Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [134]
The second time he ended up on his chin on the scorched turf, flattened out as low as he could, while an arm of silver fire wrestled with spellfire uncomfortably close above his head.
Mirt tried not to think about the fact that he was hurling himself at that particular snarling conflagration much too swiftly to stop or even veer with any hopes of putting himself where he wanted to be – out of the way of a swiftly raised blade, for instance.
He ducked back out of the way of flame, his racing feet skidding out from under him, and all time for thinking was past.
He crashed down hard on his back and bounced, slithering on, and saw the wand-wielder give him a startled look and rise again, as a drift of silver fire swept spellfire away like a hand clawing aside a tapestry, leaving the way to Shandril's back momentarily clear.
Marlel grinned savagely as he triggered his wand, and then swiftly ducked down again in case the wench should explode.
His magic sped as swift as any arrow, straight at the maid's unprotected back. Nothing could stop it now!
He was going to be the one who laid low this Sh – The great gasping walrus of a man who'd come running out of nowhere flung himself up into the air with a roar that made Shandril whirl around. The wand-bolt struck him squarely in the chest.
Mirt was flung away as an angry child throws a rag doll, and the last, fading traces of wand-fire reached Shandril.
She shuddered, spellfire already racing up and down in her limbs in a fresh halo, and the Dark Blade of Doom heard her cry out in pain.
His grin widened as he fired again, and he was still grinning when spellfire sped back along the path of his bolt, snatching up and reversing the racing wandfire to stab back and make all Faerun a single blinding-bright roar.
Asper saw something small and black tumble past her. From out of its whirling teeth gleamed at her, set in a broad grin, and then the blackened, blazing head was gone into the smoke and wandering flames of the many spreading grassfires.
She whirled from the business of dealing death to Zhentilar and launched herself into a run. Mirt had been trying to reach that man…
Spellfire reached for her, but silver fire lashed out again from the blazing ball of warring flame on the far side of Shandril, and the maid of Highmoon turned her attention back to it.
Asper saw Narm Tamaraith rise from his knees, recognize her, and begin to weave a spell. It did not seem a hostile magic, somehow, and she flung herself to the ground, rolled under the lone tongue of spellfire, and found her feet again to race on.
She almost tripped over Mirt, a few hard-running moments later, and screamed.
Spellfire snarled at her almost instantly but was turned aside, and as Asper looked up wildly, Narm gave her a grin and a wave. His magic was settling over her like a bright net, torn and plucked at by spellfire but keeping its full fury away from where Asper frantically fumbled at her belt and scabbard for the vials that held her healing potions.
The Old Wolf groaned, and smoke poured from his mouth. Asper bit her lip, snatched the seal off one vial, and practically threw its contents down his throat.
Mirt erupted into a storm of coughing, wheezing, and snorting beneath her, and she rode him like a lover, grinding herself against him to keep him down low to the ground as a fresh storm of silver fire, then spellfire swept Narm's spell away to claw at each other just above Asper's head.
"Easy, Old Wolf," she soothed him, tugging a second cork out of a vial with her teeth. "Easy, love.
Here, drink this."
She rolled off him to give him a chance to breathe and swallow, then held the potion to his lips when his trembling hand could not. She didn't want to look at the ravaged ruin of his chest or wonder if all the healing magics she carried would be enough. Instead she risked a glance through the storms of streaming, whirling flame to where Narm stood, to wave him thanks.
He was casting another spell now, and as Asper watched she saw the caravan master Voldovan run