Spellfire ss-1

by Ed Greenwood

  The tears came. "Ah, old mage," The Simbul said, sobbing into his chest, "I have been so lonely…"

  Lhaeo, who had come up the dark stairs with tea, the pot wrapped in a thick scarf to keep it warm, stopped outside the door and heard them. He set the tray down carefully on a table nearby and went softly downstairs again for a second cup. What is the weight of secrets? he wondered to himself. How many may a man carry? How many more, a woman, or an elf?

  It was dark outside, but in the little cottage near the woods candles flickered and the hearthfire blazed merrily. A woman straightened up from the cauldron as they came in. She was no longer young, and the clothes she wore were simple and much patched. She gasped. "My lords! Welcome! But I have nothing ready to feed you. My man's not to be back from the hunt until morning."

  "Nay, Lhaera," Rathan said kindly, embracing her. "We cannot stay, but must hasten back to Shadowdale. We have an errand for thy daughter that is urgent, and I would renew Tymora's bright blessing upon this house."

  Lhaera looked at them in wonderment. "With Imraea? But she's scarce six-"

  Torm nodded. "Old enough that her feet are firmly on the ground." He was interrupted then by the precipitous arrival of a small, dark-haired whirlwind who fetched up against his legs, laughing. As he reached down to embrace her, she danced back out of his reach and announced solemnly, "Well met, Torm and Rathan, Knights of Myth Drannor. I am pleased to see you."

  Both knights bowed, and Rathan answered solemnly, "We are pleased to see thee, lady. We have come to discharge our duty to ye. Are ye in good health and of high spirits?"

  "Aye, of course. But look how beautiful my mother is since you healed her! She grows taller, I think!"

  Torm and Rathan regarded the astonished and smiling Lhaera carefully. "Aye, I think you are right. She does grow taller," Torm said solemnly. "Be sure to send word to us when she grows too tall for the roof, for you will need some help rebuilding then."

  Imraea nodded. "I will do that." She eyed Torm. "You are making me wait, Sir Knight. Is my patience not well held? Am I not solemn enough?" Then she fairly danced. "Did you bring it?"

  "It is not an 'it.' It is a 'he,' as you are a she," said Torm severely, drawing open his cloak and letting something soft and furry into her arms. Its fur was silver and black, and it had great, dark, glistening eyes. It let out a small and inquiring meow. Imraea held it in wonder as it stretched its nose out to hers.

  "Has it-he-a name?"

  Rathan regarded her severely. "Aye, it has a truename, which it keeps hidden, and a kitten name. But you must give it a proper name, the name you can call it. Take care you choose wisely. The kitten will have to live with your choice."

  "Aye," Imraea agreed seriously. "Tell me, please, its kitten name that I may call it so while I think on such an important choice." Lhaera smiled broadly.

  "Its name," said Torm with dignity, "is Snuggleguts." Torm dropped nine pieces of gold into her hand.

  "What is this?" Imraea asked in wonder.

  "Its life," Rathan said. "The kitten will need milk, and meat, and fish, as it grows, and it wilt need much care, and to be kept warm. You, or your parents, must buy those things. You must take the mice and rats it will kill, thank your pet without any disgust or sharp words, and bury them. It is your duty. Know you, Imraea, that the gods gather back to themselves cats and dogs and horses even as they do you and me. There is no telling when Snuggleguts may die. So treat it well and enjoy its company, but let your kitten roam free and do as it will. Each time you see your pet may be the last."

  "I will. I thank you both. You are kind, you two knights."

  "We but do the right thing," Torm replied softly.

  "Aye, that you do," Lhaera said to them. "And there's few enough, these days, who take the trouble to do that."

  16

  Sunset at The Rising Moon

  By night dark dreams bring me much pain-but always comes, after, bright morning again.

  Mintiper Moonsilver, bard. Nine Stars Around A Silver Moon, Year of the Highmantle

  "The Wearers of the Purple are met," Naergoth Bladelord said. "For the glory of the dead dragons!"

  "For their dominion," came the ritual response from sullen throats. Naergoth looked around the chamber.

  Malark had not shown his face again. Naergoth was beginning to worry that something ill-and probably final-had befallen him. By the looks others were giving his empty seat, he was not the only one thinking along such lines. Long faces aplenty looked back at him.

