The bard was standing sadly by his pack. His shrug and empty hands told them his lute was gone as well. The men of the company stared at each other mutely. Everything dearest and of most value was gone.
Into the shocked silence came a knock upon the door.
Delg was nearest. Dourly he flung the door wide, expecting trouble. Over his shaggy head they all saw the pale, solemn face of a young girl with large, dark eyes. In one hand, she held their charter from the king of Cormyr. In the other, she gripped a spear that flickered with a pale blue light.
She stepped calmly into the room past the astonished dwarf, cleared her throat in the tense silence, and said softly, “I understand you need a thief.”
2
WANDERING IN THE MIST
If discomfort and danger be always at hand, why adventure? Something in mankind leads folk to such foolishness, and the rest of us benefit by the riches and knowledge and dreams they bring us. Why else tolerate such dangerous idiots?
Helsuntiir of Athkatla
Musings
Year of the Winged Worm
The Company of the Bright Spear numbered six. The tall leader, Burlane, bore the enchanted Bright Spear. With him rode a younger swordsman, the fierce Ferostil. Delg, the dwarf, was also a warrior. His constant companion was the merry bard Rymel, brightest of them all. The wizard, Thail, deferred to his younger, louder companions. Last and least was the thief, one Shandril, a bright-eyed, soft-spoken waif in ill-fitting breeches and a much-patched tunic.
They had nearly slain her when she appeared with their missing gear. After their rage had subsided (under Rymel’s laughter), only Delg had protested her joining. The younger warrior was enthusiastic, wearing the same avid look that Korvan got. Thus far, though, Ferostil had not bothered her.
Leaving only a hastily scribbled note for Gorstag, Shandril had slipped out of the inn that same night to wait in the trees on the edge of Deepingdale. She’d spent anxious hours in the dark, with small forest creatures scuttling unseen around her. Had the company changed their minds and ridden off without her? Shandril’s heart had leaped when they had come into view through the dawn mists, leading Lynxal’s empty horse. She had trembled so with excitement that she could hardly speak, but climbed into the saddle somehow. She had never before ridden a horse. The dead thief’s weapons and gear had been strapped to the saddle. Shandril had no idea how to use them, but would just have to learn … and fast!
She’d taken nothing from the inn but the clothes she wore, and her single nice gown. Robbing Gorstag seemed a poor way to repay his kindness, and Shandril was not a thief at heart.
She wondered if she’d be any good at thievery, with the company’s eyes on her in judgment. Her arms grew stiff from gripping the reins. Her legs ached even worse. Places on her thighs rubbed raw. Soon it rained, and cold winds lashed, and Shandril wondered why she’d ever left the safe warmth of the Rising Moon.
The next morning, her heart light and free, she knew why she’d left. All around her lay the green gloom of deep woods, where only elves walked scant summers ago. Everywhere she looked she saw new, wondrous things. Burlane changed their course after a discussion in which Rymel and Thail spoke most, and Shandril was thrilled at the simple freedom of choice.
There was another reason she’d left. For the first time ever, she had friends around her. Oh, Gorstag and Lureene had been her friends, but they were always busy, always rushing off to work. Now she had friends who rode with her and would fight beside her and be there all the time.
Even in the taproom, when it might have meant gruff old Ghondarrath’s death and the company had been loud and mocking, even then it had thrilled her: the belonging, the trust. One of their number had been attacked, and as one, they sprang to defend him, daring all, heedless of rules or cost. Above all in the world they were companions. Each one raised his blade to defend the others, no matter how weak.
That’s what she was, the weakest of the company, the one with the least experience, no magical weapons, no magery. She was not even truly a thief. The weakest of the company.
But she was of the company, a full and proper member. The next night in wild country, she darned her socks with the rest of them by the fire. In the gray, misty morn that followed, they all washed themselves, fully clad, in an icy stream. Shandril had given up on her snarled, greasy hair, pulling it back into a simple tail with a broken strap of Delg’s. Even if she was the only female and jests hailed her as she scrambled, red-faced, out of the deep brush after relieving herself, she belonged. They were her companions, her family, and she would die for them.
