Elminster, too, was silent and intent, but his eyes were on Shandril. She moved slightly and frowned, murmuring something so faint they could not hear it.
Lanseril leaned forward to reach for her, and the long, knobby end of Elminster’s staff came down before him warningly. The druid looked up its length. “Do we tell Narm?”
Elminster smiled. “No need.”
Crashing sounds, growing swiftly louder, heralded Narm’s progress through the coins toward them. “Shandril!” he cried, and then met their gently silent gazes. “Is she—?”
“She stirs,” said the wizard. “If ye must shake her, do it gently, and only once or twice.”
Narm threw him a frightened look and flung himself to his knees, scattering coins. “Shandril!” he pleaded, laying a timid hand on her shoulder. “Shan, can you hear me?” He shook her gently. She moaned and moved one hand. “Shandril!” he cried with sudden urgency, and shook her. “Sh—”
Elminster’s staff tapped him firmly on the shoulder. “How is she to heal if ye awaken her with such violence?” the Old Mage asked gently. “Leave be for a time, and see how she does.”
Narm stared at Elminster, throat tight and eyes very full.
Florin shouted a warning. “ ’Ware, all!”
The Old Mage’s head snapped up, his eyes lighting like lamps as he looked to where the ranger’s blade pointed.
Far off in the sky to the north, a dark, winged shape approached—large and serpentine.
“Dragon!” several Knights snarled unnecessarily, as they scattered to the cover of large boulders.
“Gods’ laughter,” Torm muttered as he ran past, jingling and bulging with loot, “will this never end?”
Merith and Florin suddenly stood with Narm, Lanseril, and Elminster.
The white-bearded wizard looked unconcerned as he watched the approaching dragon. Setting his staff into the crook of his elbow, he quietly began to work a spell.
“We must move your lady,” Florin told Narm and nodded at a spur of rock far off to the right. “Yonder place is best for protection. Stay with her there.” His tone, for all its gentleness, was a command.
Narm made no protest as they gently lifted Shandril and bore her in stumbling haste across the scattered rock and treasure.
Jhessail and Elminster both cast spells. Rathan, his mace ready in his hand, quaffed hastily from a wineskin Torm held.
“This is not a good time for us to fight a dragon,” Narm snapped as they laid Shandril in the lee of the rocks.
“Lad, it’s never a good time to fight a dragon.” Florin turned swiftly away from the young wizard.
Lanseril squeezed Narm’s shoulder in passing, and the Knights headed across the open rubble pit, weapons flashing. A faint belch echoed in their wake. Torm darted back out to wave and grin at their approaching foe.
Elminster spoke in grim recognition. “ ’Tis the ancient black wyrm Orlgaun, mount of Manshoon.”
The dragon roared down upon them.
Orlgaun descended in a long glide out of the chilly heights, great black wings spread stiffly. On its back, Lord Manshoon spoke loud, grim words of magic. Eight balls of fire sprang from his fingertips, flashing past Orlgaun’s black neck like shafts streaking from a bow. Down they sizzled, trailing flame. Orlgaun arched its wings like sails to slow its dive.
With a flash and a ground-shaking roar, the whirling spheres of flame exploded. In the inferno, figures staggered, yet stood. Manshoon drew a wand from his belt.
Orlgaun eagerly lowered its neck and spat blue-green acid. Spray struck dying flames and still-hot rocks; amid writhing smoke, one of the foes fell. Orlgaun hissed triumphantly, tossing its head, ere hastily turning to climb back into the air. The cold gray Thunder Peaks rushed up to meet it.
Great wings beat once, twice. A sudden, sickening shudder shook the beast. Orlgaun’s vast body faltered and twisted.
Manshoon grabbed at a razor-sharp bone fin on the wyrm’s neck and shouted in alarm, juggling the wand.
Orlgaun convulsed and sheered off sideways with breath-robbing speed, revealing their foe.
In the air behind them flew a human in full coat-of-plate, shield up before him, long sword reaching again toward Orlgaun.
Manshoon snarled and blasted the fool with his wand. Enchanted bolts pelted man like a sudden rain, and he fell away, writhing and tumbling.
