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.
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 was gone, and the flames with it. Smoke curled away in strangely spicy wisps, and the tensely watching men could see Arauntar's scorched and blackened body lying still atop a white-faced Shandril. The mud around them was blackened and burned flat, and the maid of High-moon was smeared and streaked with ashes. She moved a hand, weakly feeling the ground with her fingertips, then struggled to get out from under the guard. As she moved, they saw she now wore only ashes that had once been leather and buckles and armor plates.
Narm bent to help her up but was shouldered roughly aside by Beldimarr. Shandril coughed, got herself to where she could crawl on hands and knees, swiped a filthy tangle of hair out of her eyes-and froze.
The point of Beldimarr's knife was glittering under her nose.
'What have you done to him, wench?' he growled menacingly.
Shandril slapped the dagger aside in exasperation and embraced the wounded Harper in an awkward hug. Beldimarr hissed with pain as one of her hands brushed the quarrel in his arm, and fell over on his side, with Shandril atop him.
'You don't make it easy, you great hairy hulks,' she said, wincing, as spellfire flared again along her back and behind and legs.
'She's killing him!' a guard roared, his blade flashing out with frightening speed. Narm threw himself into the man and sent him stumbling aside before that steel could find Shandril's flesh. They were still staggering and grappling together when a faint, rasping voice made the guard freeze and brought silence to the ring of watching men once more.
'Gods be praised for sending you, lass,' Arauntar said hoarsely, sitting up slowly and feeling his ribs. He flexed his fingers in wonder and touched himself here and there where warbolts had driven into him and were now gone.
Shaking his head, he looked up at the ring of intent faces and said, 'I ache, all over, as if I've been beaten. My fingers feel… burned. The rest of me-fine. Whole, all my wounds gone.' He sprang up suddenly, and great shreds of scorched armor fell away from him, crumbling into ash and tiny smokes. Standing half-naked in the ring of guards, Arauntar threw out his hands-causing most of the rest of his armor to fall away-and laughed. 'I'm healed! Healed!'
'A miracle!' one of the guards gasped, and suddenly everyone was silent again, staring at Beldimarr and the naked lass squirming atop him, her limbs almost hidden from view in bright, rising flames.
Orthil Voldovan gave Narm a look of new respect, and muttered, 'And ye sleep with that? Yer skin must be nigh stone!'
Narm was too busy rubbing his bruises and giving the guard he'd tussled with pats of silent, mutual thanks and apologies to do more than grin.
Again spellfire flared blinding-bright, the crossbow quarrels blazed up into nothingness, and a man roared in pain. This one, however, wasn't as sorely wounded as Arauntar had been, and lay beneath the searing healer and so was able to involuntarily thrust Shandril up and away, as a parent holds a child aloft.
She stared down at him, hair stirring around her as if it, too, was made of flame. Sparks leaked from her eyes, and tiny tongues of flame gouted from her mouth as she looked down at him and gasped, 'Beldimarr, don't you want to be healed?'
'Gods, yes, lass, but it hurts!'
'Oh, you've noticed,' she replied weakly, causing Arauntar to chuckle. 'Let me down, Bel,' she pleaded, 'and hurry. I can't-I can't-'
The light in her eyes fled, and she went limp. Hastily Beldimarr clasped her tightly to him, embracing her tightly as spellfire flared one last time around them… and died away.
Beldimarr grunted in amazement and cradled the nude woman in his arms as carefully as he might hold a precious thing made of glass as he slowly got himself to a sitting position.
Narm knelt to help, biting his lip. Shan was asleep or senseless, her head lolling limply. He looked up and around at Voldovan and all of his guards and said almost pleadingly,
'You see, I hope, that this isn't something endless, or easy. Don't all get wounded unto death and expect to be healed at once, now!'
At the sound of his voice Shandril shook herself, as if coming out of an unpleasant dream, and then blinked, saw Narm, and kissed him.
There were chuckles from the guards around, and even a faint cheer, as Narm's and Shandril's arms tightened around each other.
After a long, blissful moment, the maid of Highmoon drew back her head to look anxiously at Beldimarr and then at Arauntar-and saw smiling thanks and awe on both guards' faces. Then her eyes flickered as she remembered the ring of watching men.
Rather than blushing or trying to hide herself in Narm's embrace, she looked up at them, directly at face after face, then asked, 'What? Why d'you all stare at me so?'
' 'Tis like something of the gods,' a guard said hoarsely. 'I know not whether to worship ye, Lady-or sword ye, to save us all.'
'Why? Do you pray to Arauntar, or try to cut him up, because he swings a good sword? Do you hack at a cobbler, or go on your knees to him, because he mends a boot you thought couldn't be mended, and makes it look as new? Or so treat a master archer? This is but a skill the gods gave me. Why such awe over it?'
'Lady,' another guard said slowly,' 'tis magic.'
There was a murmur of agreement, but Voldovan rubbed his chin and said firmly, 'The lass has the right of it! The best way to see spellfire is as some strange sort of sword that can slay or heal.' Then he raised his voice gruffly. 'Right! Show's over! We're not getting any nearer Orcskull Rise, standing here watching a little fire and a lass rolling around losing her clothes in it! Let's move, men!'
Amid the general groan and stir that followed, the caravan master added slowly, 'Oh, and Lady, too.' He raised his hand in a sort of salute, and said almost grudgingly, 'I'll not soon be forgetting this day.'
Shandril stood up, hands on hips, and wrinkled her nose at him. ''I'm not wearing armor again.'
Voldovan grinned, shook his head, and growled in mock rage, 'Defying me again1? Some loyal guard ye