The company had left Deepingdale and turned north into the woods, heading for Lake Sember. From old records in Suzail, the wizard, Thail, had learned that elves had lived on the shores of the Sember for two thousand years. Even if nothing of value remained, Lake Sember lay along their path to Myth Drannor, and scouting it would serve as practice for exploring the ruined city. The company had come upon good trails in the woods, and for days had ridden steadily north. Game was plentiful. The forest chattered around them, and they saw neither men nor large, dangerous creatures.
At last the trees thinned, and they looked out over Lake Sember. Its waters were deep blue and very still. Clouds overhead reflected in the lake. By the shore, the water was crystal clear. Beneath it, they could see the bottom of the lake fall away, a drowned tree’s limbs long, dark, and silent, and the scuttling of tiny crayfish bound for the deeps.
The company fell silent as they looked upon Lake Sember. They knew why it had been so special to the elves. Far away, down the long lake, a great gray heron rose from the shore and winged silently across the water. It vanished into the trees.
The air grew cool, and Shandril shivered.
Burlane looked up abruptly. “We must move east. I hope to make camp this night where the Semberflow leaves the lake. Let’s go!”
The company turned east along the shore, weaving around trees but keeping the water in view. It would not do to get lost and stray south. Mist gathered in white curls along the water’s edge. The air grew colder. Wisps drifted in under the trees, and the sky fell to silver-gray. Burlane hurried them on.
Shandril found a cloak in the saddlebags and thankfully drew it over chilled arms and shoulders.
Ahead, a bird called amid the trees. The call did not echo, but faded. In the gathering darkness, Ferostil quietly drew his sword. The trees grew dense and the footing uneven, so they continued on foot.
“Sharp watch,” Burlane commanded quietly.
Blades were drawn all around. Shandril drew her own slim long sword and clutched it firmly. Made for Lynxal, it was a trifle too heavy. The mist closed in.
Suddenly there came a high, weird, unearthly call, as if from a great distance.
The horses snuffled and shifted uneasily. The companions halted, puzzled by the sound. Shandril was not the only one frightened. By unspoken agreement, the Company of the Bright Spear waited in tense silence, but the call was not repeated. Shandril breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the kindness of Tymora, goddess of good fortune.
With a silent jerk of his head, Burlane ordered the advance. Glad to be moving, they shifted damp grips on weapons and reins and led the horses on through the thick white mist.
“We should tarry until this mist passes,” Rymel said, his bard’s voice and gray eyes serious for the first time in Shandril’s memory. Droplets of mist hung in the curls of his short beard.
“Aye,” Ferostil replied, his voice low and wary. “Yet, that cry … if we wait, who knows what might hunt us? We’d not even see it until too late.”
His words left a deafening silence.
Shandril met Burlane’s eyes, trying to look calm. A trace of a smile crossed his lips, but his calmness was an act, too. Shandril felt grateful and suddenly less afraid.
Delg growled, “I agree. I cannot abide waiting a whole night in this damp, doing nothing. I say, push on, and we’ll be the sooner out of it!” The light grew d
im. A horse snorted and shifted. Delg went to it and spoke soothingly.
“What say you, Thail?” Burlane asked quietly.
“It would be more prudent to wait for morning and the lifting mist,” the wizard replied calmly. “But I, too, would hate to.”
“Shandril?” Burlane asked in the same voice.
Shandril looked up in surprise, thrilled to be considered an equal. “I’d rather stumble into danger than wait for it,” she answered, as calmly and steadily as she could. She heard several vigorous murmurs of agreement.
Burlane said simply, “We go on. Better to be all awake and expecting the worst than to be all asleep but two.”
Nearby, something slithered softly and then plopped into the lake. Shandril’s skin crawled.
The company could see nothing. Cautious minutes later, they moved on. Soon they came to a place where the long grass lay in a wide swath as if crushed by the passage of some great bulk. Trails of green-white slime flecked the ground. The horses shied and had to be pulled across, snorting and rolling their eyes and lifting their feet as though surrounded by snakes. The company hastened on.
