Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  Symgharyl Maruel stood calmly silent, arms crossed on her breast. Her Art had shaped Rauglothgor’s image; she knew not how the old bone dragon would take to losing half his treasure, nor did she care, so long as the wench died.

  The cult warriors had halted in awe at Rauglothgor’s speech. They looked to the real dracolich, their swords glittering with torchlight.

  Aghazstamn’s wings lowered slowly; its head sank, its gaze fixed snakelike on the lady mage. “That wasss not real,” it said, “and yet I know you, sssmall and cruel one. You came to me before, not long ago, did you not?”

  “Aye, great Aghazstamn. I brought you treasure fourteen winters past. One of my first duties in the cult.”

  Symgharyl Maruel’s crossed hands rested on the ends of the wands sheathed on her hips. Her eyes darted from the warriors to the dracolich and back, but her voice and manner were relaxed and easy. The Shadowsil had come a long way to stand where she did in the cult; fear and timidity were luxuries she had no time for. She waited.

  “Ssso!” The dracolich put its great head to one side and regarded her. It had been proud in life and very curious. It had thought much on the intricacies of the Art, and on death, and so had accepted the cult’s offer to die and become undead.

  Aghazstamn had accepted young. It had missed many years of high flying and dealing death on lesser creatures, of battling wyrms in clear air and mating in roaring silence. It regretted the losses.

  Now here was a call to war. To leave its safe lair and its rich hoard, to face enemies … enemies, hah! Puny humans, even as these at its feet, waving tiny steel fangs and making much commotion. To ride the high winds again, to see the land spread out below, feel the cold bite of the air whistling past as lesser creatures fled in terror, far below …

  “Kneel to me, Ssshadowsil, and pledge to turn not against me nor aid Rauglothgor in altering the ssstated bargain. Do that, and I will accept!”

  Symgharyl Maruel knelt among the coins, on the ornate top of a coach that had once carried young princes of Cormyr to hunt in the high country. Hiding her smile in a low bow over the coins, she was rewarded by the great voice.

  “Mount, then. Warriorsss of the cult! Attend! Guard well my hoard in my absssence, and let not one coin be missssing when I return, nor any of you gone, or all will answer for it. Bow and pledge your obedience!”

  The cult warriors, with frightened looks at Symgharyl Maruel, did so.

  She wasted a flight spell in bravado (she’d intended to have its protection about her when on Aghazstamn’s back, in case of a fall in aerial battle or treachery from the great dracolich). The Shadowsil flew past the swordsmen, skimming low over heaped coins, gems, and splendidly inlaid armor to reach Aghazstamn.

  She paused in the air before the dracolich’s broad head and bowed again, eyes lowered. Even a great mage could not safely meet the eyes of a dragon, let alone a dracolich. She flew slowly up and around in a smooth arc to settle lightly between its wings.

  “My thanks, Great One,” Symgharyl Maruel said, as she drew gauntlets from her belt, settled the wands on her thighs for rapid drawing, and nestled herself behind a fin she could grasp once her gloves were on.

  “Nay, little one,” came the hissing reply. “The thanksss isss from me to you.”

  Great wings arched above them—and the dracolich leaped upward in a great bound.

  The shaft from its lair twisted and bent back upon itself to entrap and discourage flying intruders, but Aghazstamn knew it well. The great wings beat twice, precisely where they had room to spread. Daylight burst over them, and they slid into a great roaring glide that curved up to become a steep climb. The dracolich let out a roar that echoed thunderously from the surrounding peaks. It wheeled out over the Desertsedge and back again through the Desertsmouth Mountains, where of old had been the realm of Anauria before the Great Sand Sea swept its greatness away, and gained the name Anauroch.

  “Where is this lair we ssseek? In the Thunder Peaksss?” the great hiss came back to Symgharyl Maruel.

  She did not shout into the wind, but used her cult ring to speak to Aghazstamn’s mind: Yes, Great One. On the eastern flanks of the range, above Lake Sember.

  “Ah, yesss! Fried Elf Water! I know it.”

  The Shadowsil managed to stifle her giggle. “Fried Elf Water”? No doubt. Hmm … there’d been an elf among the adventurers who attacked her. Well, well … who knows what the future holds and the gods see?

