Spellfire ss-1

by Ed Greenwood

  There in the innyard Gorstag stood with their mounts and mules ready-harnessed. The latter two mules of each train bulged suspiciously here and there where they had not bulged before.

  "Bread. Sausages. Cheeses. Two casks of wine. Pickled greens-this jar, sealed with clay. A crate of grapes and figs. A coffer of salt. Some torches," Gorstag said briefly. "And the gods watch over you." He enveloped Shandril in a crushing hug, and swung her up into her saddle. "Carry this," he said, and pressed a bottle into her hands. "Goat's milk… drink it before highsun tomorrow, or it may well go bad."

  He turned to Narm without waiting an instant, like a swordsman turning from a kill in battle, shook the conjurer's hand in a bruising grip, took him by both elbows and lifted him bodily into the saddle. He then thrust a small, curved and polished miniature disc of silver into his hands.

  "A shield of Tymora, blessed by the priests in Waterdeep long ago. May it bring you safe to Silverymoon."

  He stood looking up at them. "You are in haste," he said gruffly, "and I was never one for long good-byes. So fare you well in life-I hope to see you again before I die, and you both as happy and as hale as you are now. I wish you well, both of you." He stretched up to kiss them both. "You have both chosen well, in each other." He patted the rumps of their horses to start them on their way, and raised his fist in a warrior's salute to an honored champion as they called their good-byes.

  As they turned out of The Rising Moon's yard, Shandril burst into tears. When Narm looked from comforting her to wave, Gorstag still stood like a statue with his arm raised in salute. He stood so until they were out of sight.

  When Lureene came down to him, standing there, she heard him muttering prayers to Tymora and Mystra and Helm for the two who had gone. When she put her arms around him from behind, and leaned against the old might of his many-muscled back, she could feel the trembling as he left off praying and began to cry.

  It was dark in the meeting chamber of the Cult of the Dragon. Only a single oil-lamp flickered on the table between the two men who were there.

  "Do you really think this boy-mage can defeat Shandril, after she has destroyed your best and most powerful?" Dargoth of the Purple said angrily.

  "No," Naergoth Bladelord replied simply. "Another of our dragons pursues her right now."

  "Another dracolich?" Dargoth said in angry astonishment. "We haven't many more sacred ones to lose!"

  "True," Naergoth said, turning cold eyes upon him. "This one went of its own will. I did not compel it or ask it to go to war-but I did not forbid it, either. One does not forbid Shargrailar anything."

  Dargoth looked at him. "For the love of lost Sammaster! Shargrailar the Dark flies? Gods preserve us!" He sat back, shocked, shaking his head.

  "They will hardly start doing that after all this time," Naergoth said to him dryly, reaching to extinguish the lamp. Darkness descended.

  Suddenly they were in a place of fragrant vapors, pots, and knives. The warrior looked around and snorted. "A kitchen!" At his words, the cook, who stood with his back to them over a bloody cutting board, gave a start and whirled around, cleaver rising.

  Thiszult smiled coldly at him. "So pleased to see us, Korvan?"

  The sour-faced cook struggled to regain his composure; hatred, envy, fear, and exultation chased rapidly across his mean face. "Why, Thisz-"

  "Hush. No names! How long ago did the wench leave?" Thiszult strode forward. "Which is the way out of here?"

  "Outside, the back, that way. Or, in front: that way, right into the taproom, then left across it to the front door," Korvan said. "She and the boy-mage left but ten breaths back, if that, you may well be able to catch them if you-"

  "Have horses. Where are the stables?"

  "Around the side; that way. There's a good strong black, and a stouter but slower bay, down the end, and-"

  "The cult thanks you, Korvan. You will receive an appropriate reward in time." Thiszult strode coldly out into the hallway with a snap of his dark cloak, the warrior at his heels. As the man went out, he drew his broad, stained sword and held it ready in his hand.

  "Korvan," Lureene whispered as she came out of the open pantry, eyes dark with anger, "do you know those-those folk?"

  The cook stared at her, white-faced, for a moment-and then he raised his cleaver again and went for her, determined. Lureene cast the tin of flour she held at his face and fled out the door, into the hall and then the taproom beyond. It was empty.