Later they heard something scuttle away from their path, but again met no creature. They went on as night drew down.
At length, they heard wide waters moving before them.
Thail, probing with his staff, barred their way. “Open water,” he said in a low voice.
“We’ve reached the Semberflow,” said Rymel, “where you intended to camp.” He looked to Burlane.
In the gloom, their leader replied, “Aye, likely. I’ll look.”
Pale light flared as he unwrapped the Bright Spear and bore it past them. The bard went along, putting the reins of his horse wordlessly into Shandril’s hands. She clung to two sets, pleased to be so entrusted and yet apprehensive. If something startled the horses, she lacked the strength to hold them.
The two were a long time looking. Even Thail began to step about anxiously before the Bright Spear’s radiance pierced the violet and gray mist. Burlane stepped back into their midst, looking pleased.
“The Semberflow,” he announced. “We camp here. We cannot see to cross.”
“A fire? Lanterns?” asked Delg.
Burlane shook his head. “We dare not. Double watch, the night through—Shandril and Delg, then Ferostil and Rymel, and Thail and I to see the dawn. Make no needless noise. Don’t let the horses lie down. It’s too damp; they’ll take the chill.”
The band quickly unburdened and fed the horses, shared cold bread and cheese, and rolled themselves into cloaks and blankets.
Shandril found Delg in the darkness. “How can we keep watch if we can’t see?”
Delg grunted. “We sit down in the middle of everything, back to back, d’you see? We give each other a pinch or an elbow now an’ then to keep awake. Three such or more, quickly, means: ‘Beware!’ You look, yes, but mostly keep still an’ listen. Mist does funny things to sound. You can never trust where and how far away something is. Listen hard to us and the horses first, an’ get to know those sounds, an’ then listen for sounds that aren’t us!”
Shandril stared at his red, gnarled face. “All right,” she said, drawing her blade. “Here?”
The dwarf rumbled affirmatively. He sat on his cloak, legs outstretched. A fold of fabric warded dew off the axe in his lap.
Shandril sat down against his rounded, hard back, feeling the cold touch of his mail. She laid her own blade across her knees and said no more. Around them, the camp settled down into steady breathing, muffled snores, and the occasional faint, heavy thud of a shifting hoof. Shandril peered into the night, blinking dry eyes.
A long while passed in silence. Shandril felt a yawn coming. She tried to stifle it, and failing, tried to yawn silently. Delg’s axe butt drove immediately against her flank. Grinning in the darkness, Shandril elbowed him back and was rewarded with a gentle squeeze.
Shandril could visualize his stubby, iron-strong fingers pressing on the point of her elbow and was reassured by the veteran’s presence. His eyesight was far better than hers in the darkness … and he’d had years of calm experience. She could trust in that.
An hour later, he squeezed her elbow gently again. She extended it in firm reply and grinned again. So they passed the night.
Suddenly Delg shifted. “Sleep now,” he said into her ear. “I’ll wake Rymel and Ferostil.” Shandril nodded as the gruff warrior clasped her shoulder—and was gone.
Sleep now? she thought. Just like that? What if I can’t?
Shandril rolled over, pulling her cloak up, and stared into the dank darkness. Where were they? How would she know which way to walk if she awoke and her companions were gone?
Suddenly she felt lonely and homesick. Shandril felt the sting of threatening tears, but bit her lip fiercely. No! This was her decision, for the first time—and it was right!
She settled her head on her pack and thought of riches and fame … and if not, an inn of her own, perhaps?
A gentle hand on her shoulder shook her slowly but insistently awake. Shandril blinked blearily up at Rymel. The bard smiled a wordless greeting and was gone. Shandril sat up in the dripping grass and looked around.
The world was still thick, white, and impenetrable. Her companions were gray shadows moving past a larger bulk that must be one of the horses. By all the gods, was there no end to this mist?
The patient, gray-white cloak of vapor stayed with them as the Company of the Bright Spear followed the Semberflow. Thail recognized a certain moss-covered stump and directed them to cross. The wizard stepped down into the dark river confidently, the water swirling around his ankles and then rising near his boot-tops. Rymel followed readily, leading his horse, but kept his blade ready and looked narrowly at the waters. Ferostil went next, and Burlane waved Shandril after him.
