Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  Behind and below the Shadowsil chanted shrilly, and there was another flash. She raised glittering, angry eyes to meet Shandril’s, and her arms moved with angry, fluid grace.

  Again, Torm sprang at her from the side.

  The Shadowsil crouched at the last second, spun around with a laugh of triumph, and hurled the spell at him.

  He met her laugh with one of his own, and it had fangs: two daggers flashed from his hands, silvery blades spinning end over end through the air.

  Shandril turned and ran along the ledge without waiting to see who would die. A dull, rolling boom sounded behind her, and stones rattled under her feet. The cavern walls, rising still, were scattered with riches. Long-dead kings, carved from cold white ivory, stared as she clambered past. She felt her way past a curtain of strung amber, the toothed ceiling of the cavern low overhead. Another mighty blast came behind her. Dust swirled. Small pieces of rock rained down.

  Behind Shandril came the hasty, sliding steps of someone running across coins. She hurried on, stumbling for the hundredth time, her hands already flung out to break her fall. The pursuer closed in.

  “Damnation! I can’t run anymore. When will this nightmare end?”

  At last, it seemed, the gods heard. An earsplitting crash split the cavern behind Shandril. She was flung violently forward amid a helter-skelter of rocks, coins, gems, chains, coffers, and choking dust.

  The anguished roar of the dracolich, mournful and enraged and sad, rose and fell thrice ere it died away in hollow echoes. The air erupted in three short, sharp explosions that struck Shandril’s already-ringing head like hammers. The deep rolling did not die away this time, but went on and on. Small rocks struck her like stinging rain. Then came more booms and crashes as slabs and pillars of rock broke free and fell, unseen in the darkness.

  Refusing to be entombed alive, Shandril crawled desperately on. Faint, despairing shouts far behind dissolved in never-ending echoes.

  When chaos finally died to stillness, Shandril was alone in chill dark and drifting dust. Her ragged breathing was deafening in the sudden silence. She lay still, aching from bruises and scrapes, covered by sweat and dust and small stones.

  Something glowed faintly in the rubble. Shandril stared at it. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw that the light—was it growing stronger? yes—came from a sphere of crystal. Its curves were glossy-smooth, and it was a little larger than a man’s head. The radiance, steady and white, came from within. Perhaps it could serve as a lantern.…

  Shandril picked her way to the sphere. When she nudged it cautiously with a toe, the glow did not flicker. She watched it for a time, alert for any change, peering closely to see if anything might be hidden within it.

  Finally, she reached down and touched it, running her fingers over the cold smooth surface. Nothing flickered; nothing changed. Shandril gently lifted the sphere. It was light, and yet somehow unbalanced, as though something moved inside. But she couldn’t feel, hear, or see anything in its opaque depths.

  Raising the sphere like a lamp, Shandril looked around. The jagged cavern ceiling hung close overhead, stretching away perhaps twenty paces before it met the floor—a tumbled waste of broken stone rubble. She swung around slowly. Gold coins and other treasures winked as the radiance met them. She was at a dead end. The roof of the cavern had fallen in, and she was trapped underground!

  Panicking, Shandril scrambled forward. There must be a way out! The whole high, wide cavern couldn’t have been blocked, just like that!

  “Oh, please, Tymora, whatever has gone before, smile on me now!” Those tremulous words were still falling from her lips when the light fell on an outflung arm.

  Narm lay on his face—still and silent. A pile of stones half-buried his legs.

  Shandril stared down for a moment. She knelt carefully amid the rubble and gently brushed the hair from his face.

  His eyes were closed, his mouth slack—and still he was handsome, this man. He’d tried more than once to help her.

  Under her hands, he stirred. Before she knew it, she’d set the globe down and was carefully lifting and cradling his head.

  His jaw worked. Pain and concern raced across his face, his eyes stared sightlessly past her, and he gasped, “More devils! Is there no end? No—” His hands moved, and he caught at her.

  Gods, but he was strong! Shandril found herself dragged down onto the rock beside him.

  “Must … must …” Narm hissed weakly. His hands clawed at her, tightening with frantic force.