  "Well enough," Dargoth said. "What say you, Zannastar? You stand for our mages in the absence of Malark, and the doubt grows in my mind that we shall ever see him alive here again."

  "It is not my place to speak as one of you," said Zannastar, a balding, bearded man of middle years. "I do not wear the purple."

  His hard face turned to look down the table. "But I do think that the more one listens, the more one learns. Something, whether it's spellfire or not, is striking down brother after brother, and many of your sacred ones, too-Rauglothgor and Aghazstamn were both of great power. Can the dracolich Shargrailar be any the safer? Its lair is on the other side of the Peaks, true, but still near."

  "Yes," Zilvreen agreed, "and yet the Sacred Ones can look after themselves far better than we can defend them, if we know not where the blow may fall. Better we go after this Shandril ourselves and destroy her. If we cower in lairs awaiting her attack, we have already conceded the victory."

  "Yes, yes, we have heard this line before and agreed to it," Naergoth said. "Our absent mage may have died following it."

  "Let this Shandril and the fledgling mage Narm go, then," Dargoth said. "The cost is too high."

  "Too high already," agreed the cleric Salvarad in a soft voice that warned of sharp things beneath its purr. The triple lightning bolts of Talos, worked in silver, gleamed upon his breast. "Yet, brothers, consider the cost if it becomes widely known that a young girl-a young girl who commands an unusual and powerful ability of art-has defied us and destroyed so many of us! Can we afford to let her go-at any price-now? What think you?"

  "Oh, aye, for the cost of a loss of reputation, let her go," Zilvreen said. "What loss is that? A few butcherings and mannings and menaces and that sort of loss is mended, at least among those folk with whom it works at all. But can we afford to pass up our chance of wielding spellfire, when our enemies could end up using it against us? There is the real price, brothers."

  "Yes, we cannot afford to face this spellfire-that we have seen clearly. But we cannot let our foes gain it!" one of the warriors said. The man beside him turned to look in surprise.

  "You think your enemies can stand against it? Hah! I've heard it whispered that Manshoon of Zhentil Keep was put to flight by this girl! I say we keep our ranks safe and war no more upon this Shandril-unless time and Tymora weaken her so that our chances are improved. Let others go after her and be the weaker for it! We shall reap the reward of their folly as the vulture dines upon the fields of fallen.

  "Swords have got us where we are today. Aye, not without art and divine favor, I'll grant, but swords have kept rulers and bandits at bay. We do not need this spellfire. Waste not our best blood on it!"

  "Well said, Guindeen. Yet," Salvarad responded, "can we afford to let our foes win spellfire to wield against us? We should all then be destroyed."

  "You bring us to the hard choice, indeed," Naergoth Bladelord said quietly, "and that brings us to the choice behind it: Who wants to go up against this young maid?" He looked around the table, but the silence that followed grew heavy.

  No one moved or spoke. After a very long time, Naergoth said softly, "So be it. We are agreed. We put spellfire behind us and go on to work for the greater glory of the dead dragons in other ways."

  There were reluctant nods, but no one said anything. It is difficult to laugh at fear when one regularly dealt it often to others.

  They rode west, steadily. Narm peered warily all about as they traveled, expecting anoth
er attack. But Shandril found this forest somehow friendlier than the Elven Court. Amid the thick tangle of trunks and gnarled limbs, one could see into the deep, hidden places. Vines hung in spidery tangles from high branches to trunks. Ferns grew thick upon the ground, broken only in places where limbs had fallen.

  Shandril looked here and there, at moss upon rocks and trunks, and at great thick trees as large about as some cottages. But Narm saw only danger, possible ambushes, and concealing shadows. But as the day grew older and no attack came, he too began to enjoy the road to Deepingdale.

  "It is beautiful," he said, as they came to the crest of a gentle rise in the road and saw sunlight streaming down through the trees in a small clearing.

  "Aye," Shandril said in a small voice. "I've never seen these woods before, even though I lived just a day's ride from here." She peered about. "Sometimes I wish I'd never known this spellfire, and I could just come home now with you, instead of fleeing a hundred or more half-mad mages."

