Spellfire ss-1

by Ed Greenwood

  "Not unimportant, are you?" he said. "Malark, one of the rulers of the Cult of the Dragon. An archmage in his own right. You watch out, now. There are lots of other rats like this one in Sembia, mind, and there's one in Deepingdale, too…"

  "Yes," Shandril said. "Korvan."

  Rathan nodded. "Aye, that's the name! You've been warned, then? Good. Well, you're doing fine thus far!"

  "Fine," said Shandril bitterly, looking at Malark as Torm freed his cord at last and slashed with cruel speed. Her gaze fell next on Narm, who still lay silent in the grass. "Oh, yes. Fine indeed." She burst into tears.

  Rathan sighed and went to her. "Look, little one," he said awkwardly, "Faerun can be a cruel place. Men like this have to be slain-or they will kill thee. Nor is there any shame in defeat at his hands-this one could have slain any of us knights, in an open fight. He was an archmage." He enfolded her in a bear hug. "Ye wouldn't be thirsty, perhaps?"

  Shandril's shoulders shook helplessly then, as tears were overwhelmed by laughter. She laughed for a long time, and a little wildly, but Rathan held her tight, and when at last she was done, she raised bright eyes and said, "Are you finished, Torm? I think I'd like to wield a little spellfire."

  Torm nodded and stepped back, and Shandril raised a hand and lashed the body with flames, pouring out her anger. Oily smoke arose almost immediately, and the horses snorted and hurried off in all directions.

  Torm and Rathan let out brief despairing cries and ran after the horses, just as Narm rolled over and groaned, and then asked faintly, "Shandril? Wha-why did you do that? Am I not to kiss you?"

  "They could be dead by now!" Sharantyr said angrily. "I ride patrol for a few days and return to find you've put your toes to the behinds of two of the nicest young people I've met! One struggles with half-trained art, and the other bears spellfire that every mage in the Realms would slay her to gain or destroy, and both are mad enough to seek adventure. And but days married, too! Where is your kindness, Knights of Myth Drannor? Where is your good sense?"

  Easy, Shar," Florin said gently. "They joined the Harpers and wanted to walk their own road. Would you want to be caged?"

  "Caged? Does a mother turn her infant out of the house because it's reached twenty nights of age? Alone, you sent them!" She turned upon Elminster. "What say you, old one? Can they best even a handful of brigands on the road? Brigands who attack by surprise in the night? Speak truth!"

  "I have never done aught else," Elminster answered her. "As to the fight ye speak of, I think ye'd be surprised." He drew out his pipe. "Besides," he added, "they're not alone. Not by now. Torm and Rathan rode after them."

  Sharantyr snorted. "Sent the brightest lances, didn't you?" She paced, sword bouncing on her hip, and then sighed.

  "Well enough. They are not unprotected." She folded her arms and leaned back upon the wall by the hearth. "Gods spit upon my luck," she said more softly. "I wanted to say farewell, not just ride away and never see them again."

  "They'll be all right, Shar," Storm said, "and they'll be back again."

  "Sharantyr raises a good point, though," Lanseril said from his chair. "The wisdom of sending them alone, with only a rescue squad hurrying along behind, can well be questioned." He raised thoughtful eyes to Mourngrym and Elminster. "I take it you considered their slipping away while we rode a distraction to Hillsfar was a good risk?"

  Elminster nodded. "It had to be. Think on that, Sharantyr, and be not so angry, lass."

  "They passed the vale without loss or upset," Merith put in, "I heard from one of the people who was watching the road there."

  Sharantyr nodded. "Since then?" she prompted. Merith shrugged.

  "I scryed Torm and Rathan yestereve," Illistyl spoke up. "They were cutting across country, southeast of Mistledale, and had met with no one then. I'll try them again tonight."

  "Soon?"

  "Aye… you can watch, if you like. You too, Jhess, if you have no greater game afoot"-she looked meaningfully at Merith, who grinned-"at such an early hour of the evening. We might need your spells if there is danger or alarm."

  Jhessail chuckled. "It is a good thing none but the gods look over your shoulders to see all we-and Narm and Shandril, gods smile upon them-get up to. It would make a long, confusing ballad."

