Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Well, ye’d be the one to know about poking one’s nose,” said another. “By the gods, he caught it squarely! Do ye think he’ll live?”

  “Not if you don’t use some healing magic quickly, leviathan belly! Don’t wag your jaws—waggle your fingers! He grows weaker with each breath you waste. He smolders still. No, no, lie still, Narm. I can hear you.”

  Through excruciating pain, Narm struggled to tell them of the girl from the inn and the woman in purple. All that came out was a strangled sob.

  “Lie down, Narm,” Torm said gently. “We’ll see to the pretty girl in the rope of entanglement, whom the purple witch—with our good fortune she’s an archmage—just pushed through that gate. Lie still. Rest easy. You’re lucky enough to have found the greatest reckless fools in all Faerûn, and we’ll do it for you.”

  “Hush,” said Rathan. “How can I work healing when ye’re blaspheming Tymora?”

  “I never!”

  “Ye did! ‘Our good fortune,’ I heard ye say in a slighting tone. Now hold this healing quaff; he’ll be able to drink it after this.” There was much murmuring.

  Through the watery red haze, Narm saw a flash of radiance. Sweet coolness spread through his limbs, banishing the shrieking pain. He fainted.

  They descended the crumbling stairs for eight or more turns. The blocks gave way to natural stone scarred with tool marks.

  “What is this place?” Shandril asked wearily.

  The mage made no reply, and she dared not ask again.

  The rough tunnel opened suddenly, joining other passageways in a small, slope-ceilinged cavern. Symgharyl Maruel pushed her firmly toward the largest passage, which led steeply down into darkness.

  Shandril came to a stop. “I can’t see!”

  The Shadowsil chuckled softly behind her. “Do you do nothing in your life that you cannot first see where it leads?” She laughed again, gently. “Very well.”

  Four small globes of pearl-white radiance grew before Shandril’s eyes and then drifted apart in midair. One moved to hang at her shoulder. Another drifted well ahead, revealing the rough stony descent. The other globes moved behind her for Symgharyl Maruel’s benefit.

  Shandril peered about. There was stone all around her, and cool air wafted to her from the depths.

  Something struck her bottom, hard, driving her to her knees. The Shadowsil had kicked her.

  “Up and on,” came the cold voice. “My patience grows short.”

  Shandril struggled to her feet in the tight coils of the enchanted rope, biting her lip in angry silence.

  Up and on. The uneven ramp became broad stairs cut out of solid rock. The air grew cooler, and many small points of light twinkled ahead, dim and scattered beyond the pale radiance of the floating globes.

  Shandril turned to find the left wall and descend with it, but Symgharyl Maruel twitched the rope, and Shandril turned back.

  The twinkling lights were farther away than they’d appeared—but when the stair ended, they hung on all sides.

  A great open cavern lay before them. Its walls were studded with fist-sized, sea-green gems—the fabled stones known as beljurils. At odd intervals, one or more would give forth a silent burst of light. They were the many tiny, twinkling stars, and their light showed that the cavern stretched a long way to the right. It was vast.

  Shandril shivered in the twinkling darkness. Would the mage slay her here or leave her in a cage to be tortured later, or killed or deformed by magical experiment? Or did something lair here? Shandril could hear only the soft sounds of the mage behind her and the noise of her own passage. Where in the Realms was she?

  “Halt, little one, and kneel.”

  Shandril did as that quiet voice bade her. The rope tightened about her knees to reinforce the order. The pale globes winked out. Behind her, the Shadowsil chanted something softly—and sudden light filled the huge cavern.

  Its floor fell away in front of her, its lowest reaches heaped with things that gleamed and sparkled in the light. There were gems and coins beyond number, and statuettes of ivory and jade. The gleam of massy gold caught her eye amid dazzling things Shandril had never seen before.

  A great voice boomed and echoed around them, freezing Shandril in terror. It spoke deeply and slowly in the Common Tongue, a voice old, patient, amused—and dangerous.

  “Who comes?” Deep in the cavern, beyond the mage’s light, something moved.

  Shandril saw it. Her throat tightened, and she would have fled if the coils had not held her firmly. Her struggles caused her to fall sideways onto the stone, where she lay facedown and did not have to see.

