Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Give me good reason,” he said coldly to those who knelt before him, “why I should not put you to death. You’ve failed me. We cannot move against the traitor Fzoul with Manshoon in the city, or we shall know certain defeat. You had the message to Manshoon but delivered it not. Why?”

  “M-my lord,” said one of those kneeling, “the message was about to be passed to Manshoon, in a believable manner—for that, we needed the lords to be on the topic, or he might have smelled out our ruse. The meeting was scarce begun, the fool Kalthas telling all grandly that garrisons across the North were needless, when Manshoon rose, upsetting table and all. He—he wept, Dread Lord. He whispered a word, ‘Maruel’ or some such, and summoned a scrying crystal. He peered into it—”

  “The word of summoning!” the High Imperceptor interrupted. “What was it?”

  “Ah—a moment, Dread Lord. It began ‘Zell’ … ah … ah, ’twas ‘Zellathorass’!” the kneeling man said triumphantly.

  The High Imperceptor nodded. “Rise, and continue.”

  Bowing, the man did. “The—the word he banished the globe with, Dread Lord, was ‘Alvathair,’ I do recall. He seemed furious, and dismissed us, saying, ‘Sirs, this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once.’ And he called down gargoyles on us, and—we fled.”

  “Did you see where Manshoon went?” asked the High Imperceptor eagerly.

  “N-no, Dread Lord. He was not seen in the city all the rest of that day.” The speaker spread his hands. “We came straight to you, for fear of delivering our message wrongly once the chance you’d directed us to take was lost.”

  The High Imperceptor nodded shortly. “Well spoken, well recalled. Rise, all of you.” When the shuffling and rustling had died away, he looked down at the line of men. “Do any of you have aught else to report?”

  One named Theln spoke. “Aye, Dread Lord!” He was gestured to continue. “I met with a merchant loyal to the Black Lord”—he bowed to the great throne—“who told me of a young girl on her way to Shadowdale with those who call themselves the Knights of Myth Drannor. This maid can by some means produce spellfire. He said this fire can strike through magical barriers and empty air and is very powerful.”

  The High Imperceptor leaned forward on his throne, interested. At his subtle gesture, an unseen upperpriest behind black tapestries cast a spell to detect lies. “They take her to Elminster, no doubt. Very powerful, indeed. If we held this power, we could strike down those who oppose our Great Lord”—all save the High Imperceptor bowed again—“and those traitors who were once our brothers. We must try for this spellfire, if this tale be true. This faithful—who is he, and how old his news?”

  “One Raunel, a dealer in sausages from the Vilhon Reach. He spoke to me on the road very close. He said he’d spoken with a forester who’d seen the girl near the Thunder Peaks late yestermorn. He shared a roadside fire with this forester, one Hylgaun, yestereve.”

  The High Imperceptor almost smiled. “You’ve done well, Theln. You’ll be rewarded. Go call on the priest Laelar to attend us at once. All of you, leave us!”

  The last to leave stepped from behind tapestries, bowed, and said merely, “No lies, Dread Lord.” He left.

  Good, thought the High Imperceptor. That leaves only two possible liars: Raunel and Hylgaun. It felt true.

  When he was alone, the cold-eyed man looked thoughtfully across the empty chamber. “Maruel … Maruel. I know that name.” He caught up the great black mace and hefted its dark, cruel length. Why could he never remember such things? Why? It could well bring death one day … the wrong detail forgotten, the wrong precaution taken. The High Imperceptor sighed. It had not been a good day.

  The black dragon’s flight was heavy and ragged. Often its wings faltered, and it sank to one side or the other. Orlgaun was sorely hurt, and might never bear Manshoon again.

  That thought burned Manshoon, atop his defeat. He almost turned back in anger to slay with the Art he held ready. Nay, such a foray was impossible. Orlgaun was flying on the last of its lagging strength, lower than Manshoon would have preferred. The endless green of the Elven Court stretched beneath them. The dragon flew north and east.

  Manshoon thought back over the fray and concluded bitterly he’d not slain a single foe. Elminster had shielded them at first, aye, but few could survive Manshoon of Zhentil Keep and Orlgaun both. That cursed elf, and the ranger with his flying shield! He could feel their blades.…

  They’d not live long, once he had that girl in his hands, even if they hadn’t slain Symgharyl Maruel.

  The thought of the Shadowsil’s passing made him feel dark and weak inside. He rose out of that momentary sadness feeling savage. Manshoon clutched a wand, wanting very badly to strike down something.

  Then he frowned. The girl. Yes. It had been spellfire that had scorched him. He still smarted despite all the healing potions he’d drunk, emptying the belt across his stomach.

  Gods, but it hurt! It was fortunate she was so untutored in battle, or Manshoon might well have fallen. Her power must be his own, and soon, before Elminster mastered it! Not such an old fool, that one. Not aggressive, but even stronger in Art than most thought. His killing would take considerable whelmed Art, something best prepared forthwith, back at—

  Bane preserve us! We’re flying among the trees!