  Shandril struggled against his grip, reaching for a weapon she no longer bore. Inches from her ear, she heard a surprised “oh.”

  Narm’s grip became suddenly gentle. Shandril turned her head and stared into his eyes.

  Now open and aware, they met hers in wonder and dawning hope, but also confusion and regret. “I—pray your pardon, Lady. I’ve hurt you.” Narm’s hands fell away, and he scrambled to rise. Rocks rolled, and he fell back weakly.

  Shandril put out her hand. “Lie still! Stones must be moved first; your feet are covered. Do they hurt?” She clambered past him, wondering if it would be safest to leave him helpless—but no; she could trust this one. She must trust him. The stones lifted easily. They were many, but small.

  “I feel,” Narm said slowly, “a little bruised, but no worse, I hope.” He smiled. “Lady, what’s your name?”

  “I—Shandril Shessair,” she replied. “What do they call you?”

  “Narm. Narm Tamaraith,” he replied, moving one foot cautiously. He rolled over to help her free his other foot. “How came we here?”

  Shandril shrugged. “I ran. The spell-fray went on, and … was that you, following me?”

  “Yes,” he replied, grinning.

  After a moment she grinned back. “I see,” she said. “Why?”

  Narm looked down at his empty hands for a moment and then up into her eyes. “I would know you, Lady Shandril,” he said carefully. “Since first I saw you at the inn, I’ve … wanted to know you.”

  Their gazes held for a long and silent time.

  Shandril looked away first, cradling the glowing globe in her hands. She looked at him over it, long hair veiling her face.

  Narm opened his mouth to tell her something, and then closed it again.

  She look at him steadily. Her eyes were very large and dark. “The cavern fell in on the others. We’re buried here—walled off.”

  Narm sat up, heart sinking. “Is there no way out?”

  Shandril shrugged. “I was looking for one when I saw you, but found nothing. Can your Art open a way?”

  Narm shook his head. “That’s beyond me. But I can dig, gods willing.” He stared at her again, saw that she noticed, and tore his gaze away to look at the tumbled stones. “Where did you leave off looking?”

  Shandril went forward with the globe. “Here.”

  Slowly and carefully they moved together along the stones, shining the globe high and low, but found no gap. Reaching their starting point, they straightened wearily.

  “What now?” Shandril sighed.

  “I need to sit down,” Narm replied. He selected a large, curving boulder and sat, patting the rock beside him.

  Slowly, Shandril moved to join him.

  Narm swung a battered sack from his shoulder. “Hungry?”

  “Yes,” Shandril replied, suddenly so ravenous her mouth ached.

  Narm handed her a thick sausage wrapped in oilcloth, a half-eaten loaf of hard bread, and a leather waterskin.

  Shandril lifted it, a query in her eyes.

  Narm smiled. “Only water, I fear.”

  “Good enough for me,” she said, taking a long swig.

  They ate in silence until Narm looked up suddenly and asked, “Who was the mage in purple?”

  “She called herself Symgharyl Maruel, or the Shadowsil,” Shandril said. She suddenly found herself telling him of the Company of the Bright Spear, of her imprisonment in the cavern, of how the bone had brought her to Myth
Drannor, and the Shadowsil to this place. “Your turn.”

  Narm quickly swallowed a mouthful of bread. “There’s little to tell. I’m an apprentice of the Art, come from Cormyr with my master Marimmar, to seek the lost magic of Myth Drannor. When we reached the ruins we met several Knights of Myth Drannor, who warned us away. My master distrusted their counsel, and tried to enter the city by another route.”

  Shaking his head, Narm drank from the waterskin. “Marimmar was slain. I would have died, too, if another pair of Knights hadn’t rescued me. They took me to Shadowdale, where Lord Mourngrym respected my decision to face down a devil and my fear. He lent me an escort back to Myth Drannor. I came upon you and was nearly killed. The Knights healed me, and I persuaded them to come through the gate with me to—to rescue you!”

  They looked at each other.

  “I thank you, Narm,” Shandril said slowly. “I’m sorry I ran from you and led you into this.”

  They searched each other’s eyes in silence. Both knew this was their prison. They would die here, ere long.