  “Symgharyl Maruel Shadowsil stands before you, O mighty Rauglothgor, with a gift: a captive, gained among the ruins of Myth Drannor. Its blood may be valuable to you. But the followers of Sammaster would question it first. It may be one who escaped them at Oversember, and they’d very much like to know how that was accomplished.” The lady faced the night dragon calmly, speaking in tones of respect but not fear.

  Shandril peered sidelong at it. She dared not meet its eyes again, but the thief of Deepingdale saw its great skeletal bulk advance, vast and terrible, across shifting treasure. By its huge, arching wings and claws and tail, it was a dragon, but except for the chilling eyes, it was only bones. Its long, fanged skull leered down at her. Shandril sensed, with a stirring of defiant anger, that it was amused.

  “Look at me, little maid,” it rumbled, its voice echoing inside Shandril’s head.

  She shook in her bonds. She would not look at the creature!

  The rope tightened again, pulling her to her knees, dragging at her brow and throat to turn her head up. Through a mist of furious tears, Shandril looked—and saw.

  The cunning eyes held hers like cold reflections of the moon … like candles set at the head and foot of a shrouded corpse. Those eyes bored into her very soul. Shandril looked back as deeply herself and knew much.

  When men first had come to the Sea of Fallen Stars and fought with the bugbears and kobolds of the Thunder Peaks, it had been old—this sly and gnarled giant among dragons. In mountains the elves called Airmbult or “Storm-fangs,” Rauglothgor had been the fangs amid the storms. Rauglothgor the Proud, dragonkind had called the creature, for its presumption and quickness to take offense or pick quarrels.

  In cunning and malice it had sought out weak, old dragons and slain them, often by trickery, to seize their lairs and treasure. Hoard upon hoard fell into its claws. It piled them up in deep and secret places beneath the Realms known only to it—for other creatures of all sizes who ventured therein were slain, from peryton to centipede, without mercy or patience.

  Years passed, and Rauglothgor grew and devoured whole herds of rothé in Thar and buckar on the Shining Plains and more than one orc horde coming down the Desertsedge from the North. Rauglothgor became strong and terrible, most mighty among dragons. It thrust aside pretense and prudence and killed all other wyrms it met; in air, on land, and even in their lairs, slaying with savagery and skill, and adding hoards anew to its own.

  Yet in its dark heart the old red dragon grew afraid that one day its strength would fail and some younger, greedier dragon would drag it down. All its striving would have been for naught. For years such worries ate at the creature’s old heart, and when men came with offers of eternal strength and wealth, the dragon slew them not, and it listened.

  By the Art of the Cult of the Dragon, the great and evil red dragon became, in time, a great and evil dracolich. Dead it was and yet not dead. The years touched not its vigor and might, for it had become only bones and magic. Its strength of Art could not be diminished by age.

  The years passed, and Faerûn changed. The world was not as it had been. Rauglothgor flew less often. There was little left to match its memories. Few lived that it had known. Willing men of the cult brought it treasure to add to its dusty hoard. The dracolich grew moody and lonely as kingdoms fell and seas changed and only it endured. To live forever was a curse. A lonely cu
rse.

  Shandril could not look away from those lonely eyes.

  “So young,” said the deep voice.

  Abruptly the bony neck arched up, the eyes closed, and she was alone in her head again—only Shandril and only human. Gods, what she’d give to be back in the kitchen of the Rising Moon.…

  “Well met, Great One,” Symgharyl Maruel said. “By your leave, I would question this one before I leave her with you.”

  “Given, Shadowsil,” Rauglothgor replied. “Though she knows little of anything, I deem. She has the eyes of a kitten that’s just learned to walk.”

  “Aye, elder wyrm,” the Shadowsil replied, “and yet she may have seen much in the few days just past, or even be more than she seems.” The lady in purple strode to stand before Shandril. At a gesture, the rope slithered slowly away, leaving her free.

  Shandril gathered herself to flee, but Symgharyl Maruel merely smiled down in cold amusement and shook her head. “Tell me your name,” she commanded.

  Shandril obeyed without thinking.

  “Your parents?” the mage pressed.

  “I know not,” Shandril replied truthfully.