  She ran across it, dodging between tables, and burst out the front door in time to see the dark-cloaked mage spur out of the innyard like a vengeful whirlwind.

  Before her, in the mud, Gorstag stood with his hands locked about the forearms of the warrior who had come with the mage. They stood straining against each other, the warrior's sword shaking in his grasp as he tried to force it between them. Lureene ran as hard as she could toward them, sobbing for breath.

  Behind her, the front door of The Rising Moon banged open again. Korvan. Her death. Lureene ran on, slipping and sliding desperately, knowing she had to warn Gorstag before Korvan's cleaver could reach him.

  The two men were only ten paces away, now… now six, now three… Suddenly Gorstag slipped to one side and pulled hard on the man's wrist instead of pushing against it, and the blade lunged forward-harmlessly past Gorstag's shoulder. He crashed into the man's chest and drove his fist as hard as he could into the man's throat.

  Throat, neck, and man crumpled without a sound, and Gorstag turned in time to catch Lureene about the shoulders and spin her to a halt. "Love?" he asked, and Lureene pointed past him.

  "Korvan!" she gasped. "He serves the cult! Look out!" As she spoke, the cook put on a last burst of speed and chopped at them as he came. Gorstag pushed Lureene hard to one side so that she staggered and nearly fell, and leaped away in the other. The cleaver found only empty air.

  Korvan looked about, wildly, at both of them-too late, as fingers of iron took him by the neck from behind. The cook staggered and lashed out blindly to that side with the cleaver-only to have that wrist deftly captured and twisted. Korvan let out a little cry and dropped his weapon from suddenly numb fingers. Gorstag wrenched him around bodily until they were face to face.

  "So," the innkeeper said, "so… first you molest my little one… and now you would slay my bride-to-be! You threaten me with steel here in the yard, and you serve the Cult of the Dragon-in my own kitchen." His voice was low and soft, but Korvan twisted in his grasp like a frantic, hooked fish, face white to the very tips.

  "This has been coming for a long time," said Gorstag slowly. "But at least I've learned something about cooking." The hand that held Korvan's wrist let go and darted to his throat, whip-fast, and the two old hands twisted mercilessly. There was a dull crack, and Korvan of the cult was no more.

  Gorstag let the body fall into the mud grimly and turned to Lureene. "Are you all right, my lady?" he asked. "Is there fire or ruin behind you in The Moon?"

  Lureene shook her head, wide-eyed. "No, Lord," she said, close to tears. "I am fine… thanks to you. We are safe."

  "Aye, then," Gorstag said, and he looked down the road. "But will Narm and Shandril be? Find me the fastest horse, while I get my axe."

  Lureene stared at him in horror. "No!" she said. "You'll be slain!"

  "Leave my friends to die because I did nothing?" Gorstag's face was like iron. "Find me the fastest horse!"

  Lureene rushed toward the stables, tears blurring her sight as she ran. "No," she whispered. "Oh, gods, no." But the gods did not hear before she reached the stables.

  There was a slow thudding of hooves, then, as Gorstag came back out of the inn with axe in hand. Frightened faces were gathering about the yard.

  A dwarf on a mud-spattered mule rode heavily in at the gate, and came to a sliding halt before Gorstag. The dwarf heaved himself sideways and rolled down out of the saddle with practiced ease, using the axe he bore naked on his shoulder like a walking-stick. Crippled, he leaned heavily on his axe as
he limped over to Gorstag. The innkeeper was looking grimly toward the stables, where a worried Lureene was leading out a horse.

  "Well met," the dwarf said to Gorstag. "You are Gorstag?" The innkeeper, who was intent upon Lureene and the approaching mount, looked down in surprise. "Aye, I am."

  "Have you seen a companion of mine, the adventuress Shandril? She waited on tables here, once," the dwarf rumbled. I hear she rides with a young mage, now, and hurls spellfire."

  "Aye. I have," Gorstag said, axe coming up. "Who then are you, and what is your business with Shandril Shessair?"

  "I am come from Shadowdale," the dwarf said gruffly, looking up at him with a gaze as harshly steady as his own. "From Sharantyr and Rathan and Torm of the knights I have heard where Shandril headed and followed on. I am sent by Storm Silverhand of the Harpers and Elminster the sage, and bear a note to ye, to tell you to trust me in this. Here; read it. Now tell me where Shandril is, for time draws on and my bones grow no younger."