Manshoon hissed a curse into the wind. Orlgaun’s wingbeats came more slowly, and the dragon’s battle roars ceased. The wyrm was hurt already, and these ragtag adventurers looked to be tougher than he’d thought.
He readied a lightning bolt as Orlgaun swept around once more. Then he saw the old, bearded man standing on the rocks below. Beyond him was a longhaired maid in robes. Manshoon dismissed her as nothing. He bent his gaze on the bearded one and cast his bolt.
Lightning seared the air in its crackling descent. It turned aside mere feet in front of the old man and crawled harmlessly away, as if it had struck something unseen.
His target looked up calmly, casting a spell of his own. Manshoon recognized him with shock: Elminster of Shadowdale. The Old Mage wasn’t off meddling on some other plane or fussing scatterbrained among dusty scrolls—but here and alert and completely unafraid!
Manshoon snarled, a little unsettled, and reached for a more powerful wand. Orlgaun would not stoop as low as last time; the great wings were lifting them already.
A great hand loomed in the air before Manshoon. Before he could even groan, Orlgaun’s flight swept them into it with stunning speed.
The clap of their meeting was thunderous.
A broken wand and a dagger spun down out of the air as the dragon screamed shrilly and thundered past above them.
Almost laughing, Merith turned in the wind of its passing. “Now!” He dispelled the protective barriers about the mage.
Jhessail lifted a wand of her own and breathed its word of command. Streaking bolts of magic hissed forth, twisting to follow the slumped mage clinging to the back of the dragon.
The huge disembodied fist hung in the air by the dragon rider’s shoulder, and moved with him. Elminster watched its flight. He frowned in concentration, but hints of a smile played about one corner of his mouth.
Orlgaun swept around again. Manshoon rose in his saddle, roaring his rage and pain. He spat a word, and his wand spewed lightning. The fist struck at him again, and Manshoon was hurled against Orlgaun’s rough scales.
Florin flew up at him, long sword swinging …
The dragon’s wing smashed into the ranger. Florin’s blade skittered harmlessly across scales, and Orlgaun rolled swiftly away, wings flapping wildly.
Far below, Jhessail said the last words of a spell of flight and touched her husband’s forehead. Merith kissed her and sprang aloft, blade flashing, to join the fray.
Kneeling by the moaning forms of Torm and Rathan, the druid Lanseril calmly summoned insects to attack the enemy mage.
The great dragon slashed at Florin with its claws, cartwheeling across the sky. Merith Strongbow flew after it as fast as he could. The uncanny fist struck again in midair, and Manshoon cast down lightning once more.
Lanseril finished his spell, pointed at Manshoon carefully, and then turned again to healing his companions.
Jhessail raised her wand and staggered as the lightning struck, crackling across the smoking rocks.
Narm clenched his teeth and winced as the ground shook. Something the dragon rider had hurled had exploded in front of Elminster. Stones flew. Narm shielded Shandril desperately with his own body. A stone struck his shoulder, and then his back. He hadn’t even time to sag before something else hit him on the temple.
All he could see was red everywhere, deepening steadily into darkness.…
The ground heaved, jolting Shandril into confused awareness. Where was she? Wearily she wriggled into the light, scarcely aware she was pushing away a body, and unaware it was Narm.
Dust and smoke swirled everywhere in the crater of rocks a
nd coins. Elminster stood in its center, calmly looking upward.
Shandril peered in the same direction, and through scudding smoke saw a dark form approach rapidly. It was Merith, blade in hand, and he was flying!
He seeks Jhessail, Shandril thought dully, as she saw his dark, anxious face and where he headed: the rock Jhessail had sagged down onto, pain twisting her face.
Something loomed in the air beyond the hurrying elf—a nightmare right out of bard’s tales. A gigantic black dragon cleft the air, darting as sharply as any chimney swift hunting at eventide. Someone rode it—and Florin was somehow flying too, hanging from a shield in midair and hacking with his sword at the dragon rider!
Whoever it was twisted under Florin’s blows, and then straightened with a roar of triumph. There was a flash. Florin was hurled end over end through the air like a husk doll.
Shandril tried desperately to scream and found her throat too dry to utter a sound.
The dragon turned ponderously and thundered down out of the sky at Elminster. The Old Mage stood alone.