The water was icy. Shandril’s boots leaked at one heel. Once she stepped into a deep place and nearly fell. Her grip on the reins saved her; her horse snorted his displeasure as her weight pulled at his head. She recovered and went on.
The far bank was no different from the one they’d left: tall, drenched grass and thick mist. The company rubbed dry the legs of their mounts and peered about. The mist brightened as the unseen sun rose, but did not break or thin. Burlane strode ahead a few paces and listened intently.
Three warriors in chain mail suddenly advanced out of the fog, weapons ready. They bore no badge or colors, and behind them a fourth man led a mule, heavily laden with small chests. Something within the chests clinked at the beast’s every step.
There was an instant of surprise, and then the three strangers sprang to attack the company. The fourth turned the mule to flee back into the mist.
Abruptly, the Bright Spear hurtled through the air to pierce him at the back of the neck and bear him down. “At them!” Burlane hissed. “Look sharp!”
Ferostil pushed roughly past Shandril to take a stranger’s blade on his own. He shoved hard to rock the man back on his heels. With ringing, teeth-jarring slashes, he battered his way past the man’s blade.
Shandril was shocked at the savagery of their hacking blows.
Delg trotted past and calmly launched himself into the air with a grunt. At the height of his leap, his axe cut hard at the side of the man’s helm. There was a dull crump as the blade bit home. The warrior reeled and tumbled to the ground. Delg had already reached the next warrior.
The burly man roared a warning back into the mist. He retreated before the eager blades of Rymel and Ferostil.
Burlane grunted in pain as the third warrior’s blade bit into his shoulder. The man also swung a war hammer, but Thail caught it on his staff before their attacker could drive it through Burlane’s guard.
Shandril released the reins of her mount and ran toward the Bright Spear, which flickered and glowed in a tangle of grass. She heard a strangled cry behind her but dared not look as she rushed over the uneven ground. Metal skirled and clashed. Shandril reached the spear.
/> Menacing shapes loomed out of the mist. More warriors! One of the newcomers snarled at Shandril, his eyes glittering. His long blade reached for her as he charged.
She jerked the spear free and ran, ducking low and turning, trailing the enchanted weapon point-down in the grass. A sword sliced empty air behind her.
Delg grinned at her as he rushed past to meet the newcomers. Beyond him, Shandril could see the company advancing. All of their opponents had fallen.
She looked to Burlane, raising the spear.
He shook his head, clutching his shoulder. “I cannot use it. Wield it well! More come!”
Turning, Shandril saw Ferostil and Delg closing with five warriors. Beyond, more newcomers loomed out of the mist, weapons gleaming. The company was overmatched. Shandril hurried to Burlane’s side, to guard his injured flank with the spear. It felt awkward in her hands, but he’d be close enough to shout directions.
From Thail’s hands burst bolts of light, streaking through the air to strike at three foes. One stiffened and fell; another staggered but came grimly on. The third gasped and then roared a warning back into the mist, in a harsh, hissing tongue.
Then a warrior rushed her. He had burst past the company warriors and closed quickly, a great sword overhead. With sick fascination, Shandril saw that its edge was dark with blood. It came toward her so smoothly, so quickly, swinging down, down—
Burlane shoved her roughly from behind.
Shandril fell helplessly forward, dropping the spear as she crashed into the man’s legs. He toppled and came down hard on her shoulder.
Red pain exploded in Shandril’s arm. She fought for breath. She sobbed and rolled desperately away, her shoulder burning. Below it, her arm felt numb.
Shandril came dizzily to one knee and saw Delg calmly hew another foe into the grass. She turned. Burlane regarded her gravely across the body of the warrior she’d faced. Burlane had cut his throat.
The Bright Spear blazed in Burlane’s grasp. He held it out to her. “Never freeze in a fight,” was all he said. As he lifted his head to look past her, Shandril noticed the white line of an old scar on his neck.
Spellfire Page 3