  Gorstag grinned at that as he unrolled the parchment. "Not so sour, Sir Dwarf. Life is less a trial to the patient."

  "Aye," the dwarf replied, "most of them lie dead. Tell me where Shandril is!"

  "A moment." Gorstag read the parchment. Lureene brought the horse to his shoulder, and he moved so that she could read what was written, too:

  To Gorstag, of Highmoon, By these words, well met! The bearer of this note is the dwarf Delg, once a swordmate of Shandril in the Company of the Bright Spear, just after she left your house. He serves no evil master and bears Shandril no ill will; trust us in this-he has submitted to all our tests of art in this regard, and it is true. The Cult of the Dragon destroyed the company, and it was thought only Shandril survived. This Delg, left for dead in Oversember Vale, made his way to the shores of the Sember, where he was found by elves and taken to priests of Tempus. While they were healing his wounds and praying to the god for guidance as to what task they should set him in return, a messenger of Tempus appeared and said that Delg's task was to defend the girl who wielded spellfire against seeking swords; and so he has come to you for word. Your part in defending Shandril is done, valiant Gorstag; we tend Dammasae's place of rest and remember. Aid this one as best you can, and you will be honored greatly. You shall have then in your debt,

  Elminster of Shadowdale and

  Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale

  Gorstag read it, frowning a little, and then looked up at Delg. "You've missed them," he said simply. "They rode west from here some short time ago, now. A mage hostile to them follows them, close indeed."

  "I've missed them? Then there's no time left to wait about!" the dwarf said, and hobbled back to his mule. "Up!" he commanded it, "and ride like the wind… or she'll be in trouble again, and in need of old Delg, before we get there!"

  "Will you not take a faster mount?" Gorstag asked, waving at the horse Lureene held. Delg shook his head.

  "My thanks, but how fast would I travel if I fell off it at the first bend in the road? Nay, I'll stick to what I know, and make haste in my own way. Fare thee well, Gorstag. Stay by your lady. It is the greatest adventure you can have." And he grinned then, and rode away, raising his arm in a warrior's salute. Gorstag returned it, watching him go, and Lureene stroked his arm thoughtfully and said nothing.

  After a time Gorstag looked away from the road and said gruffly, "Well, you can put the animal away. We shan't be needing it."

  Lureene nodded. "Of course," she said, turning, "and there's a little matter of corpses lying about, too…"

  Gorstag growled and went to put away his axe and find a shovel. He carried the letter very carefully in his hand, and looked at it again as he went.

  Shargrailar the Dark circled high above the Thunder Gap, cold winds whistling through the spread, bony fingers that were all that was left of its wings. Shargrailar was the mightiest dracolich in Faerun known to the cult, perhaps the most powerful bone dragon there had ever been. Its eyes were two white lamps in the empty sockets of a long, cruel skull. It looked down with the cold patience of a being who has passed beyond the tomb and yet can fly, and it flew lower, watching and waiting.

  So a human female dared to destroy dracoliches? Death must find her. Lucky she must have been, and her victims young fools, but still, she must die. She was headed toward Shargrailar's lair. Armed with spellfire, they said. Interesting. Shargrailar glided among the clouds like a silent shadow, peering at the tiny road men called the East Way, far below. It had been a very long time since Shargrailar had been interested in anything.

  There below, on the road. Two human riders, with mules… one was female. Silently Shargrailar descended, skeletal head peering. Yes… yes… this must be her. If not, what matter? What pair of humans could hurt Shargrailar? The great dracolich dove down out of the sky like a gigantic arrow of death, for that is the way of dracoliches. As it descended, Shargrailar could see that the she-human was beautiful… it opened bony jaws to give her death, silently, patiently…

  Thiszult rode hard, hauling upon the reins savagely. He had to pass the maid and mage and get ahead of them, to have to time to call up his special magic-or find a height or their camp, to have some time with them in view to do it. It would not do to miss them now-or to get too close and warn them, without his swordsmen to chase them and bring them to a stand.