  Shandril felt sudden, raw regret that she’d found a man so friendly and attractive, too late. They’d met just in time to die together.

  “I’m sorry I drove you here,” Narm replied softly. “I’m not much of a rescuing hero, I fear!”

  Wordlessly Shandril clasped his forearm as the company greeted their equals. “Perhaps not,” she said after a time, finding herself wanting this shy, polite man, “and yet I live because of you.”

  Narm took her hand and raised it slowly to his lips, eyes on hers. She smiled, then, and kissed him.

  It was a long time before they parted.

  “More sausage?” Narm asked.

  They laughed nervously, and then ate more sausage and bread, huddling together in the globe’s gentle light.

  “How came you by this?” Narm asked, touching the glassy sphere.

  Shandril shrugged. “It was here, with the other treasure. I know not what it is, but it serves me as a lamp. Without it I’d not have found you.”

  “Yes,” Narm said, “and my thanks.”

  The look in his eyes made Shandril blush. “What was that—that bone dragon?” she asked quickly.

  “A dracolich,” Narm said, sounding almost relieved. “I’ve never seen one before, but my master told me of them. They’re undead creatures, created by their own evil and a foul potion, just as a fell mage becomes a lich. A depraved cult of men worship dracoliches. They believe ‘dead dragons shall rule the world entire.’ They serve all dragons so they’ll be favored when this prophecy comes to pass.”

  “How does one serve a dragon, save as a meal?”

  “By providing the potions and care it needs to achieve unlife,” Narm replied. “After that, they provide the new dracolich with news, flattery, spells, and treasure. One bone dragon they really revere: Shargrailar the Dark. It has torn apart armies, rumor has it.”

  In silence, they ate again. After a time, Shandril asked quietly, “Narm, how great is your Art?”

  “Feeble, Lady. Too weak to blast aside even a single rock—to say nothing of fallen heaps. My master was a blusterer but capable, though he never hurled magics such as Lady Jhessail of the Knights did, there.” He waved a hand at where rocks had walled them in. “I know a few useful spells and a handful more that hone the will or make mind or fingers deft. My master’s no more, and in Art I’m almost nothing without him.”

  “Something more than ‘nothing’ rescued me,” Shandril countered. “You did, and your magic was strong and swift when I needed it. I—I’ll stand with you and trust in your Art, if you’ll have me.”

  Narm looked at her. Very slowly, he laid his hand on hers. “I thank you,” he said. “I will, and ’tis enough, indeed.”

  They embraced, arms tightening fiercely around each other.

  “We may die here,” Narm murmured into her ear.

  “Aye,” Shandril replied with grim humor, tracing the line of his chin with her fingers. “ ‘Adventure,’ they call it.”

  Abruptly, from the far end of the cavern, there came the click and clatter of a falling stone. They tensed, listening, but no more sound came. They exchanged wary looks.

  Shandril picked up the globe and held it high. Its radiance fell across the rocks but revealed nothing.

  Narm went carefully to the wall of rock, dagger in hand, and walked along it. He returned. “Nothing, my Lady, but I found this for you.” He held out a pendant of electrum shaped into a falcon in flight, with garnets for eyes.

  Shandril hesitated, and then accepted it with a smile and hooked it about her neck. “My thanks. I can give you only coins in return. I’m sitting on a heap of them, and one at least has fallen into my boot.”

  “Why not fill our boots?” he chuckled, bending to the coins. “If die we must, why not die rich?”

  “Narm,” Shandril asked softly, “could you gather coins later?”

  Narm’s head snapped up. Shandril was holding out her arms to him. When he embraced her, he found she was shaking.

  “Lady?” he asked, trying to be of some comfort. “Shandril?”

  “Please, Narm,” she whispered, dragging him down atop her, her hands moving with sudden urgency. “If this is the end, I’d—I—”

  Narm was surprised at her strength. Words failed them both. His discarded pack fell across the globe. Neither noticed as they twisted and arched fiercely in the darkness.

  They lay face-to-face on their sides, Shandril’s breath warm on Narm’s throat. With such company, the young wizard decided, even cold coins made a comfortable bed.