  "Why not stay?" Narm replied. "You have the power to slay a hundred half-mad mages."

  Shandril sighed. "Aye, maybe. But I'd lose the dale and my friends and even you, I don't doubt, in the process. Powerful mages always seem to destroy things about them. They work worse devastation than forest fires and brigands. Sometimes I think life would be much simpler without art."

  "I said that to Elminster," Narm replied, "and he said not so. If I could see the strange worlds he's walked, he said, I'd understand."

  "No, thank you," Shandril replied. "I've troubles enough, it seems, in this world." The road rose again through a leafy tunnel of old oaks, then gave way to an open area.

  Narm and Shandril rode close and quiet, side by side, looking all about them for danger. Tiny, whiplike branches that had fallen from the trees above lay amid the dead leaves and tangled grass and ferns like thin, dark faerie fingers, waiting to clutch or snap underfoot. They rode on, and still no attack came, nor did they meet travelers upon the road.

  "This is eerie," Shandril said. "Where is everyone?"

  "Elsewhere, for once," Narm said. "Be thankful, and ride while we have the chance! I would be free of the dales, where everyone knows us. Your spellfire cannot last…triumph-forever."

  "I have thought about that," Shandril said in a small voice. "Thus far, we have been very lucky. More than that, we've fought many who did not know what they faced, even as I do not. Before long, mages will come against us with spells and devices of art prepared specifically to disable me or foil spellfire. And then how shall we fare?"

  "Ah, Shan, you moan a lot," Narm replied, exasperated. "I'm worried about you. You at least can strike back. Did you expect a life like in the ballads, all cheering and triumph and happy endings? No. Adventure, you wanted, adventure you have. Did you hear Lanseril's definition of adventure, at that first feast in Shadowdale?"

  Shandril wrinkled her brow. "I did overhear it, yes. Something about being cursedly uncomfortable and hurt or afraid, and then telling everyone later that it was nothing."

  "Aye, that was it." They rode over another rise with still no sign of other travelers on the road. "It is a long way to Silverymoon," Narm added thoughtfully. "Do you remember all the Harpers Storm named for us, along the way?"

  "Yes. Do you?" his lady replied impishly, and Narm shook his head.

  "I've forgotten half of them, I'm sure. I was not suited to be a world traveler." Narm replied ruefully. "Nor was the tutelage of Marimmar very useful in that respect."

  Shandril laughed. "I'll bet." She looked at the woods about them. "If the Realms hold places as beautiful as this, mind you, I won't mind the trip ahead."

  "Even with a hundred or so evil priests and mages after our blood?"

  Shandril wrinkled her nose. "Just don't call me 'Magekiller,' or anything of the sort. Remember-they come after me. I have no quarrel with them."

  "I'll remind the next dozen or so corpses of that," Narm replied dryly. "If you leave enough for me to speak to, that is."

  Shandril looked away from him, then, and said very softly, "Please do not speak so of all the killing. I hate it. Never, never do I want to become so used to it that I grow careless of my power. Who knows when this spellfire might leave me? Then, Narm? I will have only your art to protect me. Think on that."

  They rode down into a dell where moss grew in knobs and clumps of lush green amid the dead leaves. Small pools of water glistened under dark and rugged old trees. Narm looked around warily, as always, and said soberly, "Aye. I think of it often."

  "It seems the fate of this Shandril to grow old unhindered-by us, at any rate" Naergoth said dryly to Salvarad, when they were alone at the long table. "Is there any other business?"

  "Aye, indeed. The matter of your mage. Malark was destroyed in Shadowdale-how, I know not-but Malark perished at the hands of Shandril."

  "You are sure?"

  "I watch closely, and others watch for me-and, all told, we miss little."

  Naergoth looked at him expressionlessly. "What then have you seen in the way of mages to take the Purple in the place of Malark?"

  "Zannastar, certainly. You could even give him the Purple now. We have seven warriors and one mage.

  "Well enough. Why Zannastar?"

  "He is competent at art, but even more, he is biddable, something Malark was not."

  "Aye, then. Who else?"

  "The young one, Thiszult. A wild one-quiet but very reckless. He could be dangerous to us, or brilliant. Why not, alone and in secret, send him after the spellfire with four or six men-at-arms? He'll either bring it back or kill himself-or learn caution. We cannot do ill by this."

