by Ed Greenwood
"Go now," Elminster said gently, "or ye'll be seen. We shall ride north toward Hillsfar with illusions of ye for a time to confuse any who seek ye, but those who pursue ye are not weak-minded. Go now, and go swiftly. Our love and regard go with ye." His clear blue eyes met theirs fondly and steadily as they slowly turned their mounts about, and then, with a vast wave, spurred away.
Looking back as they thundered south along the road with tears stinging their eyes, Shandril and Narm saw the knights sitting their saddles watching. Florin raised something that flashed silver to his lips as they rode on over the first rise, and as the descending slope of the road hid the knights from their view, the clear notes of the knights' battle-leader's war-horn rang out in a farewell. He was playing the Salute to Victorious Warriors. Shandril had heard it played by bards at the inn, but she had never dreamed it would someday be played for her!
"Will we ever see them again?" Narm asked softly, as they slowed.
"Yes," said Shandril, with eyes and voice of steel, "whatever stands in the way." She brushed her hair out of her eyes. "It is time we learned to look after ourselves. If I must slay with this spellfire every jack and lass seems so eager to take, then so be it. I'm afraid I can't laugh at devils and dracoliches and mages and men with swords the way Torm does. They just make me angry and afraid. So I'll strike back at them. I hope you won't be hurt… I fear much battle lies ahead of us."
"I hope you won't be hurt, my lady," Narm answered her, as they rode on. "You're the one they'll be after."
"I know," Shandril said softly, and steel shone in her eyes again. "But it is I who'll have spellfire ready when they find me."
They slowed their horses to a steady trot. The road was lightly traveled that day. They saw no one traveling south, and only a few merchants heading north. All rode ready-armed, but nodded without incident or ill looks.
Great old trees of the Elven Court rose on both sides of the road. Between them and the road itself stumps rose out of the ditch like the gray fingers of buried giants, all that remained of saplings cut by travelers as staves and litter-poles and firewood. Narm watched these narrowly as they rode, half-expecting brigands to rise up out of them at every bend and dip of the way.
They rode in silence for the most part, until the sun glimmered low, and the trees laid dark shadows across the road.
"We should find a place to sleep, love," Narm said as shadows lengthened and their horses slowed.
Shandril looked at him and nodded soberly. "Aye, and soon," she said. "We are almost upon the vale. A cursed place. Let us stop here-at that height, ahead-and hope none find us."
They reined to a halt, and Narm swung down. "Ohhh," he groaned. "Stiff… ohhh. Tymora watch over us." He patted his mount's head and listened. "Water, down there," he said after a moment, pointing.
Shandril swung down into his arms. "Good, then," she said lightly, inches from his nose. "You fetch some while I tie the horses, oh mighty conjurer."
Narm growled and kissed her, and then unhooked the nosebags from the mules and went down to get water. Somewhere nearby a wolf howled. Overhead, as the last light faded and the moonlight began, a black falcon came silently to a branch above Shandril, and clung, watching.
They awoke in each other's arms on a hard bed of canvas tent laid flat upon mossy ground. Birds called in the brightening morning. It was damp and misty among the trees. They were in a beautiful place, but somehow it was not welcoming. They were intruders, and could feel it.
Once Narm thought he saw elven eyes far off in the gloom, regarding him steadily, but he blinked and they were gone. The Elven Court itself may have gone from these woods, but the hand of man had not tamed them-yet. Narm felt more comfortable with his hand resting on the hilt of his drawn dagger, beneath the cloak that covered their shoulders and throats. He turned to Shandril, who smiled through tousled hair, looking sleepy and vulnerable. "Good morn, my lady," Narm greeted her softly, rolling over to draw her close.
"And to you, my love," Shandril replied softly. "It is nice to be alone for once, without mages attacking us and guards watching over us always, and Elminster fussing about… I love you, Narm."
"I love you, too," Narm said quietly. "How lucky I've been to see you in the inn and then be parted, only to find you deep in ruined Myth Drannor again. I would have come back to The Rising Moon someday when I was free of Marimmar, only to find you long gone."
"Aye," Shandril whispered against his chest. "Long gone and probably dead. Oh, Narm…" They lay in each other's arms, warm and safe and unwilling to rise and end this feeling of peace.