  “Lady,” he said roughly. “I know it’s been but a short time since we met, but … I love you.”

  “Oh, Narm,” she replied, “I think I’ve loved you since we first saw each other at the Moon. That seems very long ago—a lifetime at least!” She laughed softly. “I’m not afraid to die now. It’s not so terrible to greet the gods here, if we do so together.”

  Narm’s arms tightened about her. “Die? Who knows but that a little digging might win our freedom? This cavern’s too big to be completely filled with rock … I hope.”

  “We’ll dig, then,” Shandril said eagerly, “if you’ll let me up!”

  They rolled apart and uncovered the globe. Its radiance showed them each other, shadowed and bare.

  Shandril snatched up her breeches.

  “Lady,” Narm asked gently, “may I not even see you?”

  Shandril laughed in embarrassment, but her laughter became tears.

  Narm held her until her sobs died away, murmuring gently, “We’re not dead yet.”

  Shandril drew a deep, shuddering breath, nodded, and held him tight. They stood in silence, arms about each other, until the creeping cold drove them to dress and walk around for warmth. Gathering gold enough to fill both their pouches, Narm found another treasure for his lady.

  He bestowed upon Shandril a ring and bracelet joined by fine chain. Curved plates and worked hoops of chased electrum covered her forearm from finger to elbow. Chain and all gleamed with many sapphires.

  For himself, he found a dagger with a pommel worked into a snarling, ruby-eyed head of a lion. Passing over larger and more splendid treasures, he picked up a trade bar of gold. It was just settling into the bottom of his battered pack when he heard Shandril’s hiss of surprise.

  Something moved, approaching from the tumbled rockfall—something black and scaly, the length of a short sword. It darted and scuttled soundlessly over stones—a long-necked, worm-tailed lizard.

  Narm stepped forward to blast it with his Art.

  Without slowing, the lizard crested a rock five paces from Shandril, who raised the globe to see it more clearly.

  In the light, it suddenly began to grow. It scuttled without pause down the rock, its sleek scaly body boiling, shifting, rising. Black scales melted into purple folds of cloth, rearing up with horrifying speed—.

  Symgharyl Maruel stretched slim arms and smiled at them triumphant
ly. “So we meet again. Cower there, dear,” she told Shandril with a sneer, “while I deal in Art with this young lion of yours.” Her hands moved like gliding snakes.

  Narm’s hands also moved, but he wore a look of brave despair.

  The Shadowsil hissed a word of power and laughed triumphantly.

  Red rage roar in Shandril, and she leaped forward. At least she would have the satisfaction of seeing the witch-mage surprised before she herself died.

  6

  DEATH IN THE DARK

  On facing magic: Run, or pray, or throw stones; many a mage is a fraud, and you can win the day even while your heart trembles. Or you can stand calm and mumble nonsense and wiggle your fingers. Some few workers of the Art are such cowards that they may flee. As for others, at least when men speak of your death, they’ll say, “I never knew he was a mage; all those years he kept it secret. He must have been a clever fellow.” Of course, some who listen may disagree.

  Guldoum Tchar of Mirabar

  Sayings of a Wise and Fat Merchant

  Year of the Crawling Clouds

  The glowing globe was in Shandril’s hands. Without thinking, she swept it up and smashed it with all her strength into the Shadowsil’s face.

  It shattered. Symgharyl Maruel shrieked. Darkness fell.

  Shandril dropped the fragments of crystal and kicked out in fury, driving one foot deep into a purple-robed belly.

  The scream ended in a strangled whistle, and Symgharyl Maruel sat down suddenly.

  Narm ran toward Shandril. “My Lady! Are you all right?”

  Through the blood running down her face, Symgharyl Maruel fixed one glaring eye on Shandril. The lady mage’s hands began to move.

  “Oh, gods,” Narm moaned, running even faster.

  As the Shadowsil snarled out an incantation, Shandril smashed a stone into the lady mage’s face.

  Cringing at the horrid wet thud, Shandril set her teeth and slammed it down again. The lady mage snarled. Each time the rock rose and fell, Shandril screamed in a howling rage: “Leave us alone, you bitch!”

  Narm sprinted, stones flying under his boots.