  “Where did you dwell when younger?”

  “In Deepingdale, at the Rising Moon.”

  “How came you to the place where I found you?”

  “I … by magic. There was a word on a bone, and I said it.…”

  “Where’s that bone now?”

  “In a pool—a well, I think—in that ruined city. Please, lady, was that Myth Drannor?”

  The dracolich chuckled harshly. The Shadowsil’s eyes burned into Shandril’s. “Tell me your brother’s name!”

  Shandril shook her head, confused. “I don’t have a brother.”

  “Who was your tutor?” the Shadowsil snapped at her.

  “Tutor? I’ve never had—Gorstag taught me my duties at the inn, and Korvan about cooking, and—”

  “What part of the gardens did the windows of your chamber look upon?”

  Shandril flinched. “Chambers, lady? I—I have no chambers. I sleep—slept—in the loft with Lureene most nights.…”

  “Tell the truth, brat!” the mage in purple screamed, her face contorted in rage, eyes blazing.

  Shandril stared at her helplessly.

  Rauglothgor’s deep chuckle cut through the lady mage’s anger. “She speaks truth, Shadowsil. My Art never lies to me.”

  Symgharyl Maruel dropped her rage like a mask and regarded the disheveled, tearful Shandril calmly. “So she’s not the missing Cormyrean princess, Alusair. Why then is she such a sheltered innocent? She’s not simple, so far as I can tell.”

  The dracolich chuckled again. “Humans never are, I have found. Ask on; she interests me.”

  The Shadowsil nodded as her dark eyes caught and held Shandril’s. The thief of Deepingdale prayed silently to any gods who might be listening.

  Symgharyl Maruel regarded her almost sympathetically. “Were you a member of the Company of the Bright Spear?”

  Shandril lifted her head proudly and said, “I am.”

  “ ‘Am’ ?” The Shadowsil laughed shortly.

  Shandril stared at her, heart sinking. She’d secretly hoped that Rymel, Burlane, and the others had somehow escaped the dragon in the mountain vale. In her memory it swept down again, huge and terrible.…

  She knew the truth now. The mage’s cold laughter forbade her to deny it any longer.

  “You were taken by the cult and imprisoned in Oversember. How did you escape?” the Shadowsil pressed.

  “I—I …” Shandril choked on her fear and grief. Anger rose red and warm within her. Who was this cruel wizardess to drag her here and bind and question her thus?

  The dracolich’s deep, hissing laughter rolled around the cavern. “She has a temper, Shadowsil; beware! Ah, this is good sport!”

  “I found the bone and read what was on it,” Shandril answered sullenly. “It took me to the place with the devils and the well … and you. I know no more.”

  Symgharyl Maruel angrily strode toward her. “Ah, but you do, Shandril! Who was that fool who attacked me before we took the gate here?”

  Shandril shook her head helplessly.

  “My name, witch,” a new voice answered, “is Narm!”

  The air flashed and crackled. A swarm of racing bolts struck the Shadowsil, sending tiny fingers of lightning over her body. She staggered and almost fell, face twisting in pain and astonishment.

  Shandril scrambled up and looked back.

  High above, at the mouth of the cavern, stood six humans. Two in robes stood in front. The one who’d spoken she recognized from those last moments before the magic gate. He was young and excited. The other, a woman whose hair was as long as the Shadowsil’s, stood with one hand outstretched. Tiny wisps of sparkling smoke curled from it in the wake of the magic she’d just hurled.

  The cavern rocked with Rauglothgor’s roar of challenge. The dracolich reared up to face the newcomers, eyes terrible, bony wings arching.

  Shandril hurled herself at the Shadowsil, who hissed a word of Art and vanished before Shandril could reach her.

  Rauglothgor spat a word that shook the grotto. A fiery streak flashed high over Shandril’s head, and bright, rending flame exploded in all directions.

  The thief of Deepingdale dived flat and peered around wildly.

  The newcomers leaped down toward her, apparently unharmed by the fireball. The purple-robed sorceress appeared on a ledge behind them.

  “Look out!” Shandril screamed, pointing at the Shadowsil.

