Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [136]
He was going to die at last, he was going to be lost, drowned and torn apart in this sea of endless, gnawing power. He was – doomed. He was… going … at last…
The darkness above her was alive. Riding her grief and lost in it, Shandril barely cared as the awareness overhanging her faltered and then failed, and thoughts that were not her own invaded her.
They came in a whispering flood as the great wraithcloud dwindled and died and… faded away. Caring little, Shandril let them rush over her and into her, imparting their secrets like storm-blown leaves slapping her weary face.
Rathrane, the gloating ghost had been, a wizard of Netheril – of course; were not all these awakened ancient evils from that fell time and realm above realms, where wizards had thought themselves kings? This Rathrane had drunk magic as some carters gulped ale, and grown strong, and in his towering, this last little while, had touched many minds…
Shandril shivered at some of those thoughts, even as she realized dimly that her striving had worked – once spellfire had slipped from her control and raged unchecked, the magic-draining phantom was doomed.
Narm, none of this will bring back my Narm, she whispered bitterly into the darkness, as thoughts opened up like night-blooming flowers around her, catching her unwilling interest as if they had hooks, and showing her… … Orthil Voldovan had been slain in Triel, and his likeness and place taken by the Red Wizard Thavaun … … Alustriel of Silverymoon and Laeral of Waterdeep had ridden her spellfire here, bringing her friends Mirt and Asper to her aid – and now she'd harmed them all… … Sharantyr had been hurled away, wounded, by magic, somewhere into the night… … the man staggering up to his feet in front of her, tossing down the empty vial that had held the third healing potion he'd poured down his throat in swift succession, was a worm of a wizard. "Hlael of the Zhentarim," she named him aloud. A man ruled by terror, who'd been ordered to seize spellfire by the mage Drauthtar and sent here into this battle by a fell, much-feared Zhent, the wizard Hesperdan.
Narm is gone, she hissed into his mind, as Hlael became aware of her regard and stiffened in alarm, and you shall pay for it! You'll all pay for it!
Shandril reached down into herself so deep that it hurt her sorely, dug her fingers like claws into all the spellfire she could handle, sobbed with the pain of that heaving, and hurled it at Hlael Toraunt.
The Zhentarim managed to open his mouth to scream before his mind and then his body burst apart, but Shandril scarcely noticed his dying. She rode her bright and deadly flood on into the darkness, leaping along a scrying-linkage to another cold-hearted wizard – the one who'd been watching Hlael from afar.
"Drauthtar," she snarled as she reached him, "die!"
Spellfire roared and swirled, and the lass who was its source and its rider turned away without another glance, seeking the next Zhentarim to slay, gathering her energies to seek Hesperdan.
Power in plenty, but no spells to seek a man hidden.
Shandril screamed in rage when the energies roiling around her served her not, and hurled herself like a lightning bolt back across miles of wolf-haunted night to where Alustriel of Silverymoon was emerging from a self-spun fortress of silver fire to seek her stricken Sister, Laeral.
"Child," Alustriel told her gravely, as their gazes met, "let fall your flames, and know comfort."
There was no trace of fear in the High Lady's voice, but Shandril