  On the back of the mighty blue dracolich, she rode toward the lair of Rauglothgor, to deal death upon them all.

  “Die, and let the Shadowsil rise on your bones!” She did not realize she’d shouted aloud until she heard Aghazstamn chuckle.

  8

  MUCH MAYHEM

  A woman, or a man, may come to hold many treasures in life. Gold, gems, a good name, lovers, good friends, influence, high rank—all are of value. All are coveted. But of them all the most valuable are friends good and true. Have these, and ye will scarce notice the lack if ye never win aught else.

  The adventuress Sharanralee

  Ballads and Lore of One Dusty Road

  Year of the Wandering Maiden

  “Treasure! Aye, treasure for all and to spare!” Rathan’s voice rolled heartily out over the crater where the Knights stooped to gather treasure. “More than even ye can carry, Torm Greedyfingers!”

  “Hah,” came Torm’s reply from beneath a pile of rubble. “Change your tone, faithful of Tymora?” The thief rose. In his hands was a gleaming disc of polished electrum, fully six hand-widths across.

  “For love of the Lady!” Rathan gasped delightedly. “Good Torm, may I—”

  “ ‘Good Torm,’ now, is it?” the thief answered mockingly. “Good Torm Greedyfingers, perhaps?”

  “Shut your yapping maw, Good Torm Greedyfingers,” Merith said close behind. “Or some good dale farmer may mistake thee for a nimble shrew and marry you!”

  “Some nimble dale shrew did marry you,” Torm told him in return, “and look whaaa—!” His words ended in the roar of a crockful of gold coins being dumped over his head.

  Narm watched in amazement as the air filled with small pieces of treasure, pitched from Knight to Knight. “They’re—they’re like children!”

  “Sir Mage,” Jhessail said with a gentle smile, “they are children.”

  “The famous Knights of Myth Drannor, ‘children’?” Narm protested, watching her smile widen.

  “All of us Knights—nay, most adventurers—are children,” she replied. “Who else happily rides into danger, swinging swords against fearsome foes, far from home and saner pursuits?”

  “Hmm,” Narm said thoughtfully. “Yet you are a Knight.”

  “Did I say I was not a child? Dear me!” Jhessail rose in a shifting of skirts, plucked up a set of knuckle-claws of wrought brass, admired them a moment—and threw them hard and accurately at Torm’s back.

  With swift grace, she sat down demurely and turned to check on Shandril, favoring Narm with an impish grin. Behind them, Elminster chuckled.

  Torm roared and spun, seeking his foe.

  Amid the tumult, Narm’s lady lay motionless, eyes closed and breathing shallowly. She looked peaceful, young, and very beautiful.

  Narm swallowed, finding his throat suddenly tight. “Will she—?”

  Jhessail patted his arm. “ ’Tis in the hands of the gods. We’ll do all we can!”

  Elminster took the pipe out of his mouth. Coils of greenish smoke and sparks drifted from its bowl. “She held and handled more power than I’ve seen come out of a balhiir,” the Old Mage said. “More, I fear, than this one had in it.”

  Jhessail and Narm turned to stare at him in surprise.

  “Well?” Jhessail asked, arching one shapely eyebrow.

  Elminster shook his head. “Too soon. Too soon for aught but idle chatter. Such clack helps none, yet could upset our young friend.”

  Narm sighed. “With all respect, Lord Elminster, I’m upset already. What is it you
fear?”

  Elminster was lost in chuckles. “I fear being called ‘Lord Elminster.’ Now grip thy temper and grief together, and master them. There’re good reasons not to talk on this. If it makes ye feel better, know I’m amazed and awed at what thy Shandril has done.”

  “Oh?” Narm tried to keep his voice calm. Shan lies dying, and this old goat wants to keep his precious secrets.…

  “Aye. The most common way to destroy a balhiir involves at least three mages; at best, five or more. They must hold the creature between them by force of Art, adjusting their opposing telekinetic spells as net-hunters tug on lines, to offset its wild struggles. They then tear it apart, each absorbing what they can. A spectacular process to watch … and,” he added dryly, “it kills a lot of mages!”

  “Yet you sent Shandril alone up against the thing?” Narm snarled.

