Hand of Fire (Forgotten Realms: Shandril's Saga, Book 3)
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The latest novel from Forgotten Realms creator and bestselling author Ed Greenwood is the third title in this newly created trilogy. This all-new novel concludes the storyline from two long-standing titles that were recently rereleased.
Be careful what you wish for.
Spellfire is the most powerful magic in the land.
It’s a dangerous weapon in anyone’s hands.
In the wrong hands, it can destroy the world.
Shandril Shessair wanted a taste of adventure. She got spellfire, and now she's fleeing for her life across Faerûn, searching for somewhere to hide. More evil wizards, warriors, and priests than she can count are trying to get it from her, and they'll kill or enslave her without hesitation. Her last, desperate hope is to take refuge in the sheltered city of Silverymoon.
If she makes it that far.
long, dark-spired scepter with a heartfelt curse. “Hesperdan, you—” the Maimed Wizard began, but whatever colorful description Eirhaun had intended to snarl was lost in the flash and roar of spellfire leaping up the shaft, tumbling helmed horrors into smoke and shards, and stabbing into the shadows. A blue-white web of force suddenly glowed around Hesperdan, and the spellfire that clawed at it rebounded across the room at the wizard with the scepter. His shielding was a thing of mingled
unlovely laugh, “Strange tastes for you, Marlel!” “Not half so strange as what you’ll be tasting if you don’t roll aside, old blade,” Marlel replied lightly. “Ho ho! And what if I don’t?” “Then, Tulasker, I’m afraid you’ll learn firsthand how I came by my rather grand professional title. It will be one of those sharp, painful, and rather final lessons, too.” “Aye, aye, impress us all,” Tulasker muttered disparagingly, as he slowly shuffled aside. At the far end of the gloomy room, a
have on this run.” Tornar waited for the huge man behind the desk to say more, but silence stretched until he felt moved to ask, “We’re not going to try for …?” “No,” Bradraskor said slowly. “No, I don’t think I want to die badly enough for that.” Tornar nodded, as relief flooded through him and quite drove away his fleeting disappointment. He made for the door with his usual soundless tread. “Eye of mine,” the Master of the Shadows said softly, freezing Tornar in mid-step with his gloved
travel-scraps out in the wilderlands when cities were full of folk who’d pay well for castings of minor magics, but … She was perhaps three long strides away from the rock when the brigand rose up again and hurled a dagger into her face. There was a momentary, feathering blur as it sliced deep into her eye—or rather, whirled through her head as if she weren’t there, after its point found no eye nor socket. Her ears rang with his curses as he hastily drew a rather rusty curved sword and commenced
behind. “What’s happened to Shandril?” “She’s heading this way,” Laeral said grimly. “With half the darker folk in the Realms right behind her, blades and spells out.” “Methought the lass was bound for Silverymoon and Alustriel,” Mirt growled, rubbing his chin. “This city’s a deadlier lair by far.” “Not so perilous as trying to cross the wilderlands to Silverymoon unseen,” Laeral told him softly, plucking the decanter from his hands, “so my sister has agreed to come here, meet Shandril, and