Then they heard the dull thudding of hooves from the road nearby, and the creak of harness leather. Shandril sighed and rolled free of Narm. "I suppose we must get up," she said, long, blond hair hanging about her shoulders as she rose to her knees, pulling the cloak about her against the chill. "If we stop in Essembra only to buy feed and to eat and then hasten on, we could camp on the southern edge of the woods this night. I would be out and away, west of the Thunder Peaks, before the Cult of the Dragon and Zhentil Keep and whoever else is after me know we have parted from the knights. Come, now. You can kiss me more later."
Narm nodded a bit mournfully. "Aye, I know." He sat up and looked all about at the drifting mist in the trees, and the horses chewing on leaves patiently. He sighed too, then, and scrambled up to draw on his clothes. His thighs were raw from yesterday's riding. He drew on his belt, then stopped abruptly, listening. He could have sworn he had heard a chuckle, but there was no one to be seen. All was quiet from the road, too. After a long time he shrugged and continued on, glancing back often at his lady. He never saw the black falcon winging low over the treetops to the east on the long flight home.
In falcon shape, The Simbul shook her head and chuckled again. They were good folk, she thought, and then rose on powerful wings to look around at the trees below. Children, still, but they'd not be for much longer. She had other concerns, too long neglected, to see to now. Perhaps they'd be killed-but then again, it was entirely possible that they'd do the killing if any in Faerun quarreled with them. Farewell, you two. Fare-you-very-well. The lonely queen of Aglarond flicked raven-black wings and rose higher.
They made good time across the strangely still place known as the Vale of Lost Voices. Sacred to the elves, it was, and men whispered that something unseen and terrible guarded it. Something that destroyed axe-wielding men and great mages alike, and left no trace behind. In the vale the elves of the Elven Court buried the bodies of their fallen, but those who dared to dig for treasure there vanished in the mists and were not seen again.
Narm and Shandril, and those who passed them there, said not a word all the time they rode across that tree-choked valley. The largest trees they had seen yet grew in the vale, some as big around as Elminster's tower back in Shadowdale. The light was eerily blue under the trees where mists coiled slowly far off, and faint glowing lights drifted and danced. No one stepped off the road while they traversed the vale.
They left it at last, Shandril shivering in sudden relief as they came up over the crest of the steep hill that marked its southern edge.
"The Lost Dale, they call it in Cormyr," Narm said, low-voiced. "Forever lost to men, because of the elves."
Shandril looked at him. "They say in the dales that every elf in the Elven Court would have to be dead before one tree of the vale could be safely cut."
"But all the elves are gone now," Narm said. Shandril shook her head.
"No. I saw one in the woods at Storm Silverhand's. She waved to Storm and went away as we came down to the pool." Shandril turned to peer all around into the trees.
"But that's far from here," Narm protested.
"Think you so?" asked Shandril very softly. "Look there, then." Narm followed her gaze and saw a motionless figure in mottled green-gray standing upon the mighty branch of a shadowtop that towered high above the road ahead. The figure was an elf, and he leaned easily upon a bow that must have been a head taller than
Narm. He looked at them with steady blue, gold-flecked eyes. Shandril bowed her head, spread empty hands, and smiled. Narm did the same. A slow nod was their only answer. The horses carried them past at a steady pace, and Shandril said, "A moon elf, like Merith."
"A possible enemy, unlike Merith," Narm replied grimly. "We must watch our every step." He peered ahead. "The trees thin," he said. "We must be nearing Essembra. I can see fields."
A caravan rumbled toward them, then, a dozen wagons pulled by oxen. The wagons were surrounded by hard-eyed outriders who rode with crossbows at their saddles and short spears in their hands. The wagons bore no merchant banner, but passed without incident.
Well behind the caravan rode a family on heavily laden draft horses, leading strings of pack mules. They were led by a single excited youth with a halberd that dipped and swung alarmingly as he rode forward to challenge them. "Way, there! Way, if you be not foes! Declare yourselves!"
Narm stared at him in silence. The halberd lowered upon them.
"Declare yourselves, or defend yourselves!"
"Ride on in peace," Narm replied, "or I'll turn your halberd into a viper and turn it back upon you!"