  Elminster’s gently sad gaze stilled his tongue. “I lacked five mages. We yet faced a dracolich and could not turn away, whate’er we desired, lest we all perish. If ye’d tried to stand as one of those five, Narm, ye’d be dead now.” His pipe, which had floated patiently beside his mouth, slid back toward his lips. “Hold thy peace, I bid thee, for thy lady’s sake. High words will not help her now.”

  “Are you always right?” Narm asked, more wearily than in fury. “Is the one true way always so clear to you?”

  Jhessail shook her head in warning.

  Elminster merely chuckled. “Slay me. Thy tongue is as sharp and as busy as Torm’s!” The wizard sucked on his pipe once and turned within the smoky haze to regard Narm gravely. “In tavern tales, the hero’s high and shining and his foes dark and dastardly. ’Twould be simpler if life were truly like that, each knowing if he be good or evil and what to do in the great play. But think how boring ’twould be for the gods—everyone a known force, events and deeds preordained or at the least predictable. Things are not so.”

  The Old Mage started to pace, his pipe trailing patiently in his wake. “We’re here to entertain the gods, who walk among us. They watch and enjoy and sometimes even thrust a hand or word into daily life, just to see the result. From this come miracles, disasters, and much else we could do without.”

  Narm stepped into Elminster’s path and met the old wizard’s gaze. They locked eyes for a time before the young apprentice nodded and stepped back. “You do think and care, then,” Narm said quietly. “I feared you swaggered about serenely blasting with your Art all who opposed you.”

  “That’s just what he does do,” Torm broke in heartily, arms full of gold. “Wizards! Wherever one sees battle, there’s some attending dweomer crafter jabbering and waving his hands. Honest sword swingers fall doomed—slain by a man in a lady’s gown too craven to stand against them. Less Art would please me. Then the brave and strong would rule, not sneaking old graybeards and reckless young fools who play for sport with the forces that give light and life to us all!”

  “Aye,” said Elminster with a smile. “But rule what? A battlefield shoulder-deep with rotting dead, the survivors dying of hunger and disease. No one would help the sick, or harvest, or sow seeds. ’Tis a grand king who rules a graveyard.” He drew on his pipe. “Besides, ’tis no good complaining about what cannot be changed. Art we have; make the best of it.”

  “Oh, I intend to,” Torm replied with a wolfish grin.

  “Are you finished, Torm?” Jhessail asked sweetly. “Or does your tongue hold more that needs spewing forth?”

  “Yes, as it happens,” the thief replied. “Look you, old—”

  “Enough talk!” Florin snapped. “A dragon comes!”

  “They sssee usss, little one!” the great voice boomed back at her. “Why ssso amazed?”

  Speechless and trembling, Symgharyl Maruel gazed down on the blasted mountaintop. She shook her head in disbelief, but the vast crater refused to fade away as the dracolich wheeled about it. The Tower Tranquil was gone.

  The keep! She thought wildly to Aghazstamn. Gone! The whole peak’s been shattered and thrown down! We must turn away! We can’t face power enough to do that!

  “Flee? Nay!” Aghazstamn roared at her. Its great neck arched around, nearly tumbling the Shadowsil off.

  She clung grimly to the bony fin. “The entire top of the mountain is gone! We cannot prevail against—”

  “Ssseee to your wandsss, little coward! I fly to fight and ssslay after all these yearsss! You want me to turn tail and abandon the gold and thisss challenge? Think again, weaver of weak Art!” Aghazstamn climbed and wheeled, moments from plunging into an air-splitting dive.

  As the wind snarled past her ears, Maruel drew one of her wands and held it firmly across her breast. Peering down, she could see an armored man, an elf-warrior, and others below, swords in hand. There was no sign of Rauglothgor. Perhaps the old terror had destroyed himself and wrought this devastation. This handful of dare-alls looked incapable of such destruction. What did it matter? Slay, and wonder later.

  Aghazstamn dived, racing down ever faster, wind whistling in his wake. The Shadowsil bent low, narrowing her eyes to slits. She aimed at the scattering foes and said, “Maerzae!”

  Red fire blossomed from the wand. A tiny ball spun away, trailing sparks, to burst below in a thunderous, orange-red sphere.