  A man in plain robes glanced up and back. Red radiance winked along the circlet he wore. From it burst a thin beam that struck the Shadowsil.

  The lady mage stiffened, hands faltering in their spell-weaving, and slumped back against the rock wall. She clutched her side and screamed curses.

  The dracolich roared again, and the long-haired woman lashed out with a bolt of lightning.

  It crackled over Shandril’s head, illuminating two figures leaping down to her: a mighty man with blue-gray armor and a sword in hand, and the young man named Narm.

  Narm called out to her. “Lady! You from the Rising Moon! We come to aid you! We—”

  His words were lost in the roar of the dracolich’s second fireball, bursting just behind the two running figures.

  Shandril turned in panic and ran downslope, slipping on coins. She caught her balance with a painful wrench and leaped, her boots finding rocks. The silent wink of the beljurils grew ahead; she was nearing a wall.

  Behind her came a cry of pain. The hissing laughter of the dracolich rolled out, and all light abruptly faded in the cavern. Another flash came, and the clink of feet running fast on coins … feet that sounded like they were following her.

  Shandril gasped. She climbed rocks with bruising speed.

  Rauglothgor roared, and light flooded the cavern once more.

  Shandril dived into a cleft between two boulders. And I haven’t even a blade! she thought, rolling to her feet, banging knees and elbows. She peered back at the battle.

  Symgharyl Maruel stood upon a high rock, hands moving—but she wasn’t spellcasting. Rather, she slapped at something very small. Many somethings … insects!

  The other lady mage cast a spell at Rauglothgor across the grotto. The man in armor stood knee-deep in coins at the dracolich’s feet, chopping and slicing at the skeletal form towering over him. Another warrior—an elf with a glowing blade—raced down to join him. The sword’s radiance was briefly overwhelmed by a roaring blast of flames from the dracolich’s bony maw.

  Rauglothgor turned his head toward Shandril. Clenching her teeth, she scrambled up the cavern wall.

  “Lady!” came that cry again. Narm pursued her, but Shandril dared not stop. She clambered over rocks and loose rubble, expecting the roar of the Art that would dash her life away … but one moment after another passed as she climbed, and no death came for her.

  That slowed her climb not a whit. The dracol
ich, the Shadowsil, and these powerful newcomers all stood between her and escape … and the thief of Deepingdale doubted if the gods cared enough about Shandril Shessair to save her. Better to flee while they were busy slaying each other!

  Another burst of flame reflected off the rocks before her. Shandril heard a man’s roar of pain as the fire died away. Behind her, much closer than she expected, Narm chanted something rapidly. Was he trying to trap her with a spell? She scrambled on.

  Suddenly, her fingers slipped on rocks. Shandril fought for balance, slipped again—and fell long and hard, back down the rough, curving cavern wall. She slammed to a stop, dashing the wind from her lungs.

  The favored of Tymora, as usual, she thought grimly.

  Someone landed hard on the stones beside her, jarring her.

  Shandril rolled away and sprang to her feet, dizzy—

  Hands grabbed her and pulled her back down. “Lady,” Narm panted, “keep down! Yon witch-mage—” Abruptly, there was a flash and a deep, rolling explosion. Small stones clattered and fell about them. “She’s free of the insects! Oh, gods!”

  His curse made Shandril look up—into the dark and cruel eyes of Symgharyl Maruel.

  Wearing a triumphant smile, she stood before them, her hands raised and glowing.

  But the air behind her held a slim, dark, leaping figure. Somersaulting in the air, its boots struck the Shadowsil’s shoulder and flank, knocking the smile from her face. The lady mage and her attacker fell out of view behind rocks.

  “Well met, witch! I am Torm—and these are my feet!”

  Rauglothgor hissed in fury, his great bony form rearing.

  Crouching next to Shandril, Narm chanted, “By grasshopper leg and will gathered deep, let my Art make this one”—he touched her knee—“leap!” He thrust something small into her hand. “Lady,” he hissed, pointing, “break this, turn, and leap up there! Swiftly, before the—”

  Goaded by his fear, Shandril fumbled with the dried wisp in her hands, broke it, and jumped.

  Narm’s Art took her high and far in one mighty bound. She landed on a ledge high up near the cavern ceiling.