spellfire to get to this newest peril, and knowing he hadn't a blessed hope of reaching the man in time.
Yet Shandril was no fool. The curtain of spellfire cloaking her back was thicker than it raged anywhere else, and twice the man with the wand had to duck down as