  Elminster scowled. "Life is seldom as clear-cut, smooth, and as easily ended as a ballad," he said and put his pipe in his mouth with an air of finality. The fire crackled and flared up in the hearth. The sage stared at it thoughtfully. "She's so young to wield spellfire," he murmured.

  "He lies within," the acolyte said fearfully, hastening away from the door.

  Sememmon thanked him curtly and said, "Open it."

  The acolyte stood a moment in silence. Then he glided forward and swung the heavy oak and bronze door wide. Sememmon motioned him to pass through. The acolyte nodded and stepped forward, face impassive. The mage followed, through very thick stone walls, into a vast chamber that glowed a faint and eerie blue.

  This was the center of The Black Altar, the Inner Chamber of Solitude, where one was said to be closest to the god. The forces of the High Imperceptor had not penetrated this far, although Sememmon felt much hidden satisfaction at the extensive damage he'd already seen. The priesthood would be a while recovering its strength, indeed. Perhaps, Sememmon thought, never, if certain misfortunes befall them now, while they are weak and disorganized.

  Sememmon came fully into the chamber, and such thoughts ceased. Vast and dark above him hung a beholder, its great central eye gazing down upon him maliciously. The acolyte had darted back behind Sememmon. He heard the door clang and the crash of a heavy bar falling into place. He was imprisoned. The eye tyrant was not Manxam. Sememmon cursed inwardly even as he strode forward, his cloak about him concealing nervous fingers that had gone straight to the hilt of a useless dagger.

  The floor of the chamber was of highly polished marble. In the center of that vast, cold expanse rose a black throne-a throne that the High Imperceptor had not sat at the foot of for many a long year. It was gigantic, a seat for a giant, the seat of a god. It was occupied.

  Red silk stood out against the black stone. Fzoul Chembryl lay asleep upon a bed across the seat of the god's throne, recovering after the frantic healing efforts of the priests who served Bane under him. Sememmon gazed at him as he approached, uncomfortably aware without daring to look up that the beholder was moving with him, floating directly overhead with its great unblinking eye staring down.

  The mage was no more than a dozen steps from the base of the throne, able to see clearly the rope ladder the priests were wont to ascend by, when a deep, rumbling voice from overhead said, "You have come to find death, Sememmon the Proud, but you have found not Fzoul's death, but your own." As Sememmon looked up and broke into a run, he saw the dark body of the beholder sinking lower and lower. The beholders were making their own bid for leadership of the Zhentarim.

  Within a breath the beholder would be close enough to use the eye that dealt death or that turned one to stone. Or it might simply charm him into obedience or pursue him about the chamber like a trapped rat and wound him from afar. In the end, he knew, it would use the eye that destroyed one utterly, and there would not even be dust left of Sememmon.

  So Sememmon ran as he had never run before, diving frantically around the edge of the throne where the vast central eye, the one that foiled all magic, could not see. He hastily began the casting of an incendiary cloud. He did not have the right spells for a fight this grave… Buy time and cover, then use a dimension door to teleport directly above the beholder, he told himself. Use paralyzation-or, no, use magic missiles now! Or… ah, gods spit upon it all! Raging, Sememmon applied himself to spellcasting.

  He finished, and sprinted along the back of the throne, nearly tripping over a ringbolt on the floor that obviously was a trap-door-if one were very strong or had four or five acolytes to lift it. Sememmon reached the corner, gasping for breath, and steadied himself. To cast a magic missile spe
ll, he must see the target-and if he could see the beholder, its eyes would also be able to see him. He tensed himself to take a rapid peek, and-

  There was a flash and a roar, and the very floor heaved up, knocking Sememmon to his knees. Up, get up, he urged himself frantically. But there was a reddish haze of dancing spots before his eyes. He could not seem to grasp which way 'up' was.

  "Well met, Sememmon," said a dry, coldly familiar voice. Sememmon looked up into the calm gazes of Sarhthor and Manshoon. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep was robed in his usual black and dark blue, and he looked amused. "You can get up now," he added. "It's gone." He flexed his open hand.

  Sememmon found his voice. "You've returned! Lord, we have missed you, indeed-"

  "Aye. No doubt. I've watched you and seen the, ah, troubles with Fzoul. Come, now, and slay him not. He is needed." They hurried across the marble floor toward the door Sememmon had come in by. It was blasted and twisted into shards of metal beneath their feet. "Sarhthor," Manshoon explained briefly.