  He thought furiously as he rode. He wore no insignia, and rode alone. There was nothing to say that he was a mage, nor that he wished anyone ill. Yet, he was riding in brutal haste-dangerous, as the road climbed toward the Peaks, and a warning to anyone that all was not right-especially to a couple no doubt wary indeed, by now, of attacks. He slowed his mount, cudgeling his brains for a plan. In darkness they could too easily evade him. Yet, one had to sleep, and they would halt, to camp. Perhaps then would be the best time to attack, but only if he had their close trail by then and remained unseen. There was no other way.

  With a sigh, he brought the horse to a shuddering halt, leaped clear and then tied its reins to a sapling before the winded horse could move away. He checked what he carried with him. It was all secure. Well and good. A quick glance up and down the road-empty, as far as he could see from here-and he quickly cast spells of invisibility and flight upon himself, and leaped into the sky.

  He was gone before Delg found the exhausted horse and wasted several breaths in puzzlement, as he looked about for traces of anyone leaving the road nearby or continuing on foot, but found nothing. The dwarf shook his head and rode on, thinking of Burlane and Ferostil and Rymel, all dead now, all never to laugh with him again… well, perhaps he'd join them soon, if there were hostile mages about. He kicked his mule into reluctant hurry, and watched the road ahead narrowly, his axe ready in his hand.

  "Someone follows us," Narm said, peering back over his shoulder as they rode.

  "Some one?" Shandril asked him. "One? Alone?"

  "Yes… a child, or one of the short races, on a mule," Narm said doubtfully. "Seems an odd traveler, to ride alone through the wilderness."

  "Well, it is an open road," Shandril replied. "It cannot be untraveled, by any means." She turned in her saddle. Behind them, the land fell away in gentle hills to the dark woods and Deepingdale, and she thought she could see The Rising Moon, or where it must be. Tears touched her eyes for a moment, again-and then she saw bony death gliding coldly down out of the sky behind them.

  "Narm!" she screamed, as she kicked heels to her mount and climbed forward onto its neck in sudden, wild urgency. "Get down!"

  Narm looked, and saw. In frantic haste, he tore Torm's gift from his neck and threw it away. Shandril had one glimpse of his white face before the world exploded around them.

  What in the name of the Soul Forger was that? Delg stood in his stirrups, open-mouthed, as the great skeletal bulk arrowed down out of the sky ahead of him. It was like a dragon, but it was a skeleton! It was… oh, by the lode-luck of the dwarves, it must be one of those dracoliches Elminster had told him about! Delg swallowed and sat down in his s
addle again. He was getting too old for this sort of thing…

  No dwarf stood a chance against that! Nor, he thought grimly, did little Shandril, even if she had married a boy who could cast a handful of spells and gained some fire magic of her own. The mule beneath him had slowed to a walk as he had sat thinking.

  Delg booted it mercilessly in the ribs then, waving his axe so that it flashed in the sunlight. "Get you going!" he snarled into the mule's ears. "I'm late for a battle, and they'll be needing me, never fear!"

  Thiszult flew low over the trees to one side of the road, the wind of his flight whipping past his ears in his haste. He had to find them, and get ahead of them. Soon, now…

  There was a flash and roar of flame ahead. Startled, Thiszult veered off to one side, rising in the air for a better look. Were they in a fight? This might prove even easier than he had thought!

  A vast, dark skeleton wheeled in the air, and Thiszult gasped in astonishment. A Sacred One! But how did it come to be here? And-who was it? He had never seen one so large and terrible before! As he stared at the dracolich, its cold orbs met his gaze, and it rose toward him. Its skeletal jaws looking somehow amused.

  But I'm invisible! Thiszult thought in amazement. How can it see me? Or is that a power of the Sacred Ones?

  From the great dracolich's maw, a blue-white bolt of lightning leaped and crackled. Thiszult did not have time to protest that he was a friend before it struck him. All his limbs convulsed at once, and he was dead, mouth open to speak, even before Shargrailar's bony claws struck his body and tore it apart. Thiszult's secret, powerful magic fell to earth. It was lost in the trees below.

  Far away, Salvarad of the cult sighed and turned from his scrying font. Thiszult would never take the Purple now.

  Shandril got up, grimly. The stink of cooked horseflesh was strong in her nostrils. Faithful Shield had lived up to her name all too well. The dracolich's flames had poured strength into Shandril, not harmed her. She only hoped Narm had survived.