The boy recoiled, his horse dancing uncertainly as its rider waved about trying to draw his blade wrong-handed while keeping the halberd menacingly upon Narm. "If you be a mage," he said shrilly, backing away as Narm and Shandril rode steadily on, "give your name, or face swift death!" Beyond him Narm saw small crossbows raised ready upon saddles, and calm, wary eyes above them. He could not hesitate longer. Beside him, Shandril rode serenely silent.
Narm drew himself up in his saddle. "I am Marimmar the Magnificent, Mage Most Mighty. I and my apprentice would pass you in peace. But offer us death, and it shall be yours!"
Beside him, Shandril burst into muffled giggles. Narm kept his composure with an effort, as the boy cast him a frightened look and hastened by. Narm nodded pleasantly and then stared straight ahead as he rode past the other men and the mules behind, managing to hide a smile that kept creeping onto one side of his face.
"Sarhthor?" Sememmon asked aloud, peering into the depths of the crystal ball before him. Its magical telepathy was always difficult to focus at first. In its depths he could see flickering lamps and an expressionless, elegantly bearded face. Sarhthor looked back at him and sent his thoughts without speaking. Sememmon tried to hide his own irritation at the other mage's precise ease of art and apparent fearlessness.
"Well met, Sememmon. I have searched the dale. Elminster and the knights have just returned, using the road south from Voonlar. The girl with spellfire and her consort mageling are not here, as far as I can determine."
"Not in Shadowdale?"
"Not. They may be here in hiding, but I doubt it. None of the knights-or those Harpers I can observe in safety-have gone anywhere out of the ordinary or met with anyone. The folk of the tower know they left two nights ago."
"Two nights?" Sememmon almost screamed. "Why, they could be almost anywhere!"
Precisely why I'm returning to you, as soon as possible, Sarhthor thought flatly, then said aloud, "By the way, who is that with you?"
"With me?" Sememmon asked, angry and startled. "I am alone!"
"You are indeed-now. A moment ago there was an eye floating above your left shoulder-the ocular construction of a wizard eye spell. A spy, then. Guard yourself, Sememmon."
Sememmon had already turned angrily away from the ball, to stare wildly about his chamber. "Show yourself!" he thundered, casting a detect magic spell. Dweomer-the auras of familiar objects imbued with art-glowed all around him. The faint traceries of spells, too, shone in the field of revealed magic created by his spell, but they were all spells he knew about, preservative and defensive, all art that should be there. There was no sign of any intruder.
At last Sememmon turned angrily back to the crystal ball, but it was dark. No one waited at the matching globe at the other end any longer. Sememmon cursed the shadows about him, but they did not answer.
The sun was low again. Shandril and Narm passed a skin of hot spiced tea between them as they rode, their bellies full of warm roast phledge, the plump ground-partridge of the woods, smoky-tasting and delightful in a thick pea gravy. No one had acted suspicious of them at the inn Florin had recommended.
"How do you feel, my lady?" Narm asked suddenly, not meeting her eyes. "About the spellfire, I mean. Does it… change one?"
A little startled at the suddenness of the question, Shandril looked at him with something close to pity in her eyes. "Yes, no doubt. But not in the larger sense, I think. I am still the Shandril you rescued from Rauglothgor." She hesitated, then added in a much softer voice, "I am still the Shandril you love."
Narm looked at her, and there was a little silence as they regarded each other. And then the attack came.
Shandril felt something was wrong an instant before the boulder struck Narm's shoulder, and his head flew back. The jarring made her bite her lip. Narm was whirled about, his arm striking her head solidly as he spun, and he toppled and fell.
Stunned, Shandril stared at the huge, mossy boulder as it settled past her to hang above Narm's head. He lay crumpled, unmoving. The boulder sank slowly, and over the grassy bank beyond where Narm lay, Shandril saw a man in robes.
He grinned at her without humor. His eyes glittered black and deadly. She drew breath to scream, as wild fear rose and choked her from within.
15
The Crushing of the Soul
I have known the crushing of the soul that defeat brings, and the burning, sickening pain of deep wounds-and would not have it otherwise. Such dark things make the bright spots burn the brighter.