No, not alone, thought Shandril. Fire roiled deep within her, where there should have been none. It glinted briefly in her eyes. Not while I live.
She struggled to her knees, set her teeth, and pointed her arms at the mage riding the dragon. She felt sick and as weak as a newborn kitten. Her head throbbed, but fire flowed within her.
Let it be as it was before, she thought. “Whoever you are, evil one, burn! Burn! How dare you harm my friends!” she screamed aloud, and spellfire roared up out of her. The crackling bolt drained Shandril utterly. Her knees gave way, and she could not even see if she’d struck true. She fell on her face on the rocks.
Manshoon stared in astonishment at the rushing white fire. Then, in the teeth of its blinding, searing roar, all he could do was scream.
Orlgaun fell away weakly, hearing its master cry out. The dragon drew back, uncertain. It dared not attack anything that had slain Manshoon—and if Manshoon was dead, there was no reason to tarry. It had hurts of its own—deep, raw pain that stabbed its lungs with each wing beat.…
Manshoon yet lived, clinging to wits and saddle grimly, barely able to hold himself upright. He could not survive another blast like that—and it had not even come from Elminster. The Old Mage stood calmly waiting.…
Manshoon could not continue this battle and live.
Beyond Elminster lay the young maiden who’d come crawling out from the gods only knew where to smite him with raw magical fire … fabled spellfire!
Manshoon shuddered, glanced around quickly to be sure neither of the flying foes was near, and urged Orlgaun northward. With a snarled command, he bade the dragon tilt its body to shield him from any spells the Old Mage might unleash. Just now, a good battle spell would finish him.
The air crackled, and there was a flash as one last lightning bolt struck. Orlgaun convulsed, great wings shuddering. For long moments they fell through the air before the dragon caught itself and raggedly flew again.
Manshoon drew a deep breath. He’d escaped alive. Not quite the achievement he’d expected.
“Shandril!” was all Narm said. It was all he needed to say as they hugged each other fiercely.
Around them, the Knights of Myth Drannor used Art to heal each other. They packed more treasure, saw to their weapons, and laughed.
In their midst, Elminster had cast another spell and now stared north with a frown of concentration.
At last, when the Knights were as whole as could be managed and heavily laden with coins and jewels, Jhessail went to the embracing couple and touched Narm on the shoulder.
“Are you well?” she asked softly. The other Knights gathered around, Rathan and Torm grinning openly.
“Yes,” Narm said thickly, into Shandril’s hair. “Right well.” He anxiously disengaged himself and asked, “How fare you, my lady?”
Shandril smiled. “I live. I love you. I’m most well!”
Narm smiled back, and then asked very softly, “May I take you to wife, Shandril Shessair?”
Jhessail turned to seek Merith’s eyes and found his gaze already on her. They shared a smile of their own.
The Knights waited. Shandril’s face was hidden in her hair, her head bent. Florin looked away in sudden dismay. Silence fell.
Shandril’s shoulders shook. She was crying. Her slim hands reached out, found Narm’s shoulders, and pulled herself into his embrace. “Oh yes. Yes. Please the gods, yes!”
The Knights let out a roar of pleasure and congratulation. Hands pounded the young couple’s shoulders. Jhessail and Merith embraced, Rathan raised a wineskin, and Torm laughed and tossed a dagger high. It fell twinkling.
The thief raced over to Elminster, who stood motionless, his back to them all. Torm caught at his sleeve, tugged the startled mage around, and shook him in glee.
Elminster spoke mildly, but there was a glint in his eyes. “Ye’ve ruined the spell, and I’ve lost him. Ye’d better have a good reason for this, Torm, son of Dathguld!”
Torm stopped in midlaugh, astonished. “Y-you know who my father was?”
Elminster waved one hand in dismissal. “Of course. Now, I asked thee thy reason for all this hooting and slapping me about and dancing even now on my very toes!”
“Oh.” For once in his life, Torm could think of little more to say. He backed his feet clear of the Old Mage’s and his hands free of Elminster’s clothing. Then his joy and purpose returned to him in a rush. “Narm and Shandril are to be wed! What say you? Wed, I say!”