  "Oh? What if he comes back with spellfire and uses it against us?"

  "I know his truename," Salvarad replied smugly, "though he doesn't know that any have learned it."

  Naergoth nodded. "Send your wolf, then. Who knows? Perhaps he'll succeed where all the others have failed-ours and those of Bane and Zhentil Keep. This gauntlet we've made the girl Shandril run will have its effect on her in the end, even if we've paid the price for it in blood thus far."

  Salvarad nodded. "Yes. She's only one maid, and not a warlike one at that. We'll have her in the end, spellfire or no spellfire. I mean to have the spellfire, too… but if we take her alive, she's mine, Naergoth."

  Naergoth raised an eyebrow. "You can have women much easier than that, Salvarad."

  "Nay, you mistake me, Bladelord," Salvarad replied coldly. "The power she has handled… does things to people. I must learn certain things from her."

  Naergoth said, "Then why not go after her yourself?"

  Salvarad smiled thinly. "I am intrigued, Bladelord. I am not suicidal."

  "Others have said that, you know."

  "I know that well, Naergoth. Some of them even meant it."

  Night came upon them while they were still in the woods. The night grew cold, and the couple drew their cloaks about them as they rode on. Mist rose among the trees.

  Narm watched it drift and roll and said in a low voice, "I don't like this. An ambush would be all too easy in this mist."

  "Yes" Shandril replied, "but all the wishing in the world won't make any difference. We're not far, now-we can't be, for travelers who left the inn mid-morning fully expected to make Tasseldale by nightfall. And there is no other road. We cannot have missed our way." She looked into the soft silence of the trees. Tangled branches hung still and dark in the mist. Nothing stirred, and no attack came.

  Shandril sighed. "Come on," she said, spurring her horse into a trot. "Let's get safely to The Rising Moon. I would see Gorstag again."

  The fire burned low in the hearth, and it fell quiet in the taproom of The Rising Moon as the last of the few guests went up to bed.

  Lureene quietly swept up fallen scraps of bread as Gorstag made the rounds of the doors. She heard his measured tread upon the boards in the kitchen and smiled.

  So she was smiling in the dim glow of the dying fire when Gorstag, who carried no candle when he wal
ked alone by night, preferring the dark, came into the room.

  "My love," he said softly. "I would ask something of you this night."

  "It is yours, lord," Lureene said affectionately. "You know that." She reached for the lacings of her bodice.

  Gorstag coughed. "Ah… nay, lass, I be serious… ah, I mean, oh, gods look down!" He drew a deep breath as he walked slowly up to her in the dimness and asked very quietly and formally, "Lureene, I am Gorstag of Highmoon, a worshipper of Tymora and Tempus in my time, and a man of some moderate means. Will you marry me?"

  Lureene looked at him, mouth open, for a very long time. Then she was suddenly in his arms, looking up at him with very large, dark eyes. "My lord, you need not… marry me. It was not my intention to-ah, trap you into such a union."

  "Do you not want to be my wife?" Gorstag asked slowly, roughly. "Please tell me true…"

  "I would like nothing more than to be your wife, Gorstag."

  Lureene said firmly. His smile then was like a sudden flash of the sun in the darkness, as his arms tightened about her.

  "I accept," Lureene added, gasping for breath. "Kiss me, now, don't hug the life from me!" Their tips met, and Lureene let out a little moan of happiness. Gorstag held her as if she were a very fragile and beautiful thing that he feared to break. They stood together so, among the tables, as the front door of the inn creaked gently open, and a cool breeze drifted in about their ankles.

  Gorstag turned, hand going to his belt. "Aye?" he demanded, before his night-keen eyes showed him who had come.

  Lureene turned in his arms and let out a happy cry. "Shandril!"

  "Yes," said a small voice. "Gorstag? Can you forgive me?"

  "Forgive you, little one?" Gorstag rumbled, striding forward to embrace her. "What's to forgive? Are you well? Where have you been? How-"

  Outside, there was a snort and a creak of leather, and in mid-sentence, Gorstag said, "But you have horses to see to! Sit down, sit down with Lureene, who has a surprise to tell you, and I'll learn all when I'm done."