Korin of Neverwinter, Tales Told By The Warm Fireside,Year of the Blazing Brand
"No… make no sound," the man in robes warned. "Speak not. Cast no spells. Use no spellfire, Shandril Shessair-or I will let fall the rock on the head of your husband." His eyes bore into hers. "Do not think to trick me or take me unaware," the man added calmly, "for I am not such a fool-and yonder stone can hardly miss its mark."
Shandril sat still in her saddle, cold fear trickling slowly-slowly and chillingly-down her spine. She stared at the mage and wondered for an instant who this one was. How to win free? her mind screamed then. How to win free?
"I am Malark " the man said with cold pride, "of the Cult of the Dragon. I come for revenge, and I will have it." His eyes flickered. "Get down off your horse slowly, and stay just where you land, or your husband will die."
Shandril did as he commanded, never taking her eyes off his. He watched her with the cold patience of a snake.
"Lie down. Slowly. To your knees, and then upon your belly, arms outstretched toward me. Do not touch any weapon." Shandril did so, heart sinking as she pressed her face into the rocky ground. "Good," said the voice coldly.
"Spread your arms and legs apart. Do not try to rise."
He was nearer. Shandril obeyed, wondering how much she'd have the courage to endure. She gathered spellfire within her, silently. Malark walked around her, staying at a safe distance. Angry warmth filled her chest and throat. She glared at the grass before her eyes, and it began to smoulder. She hooded her fire, hastily, and held herself ready. Tymora aid me!
"You have cost us much indeed, Shandril Shessair. The Shadowsil, the dracolich Rauglothgor, his lair, and the fortified tower above it, with all his treasure, the dracolich Aghazstamn, many devout worshippers-the worth of all these, you owe us. The price is your spellfire-that, and your service and that of your husband. You may serve us, or die. Lie still." The cold voice began the mutterings of spellcasting.
Gods aid me, Shandril thought. What will become of us? There are no knights here to rescue us, now.
Malark's cold chanting ended in a sudden squealing, gurgling sound. Shandril, waiting to absorb his spell, froze and then rolled over in breathless haste. If that rock fell on Narm…
But Narm was safely to one side, in the grip of a grinning Rathan. Malark stood s
taring at her, black eyes very dark and very large, and over his shoulder Torm was grinning.
In the thief's hands were the ends of the waxed cord that had choked off Malark's spell in mid-word. Malark was hanging from the cord now, face terrible, frantic fingers clawing at the cord about his throat growing feeble. Malark's eyes rolled up into his skull, and he began to sag. Torm held the cord tight as he lowered the mage slowly to the ground.
"Well met," the thief said cheerfully as he rolled the body over, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion, and beckoned Rathan over with a jerk of his head. "His purse, quickly, before he is fully dead… these damned mages all have spells set to trigger all manner of mischief at their deaths."
Rathan bent to work obediently. "Ho, Shandril-thy lad's all right," he said quickly. Shandril stared at the boulder, now sunk into the grass nearby, and shuddered. "Nothing but a bit of rag and a handful of coppers," Rathan told Torm.
"His boots," Torm directed, still holding the cord tight. Malark's face looked so dark and terrible that Shandril turned away.
"Is-is he dead?" she asked weakly.
"Nearly. I'll cut his throat in a moment… Then, lady, it would be best to burn the body completely, or some bright-minded bastard of the cult will raise him to lurk on your trail." Torm turned professional eyes upon the boots. "Try that heel."
"Hah!" Rathan said in satisfaction a moment later, holding up six platinum pieces. "Hollow, indeed!"
"Hmmph," Torm said, wrinkling his nose. "No magic? Scarce worth all this trouble. Have off his robe, Rathan, and we'll cut his throat and be done with it."
"His robe?"
"Aye, his robe. Where he conceals the components for his spells, a few extra coins, and the gods know what else… which we'll soon learn. Come on-my arms grow weary!"
"They do? Pretend they're around a wench, and ye'll have no trouble at all," Rathan told him gruffly, tugging off the mage's robe. He stepped back, looked at the body as Torm laid it down with both ends of the cord in one fist and a dagger gleaming long and wickedly in the other, and then grinned at Shandril.