The wizard looked bewildered, and then cross. “Is that all? Oh, aye—any fool could see it coming. Ye spoiled my spell and lost me my hook on Manshoon for that? Garrrgh!” He stamped his foot and turned in a swirl of dusty robes, leaving Torm to stare after him, mouth agape.
The thief recovered his customary grin when he saw that Elminster headed straight for the laughing, embracing couple.
“Dolt,” said Rathan affectionately, and pressed his wineskin into Torm’s hands. “Come, sit, and have drink.”
Torm shuddered. “I hate this swill! Can’t we just play pranks on each other, instead?”
“I have wondered, friend Torm,” came Florin’s grave voice, “just what you do when really happy … and now I know. Wonders anew unfold before my eyes every day. But the message I presently bear is to your damp companion. Rathan, Narm and Shandril would speak with you and myself as soon as the gods will and our pleasure is met.”
Rathan looked at him, surprised at the ranger’s smooth formality, and nodded in understanding. “Aye. Of course!”
He thrust the skin into Torm’s hands, and said, “Mind this for me, Torm? Thankee.” Two strides away, he stopped, whirled, and added sternly, “And no pranks, mind!”
Torm shrugged and spread his hands in mock innocence. “Is it my open, honest face? My kind, forgiving manner? My gentle disposition?”
“Nay,” said Elminster dryly. “ ’Tis thy long, crooked tongue.” The Old Mage put his hand under the thief’s elbow as he passed and drew him along. “Come. Thy presence is required.”
Narm looked up at Rathan, his arm about Shandril and an eager light about his face. Yet he spoke gently and hesitantly. “I—I’ve no gift to give you, good guide of Tymora. But I—we—could you wed us two, and soon?”
Rathan grinned back. “Of course, but a gift indeed ye have!” He gestured about them where coins gleamed amid the dust. “One of those, perhaps,” he said gruffly. “Mind ’tis a gold one.”
Stammering his thanks, Narm plucked up a gold piece in fumbling haste and pressed it into the priest’s palm.
Rathan held it high, looked around at the Knights, and announced, “Tymora looks down on us and finds this good, and shines the bright face of good fortune upon this union.”
As he spoke, the coin suddenly shone with a glow of its own. Rathan cradled it as if he held something precious. “By this sign of her favor, I declare ye two handfast, to be wed at the nearest convenience. All ye who are her
e, cry: ‘Aye.’ ”
The chorus of “ayes” rang out. The sun shone with sudden brightness through clouds and drifting smoke. A beam of golden light touched the coin in Rathan’s fingers. There was a flash, and it was gone.
Narm, who’d secretly doubted the stout priest’s piety, gasped in awe. Rathan spread his empty hands in benediction, and took Narm’s hand. He clasped it with Shandril’s under his own, and then stepped back, bowed, and became the stout and sodden Rathan again.
“Our thanks, Rathan,” Shandril said huskily.
The priest bowed again. “Tymora’s will, but my pleasure.”
“My lord Florin,” Narm said to the tall ranger in the scorched and claw-scraped armor, “may we come to Shadowdale for a time? We’ve no home, and my lady … no, we are both weary of running and fighting and never knowing rest, or a home. This is much to ask, I know, but—”
“No more drivel,” said Torm unexpectedly. “Of course you’ll come to the dale … where else would you go?”
Florin looked at him sternly, and then grinned. “In truth, Torm, I could have put it in no better words. You’re both welcome as long as you desire. I daresay you can study Art better in Shadowdale’s peace and quiet—relative though that may prove—than out here, as mage after mage hurls it at you.”
“Study?” asked Narm faintly, staring at Elminster, who puffed his pipe expressionlessly.
“Yes, with Illistyl and I,” Jhessail told him. “He,” she added, nodding at Elminster, “will be studying your bride. It’s been a long time since someone mastered spellfire so ably—and survived its use so well.”
In a vaulted stone hall, flames flickered red and orange in two braziers. Between them stood an altar of black stone, polished smooth and shaped like a gigantic throne, forty feet high. At the foot of the Seat of Bane was a much smaller throne, and on it sat a cold-eyed man with pale brown hair and wan features. His high-cowled black robe was of simple cut, and his hands gleamed with many rings. None living knew his true name, save himself; few knew his common name. He was the High Imperceptor of Bane, and he was very angry.
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