  The three mages went out through strangely deserted halls and sought the starlit night outside. Wordlessly they walked out of The Black Altar, past dim piles that had already begun to stink; the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle between Fzoul's forces and those of The High Imperceptor. They walked straight to Sememmon's abode, and the two mages left Sememmon there.

  "Cheer up," said Manshoon in parting. "You'll have your chance to fight with the others for all this"-he shrugged his shoulders and looked around at the dark spires that rose all about them-"someday. I can't live forever, you know." With that he turned on his heel and was gone down the cobbled street into the night, Sarhthor at his heels.

  Sememmon stared after them in the faint light and tasted fear. When would Manshoon feel that Sememmon had lived long enough? He entered hastily, the little eyeball that Manshoon had sent to spy floating in, unseen, with him, too.

  "We just happened to be riding this way," Rathan said gruffly. "It's an open road, is it not?"

  "No" Shandril said with a crooked smile. "You came after us to protect us. Did you not trust Tymora to look after us!"

  The burly cleric grinned. "Of course Tymora watches over ye… Am I not an instrument of Tymora's will?"

  "Is that why you moved a sleeping man and left all the fighting and dirty work to me?" Torm said. "Not a copper's worth of value in the pockets of his robe, too."

  "Dirty work, is it? Who took off his boots, I'd like to know!" Rathan teased him.

  "I thank you both," Narm said, "despite your feeble attempts at humor. Again my lady and I owe you our lives. And our horses', too, it seems. Your spell even took away the pain in my head."

  Rathan grinned. "If ye want it back, I can lend thee Torm for a few breaths." Torm favored him with a sour look.

  Shandril giggled. "I don't think that will be quite necessary, Rathan. I have a man to drive me beyond endurance, now." Narm gave her a hurt look, to which she replied with a wink, but Torm looked delighted.

  "Oh, you can leave him with Rathan, to learn how to ride and fight and worship and all," he said, "and I'll ride with you. I'm witty, agile, clean, quick, and experienced. I know lots of jokes, and I'm an excellent cook, so long as you're partial to meat, tomatoes, cheese, and noodles all cooked together. I'm fully conversant with the laws of six kingdoms and many smaller, independent cities, and I'm an excellent gambler," He batted his eyelashes at her. "What do you say? Hmmm?"

  Shandril gave him a look that would have melted glass. "Is there nothing you can do about him?" she asked Rathan.

  "Oh, aye," Rathan agreed. "Ye can give him first watch, so we can all get some sleep. Narm and I'll sleep on either side, close against ye, and ye won't have to worry about him getting cold and wanting to snuggle up."

  "Ah, hah," Shandril agreed dubiously. She rolled her eyes and flopped down into the bed of folded tent without replying. Rathan grunted and lowered himself slowly to a lying position, rolling his cloak up as a pillow. He lay on the grass fully clad, without bedding or blanket, grasping his mace. He nodded then, as if satisfied, and within a few breaths he was snoring. His booted feet twitched now and then.

  Torm winked at Narm and reached out to pinch one of them. His fingers were still inches away from their goal when Rathan rolled open one eye and said, "Ye can forget pinching, stroking, and tickling honest folk-or even us-who're asleep in the arms of the gods. Just see that the fire stays high."

  Narm fell asleep chuckling.

  The soft morning sun breaking over the rolling hills and fields of Battledale and northern Sembia lit up the sky to the east, and found Rathan Thentraver thoughtfully warming water for tea over the dying fire.

  He looked around at his sleeping companions, got to his feet with a slow grunt of effort, and clambered up the bank to look at the land about. It was bare of all but grass, rolling and very empty. He nodded in satisfaction, tucked his mace under his arm, and sat down again and cleared his thoughts of all but Tymora, as he tried to do every morning.

  He opened his heart to her and prayed that the two young folk beside him-aye, and Torm, too, hang him-would see only her bright face until they had at least reached Silverymoon and befriended Alustriel. Everyone needs at least one safe journey-and these two, more than most, because of the spellfire, he told himself.