  One man flew, blazing, through the air and fell among rocks. Others whirled aside, but the Shadowsil missed their fates, intent on aiming her next blast.

  Aghazstamn roared in triumph, wings drawn back over its vast scaled bulk. Lightning spat from its maw in a long, blue-white bolt. One foe jerked and staggered, outlined briefly in energy.

  The Shadowsil coolly unleashed her second fireball at two robed figures. It blossomed into flames before reaching them, spreading against an invisible barrier. Symgharyl Maruel hissed. Swift, indeed, by Mystra! Still, they couldn’t strike back at her without sacrificing that wall.…

  With a mighty clap of wings, Aghazstamn leveled off just short of the tumbled rocks. It skimmed low, reaching with long, cruel claws for two warriors who stood with swords raised like tiny needles. The dracolich struck, then beat its wings to rise in haste from the sharp steel.

  The lady mage looked back over her shoulder and locked eyes with the druid. His hands and lips moved as he glared at her, coolly calling a spell.

  Aghazstamn turned away, rising steeply. The Shadowsil slid the wand back into its sheath. She turned to look back, tossing hair out of her eyes. Steady, I pray you, Great One, she thought through her ring. I would cast a spell and need a stable flight from you.

  With a thunderous snort the dracolich spread vast wings, and the roaring winds abated.

  This level glide wouldn’t last for long. Symgharyl Maruel swiftly drew herself up as tall as she dared on dragonback, and turned to face the foes below.

  The two swordsmen still stood, a tall one in armor and an elf. Bodies sprawled among the rocks, but the robed mages remained on their feet, a little distant. That might save them for a few breaths longer. They could watch their comrades perish. Carefully Symgharyl Maruel cast the mightiest fire spell she knew. Eight balls of flame rolled forth.

  Done, she told the dracolich in satisfaction as she sat down. Aghazstamn hissed acknowledgment, and the great wings beat again.

  Sudden heat and a rolling roar warned Symgharyl to reach for her wand. Armed, she whirled to see what was happening—just as the world around her exploded in angry flames.

  Somehow those below had turned her greatest spell against her. She reeled, screaming seared agony, dimly recalling her old mentor’s words: “Most mages survive not even one mistake.…”

  “See to Rathan,” said Elminster. “And Torm, too. Here! Hurry!” From under his robes he drew two metal vials and thrust them into Jhessail’s hands.

  “But master, the dragon! Wha—”

  “I can yet speak spells,” the Old Mage told her with some severity. “Now go.” His eyes never left the blackened body of the wyrm as it fell, trailing flames. Odd, that a single such spell could slay so quickl
y. Dragons usually died slowly and noisily, with much … unless this was no dragon, but—

  “Another dracolich!” Elminster growled.

  Narm looked at him anxiously. “Aye? What now?”

  Elminster sighed. “Go help Jhessail. There’s nothing ye can safely do here.”

  Large and dark, the dracolich loomed as it fell. Sagging wings rolled it over and over. On its back clung the Shadowsil, struggling weakly.

  Elminster almost lifted his hands to pluck her magically away, but she bore a ready wand. Even as he saw it, he knew it was too late to save her. The white-bearded wizard watched expressionlessly as Aghazstamn crashed to earth.

  The dracolich struck head and neck first, toppling forward onto one shoulder with a horrible splintering sound. It tumbled until its great back smashed into the ground. The Shadowsil spilled. The dracolich came to a halt in a smoking heap, broken bones against jagged rocks.

  “Get her!” Lanseril shouted.

  Florin and Merith leaped past, blades flashing. The elf’s armor was twisted crazily at one shoulder where a dragon claw had caught it. Had Merith not jumped into its closing grip to stab with his sword, his body would have been torn apart too.

  Elminster hissed hasty words, exerted his will—and vanished.

  The Shadowsil struggled feebly on one elbow and rolled herself over, the wand still in her hand. She half-snarled and half-sobbed through a tangled veil of long hair.

  Florin raised his sword and sprinted in desperate haste. He didn’t hold with slaying women, but this foe could be the death of them all, were he not fast enough. Merith crashed along behind him, slipping and staggering among scattered rocks and treasure.