Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [65]
"No!" Shandril snapped. "Narm, Voldovan, keep everyone back!"
"What?" the caravan master growled. "What crazed -"
"Do it," Narm said quietly. "Trust her. I'm alive now because she did this for me."
The guards threw him startled looks, and more than one pair of eyes swiftly narrowed. "Is this some sort of fire-witch magic?" one of them snapped.
Shandril looked up. "Yes! Please watch, but do nothing to stay me – and perhaps I'll be nigh the next time, when you need it!"
In the startled silence that followed her words the maid of Highmoon looked from Beldimarr to Arauntar and back again and murmured, "Please, both of you, trust me."
Beldimarr shrugged and jerked his head toward his stricken friend. Shandril turned to the dying Harper and asked, "Arauntar, do you want to live?"
"Not in this much pain," he snarled back, and then groaned out a huge gout of blood and whimpered, " 'Course I do!"
"Beldimarr, Voldovan," Shandril snapped, "lift him a little off the ground, as gently as you can. I need to get under him."
"Under -?" Trading doubtful looks, the two men gingerly laid hold of Arauntar's armpits and ribs, reaching awkwardly around the many quarrels, and then shifted him a hands-breadth into the air.
The guard roared with pain, a cry that collapsed into sobbing as Shandril threw herself down into the blood, on her back, and wormed her way under Arauntar as if she was a lover embracing him.
"Right," she gasped, struggling for breath. "Let him down, and let go of him. Now, get back!" –
11: Some Strange Sort of Sword
Some of us fight with swords, and some with nimble tongues or poison or coins. Oh, aye, and some of us blast Faerun around us with spells, or call down dragons, or set roofs afire. When you think right down through things, we're all just shaping different sorts of swords to cut our ways through life. Some measure success by the amount of blood they leave as their trail – and some by how little they manage to spill.
Elvryn Auraunt, Sage of Everlund
Sword of Ink, Boots of Fancy: A Sage's Tale
Year of the Stag
Narm reached in quickly as the groaning guard was let back down and wiped Arauntar's lips with his pouch-kerchief. The cloth came away dark and dripping with blood.
Wary, unhappy murmurs arose from the gathered, watching men. Shandril put her lips to Arauntar's.
Well, now, Beldimarr growled, wincing his way to a sitting position. "That beats a gulletful of Old Ironfire any day." He looked to Narm. "This some sort o' ritual? She's not stealing his soul ere he dies, is she?"
"Watch," Narm said tensely, "and don't interfere.
Any of you."
As the last word left his mouth, a louder murmur arose from the guards: anger warring with worry.
Spellfire was flaring around Shandril's mouth and hands – hands that ran slowly up and down Arauntar's arms and torso, as far as she could reach, as the glow of magical fire grew stronger and brighter.
Arauntar stiffened and groaned, his arms shuddering and his hands clenching into claws… and Beldimarr frowned and raised his dagger uncertainly.
Spellfire suddenly flared blinding-bright around the two bodies lying in the road, and Arauntar convulsed and screamed, throwing his head back and wallowing atop the raging fire that was Shandril as if he was trying to claw his way out of a hearthfire.
There were growls and curses from the watching men, and despite Narm's fiercely raised hands they strode or leaned forward, many hands going to swordhilts.
Arauntar fell silent and slumped down into the flames, and the mutters of anger grew – only to fall away into gasps of awe as the smoking crossbow quarrels standing up out of him suddenly caught fire, blazed up into flames, and were gone… in the space of a mere breath.
Abruptly the brilliance