  Rathan looked across the twisted blankets to Shandril's sleeping face and thought about her weeping spellfire and lashing out angrily with spellfire and tearing open her tunic to pour spellfire out the faster upon a foe. He would not want to carry such power for all the gold in the Realms…

  He sighed. If they'd ridden a bit slower, that snake of a mage might have had her yestereve. So close, he'd been. A matter of breaths. Yet one couldn't nursemaid one who could blast apart mountaintops!

  They'd be running into trouble soon enough, these two, and they'd need someone. Rathan sighed. Ah, well, some things ye must leave to Tymora. He got up and began to make tea. Soon they'd be wanting morningfeast, too.

  He looked at all the sleepers, and a smile touched his lips. Why wake them? The younglings needed a good, long sleep when they were guarded and could relax. Let 'em sleep, then. He peered south to see if he could glimpse the River Ashaba, but it was too far away yet. Ah, well. We'll ride with them until they're up at dawn tomorrow, and then turn back. If Elminster is half the archmage he pretends to be, surely he can hold Shadowdale together that long.

  Scratching under his armor, Rathan opened his food supply pack. Ah, well… another day, another dragon slain.

  "Will ye never be done all that scratching and scribbling?" Elminster demanded, "You're not writing an epic, ye know!"

  Lhaeo turned calm eyes upon him. "Stir the stew, will you?" Elminster snorted, shifted his unlit pipe from hand to mouth, and began to stir.

  "You miss those two, don't you?" the scribe asked him softly without turning.

  The old mage stared at Lhaeo's back angrily for a long breath and then muttered, "Aye," around his pipe, set the ladle back in its place, and sat down upon the squat cross-section of a large tree that served as a seat next to the tiny kitchen table. "'Tis not every day one sees spellfire destroy one's own prismatic sphere without delay or a lot of effort. Or see the high-and-mighty Manshoon put to flight by a young girl who's never cast a spell in her life."

  "A thief, she said she was-or at least, she joined the Company of the Bright Spear as a thief."

  Elminster snorted again. "Thief? She's as much a thief as you are. If we had a few more thieves like that girl, the Realms would be so safe we'd not need locks! Swords, aye, but no more locks. Which reminds me… locks, and locked-away books, that is-Candlekeep-Alaundo. What did old Alaundo say about spellfire? We must be getting fairly close to that prophecy now, too, so it's no doubt Shandril he's talking about."

  Lhaeo smiled. "As it happens, I looked up the words and sayings of Alaundo the last night they spent here. To your left, under the jam jar, on the uppermost scrap of paper, I've copied the relevant saying.
If a certain 'war among wizards' has already begun in Faerun, it is next to be fulfilled."

  Elminster halted his flailing about in the vicinity of the jam-jar to fix Lhaeo with a hard glance, but the scribe went on with his writing.

  "What're you doing?" Elminster demanded. "There you sit, scribbling, while the stew thickens and burns. What is it?"

  Lhaeo smiled again. "Stir the stew, will you?" he asked innocently. Then, before the old mage's fury could erupt beyond a rising growl, he said, "I'm noting down the limits of Shandril's power, as observed by you and the knights. The information may prove useful some day," he added very quietly, "if she must ever be stopped."

  Elminster stared at him a moment and then nodded, looking very old. "Aye, aye, you have the right of it, as usual." He sighed. "But not that little girl. Not Shandril. Why, she's but a little wisp of a thing, all laughter and kindness and bright eyes-"

  "Aye. Like Lansharra," Lhaeo answered simply. Elminster nodded, very slowly, and said nothing. There was silence for a long time. Lhaeo finished his work, blew upon the page, and got up. The sage sat like a statue, his eyes on the fire. Lhaeo reached over him, slid a scrap of paper from under the jam-jar, and laid it before Elminster. He turned away to see to food, without a word. Perhaps four breaths later, he heard the old mage's voice behind him, and he smiled to himself. Put a recipe for fried sand snake in front of Elminster and he'd be reading it in a trice.

  "'Spellfire will rise, and a sword of power, to cleave shadow and evil and master art.'" Elminster read it as though it was a curious bard's rhyme or a bad attempt at a joke. Lhaeo waited. Elminster spoke again. "'Master art'? What did Alaundo mean by that? She's to become a mage? She has not the slightest aptitude for it-and I'm not completely new to teaching art, ye know!"

  "I have found that Alaundo's sayings make perfect sense after they have happened, for the most part," Lhaeo said, "but they help precious little beforehand."