  Orlgaun had sunk as Manshoon pondered, the great wings moving more feebly—and suddenly its claws and belly were crashing through the uppermost branches of the tallest trees.

  Manshoon shouted, hauling on the fin before him. Shadowtops and duskwoods loomed ahead. The dragon did not respond, and trees stretched on as far as the eye could see, with only a few gaps, just ahead.

  Manshoon cursed feelingly. The dragon descended through snapping, whipping branches, buffeting its rider. The blows grew steadily harder as Orlgaun sank full into the trees. The fierceness of its fall smashed larger trunks aside and crushed saplings outright.

  Slowing, they struck the next tree, and the next. Manshoon crouched, grimly fending off branches, as the great wyrm came down to earth.

  Orlgaun did not even grunt; perhaps its spirit had already fled its torn and battered body. Certainly this would be its last flight. One wing struck a gigantic phandar that broke into man-length splinters. The wing shattered, too. Head-on, the dragon hit a stand of shadowtops, and the world itself seemed to shake and split asunder.

  Manshoon found himself hanging head-down in a tangled ruin of shadowtop boughs and leaves. Orlgaun lay belly-up, twisted and impaled on smashed and splintered wood. The mage crawled and slipped until he fell out of the branches to the leaf-strewn ground.

  Gasping, he scrambled out from under the vast carcass. He’d lost the wand, though he still carried items of power aplenty. Ahead, in the direction the dragon had been flying, the trees thinned into a clearing. In all other directions stretched vast green dimness, still echoing with Orlgaun’s fall.

  Manshoon took a step forward, and another, and then stared in shock at a bat-winged, horned, tusked, grinning creature. A malebranche! It had sprung out of the trees in front of him.

  Beyond it, another flashed fangs in an eager smile. Quick glances showed others, approaching swiftly. The devils of Myth Drannor!

  Backing away, the High Lord of Zhentil Keep cast a spell in grim haste. As his lightning struck down the nearest devil, he cursed loudly and fled as fast as his legs would go. The trees here grew too thickly even to fly!

  Devils laughed. Manshoon snatched a wand of paralyzing rays from his belt and thought about how best to use the paltry magic. It had not been a good day.

  10

  FULL FLAGONS

  I have known high honor, proud fame, and great riches, and have drunk deep of good wine at feasts where my mouth watered and my belly was filled with delightful viands amid good fellowship and conversation … and I tell you that all these pale and drift away as idle dreams before the gentle touch of my Lady.

  Mirt “the Moneylender” of Waterdeep
/>
  in a letter to Khelben Blackstaff Arunsun

  proclaiming his lover Asper his lawful heir

  Year of the Harp

  The Knights had left Rauglothgor’s shattered lair behind and traveled north into the woods. The Thunder Peaks marched on their left as they went, walking until night. They rose with the dawn and continued again until nightfall.

  In Mistledale, they purchased mules. Elminster let lapse the last of a succession of floating discs he’d conjured to carry Shandril, despite her protests.

  A footsore Narm clambered onto his mule, which gave him an unfriendly look. Narm’s thighs ached. He glanced enviously at the Knights, who vaulted into their saddles and traded jests with unflagging enthusiasm. They were obviously used to walking miles at a stretch, from aged Elminster to graceful Lady Jhessail.

  As they plunged back into the woods, along a narrow, gloomy path, Rathan began a ballad of Tymora’s favor. Torm parodied line after line until Rathan ceased with a sigh. Though they were barely out of sight of Mistledale, deep green dimness surrounded them now.

  Shandril leaned close to Narm. “How far is Myth Drannor?”

  Before Narm could say he knew not, Jhessail turned in her saddle. “Due east, several days distant. The river Ashaba lies between us and Myth Drannor at all times. The gate the Shadowsil forced you through took you across half the dales to the dracolich’s lair.”

  The couple’s shared sigh of relief was cut short by Torm’s dry, sharp voice: “We can head that way if you’d like. I hear one can have a devil of a time there, heh-heh.…”

  He smiled benignly at the chorus of dirty looks flung his way. Someone had to provide entertainment, after all.

  The golden light of approaching sunset glinted on leaves ahead, yet the Knights pressed on. Biding beside each other except where trees forced them into single file, Narm and Shandril clasped hands. Whatever happened, they were together.

  When dusk came, Merith and Jhessail conjured glowing motes of light that drifted along with the Knights, bobbing and darting to illuminate this or that tangle of brush. They rode on slowly through gathering darkness. The soft singing of crickets died away in front of them only to begin again behind. In the forest gloom to the right, the travelers saw occasional glows of eerie gray-green and blue.

  “What’s that?” Narm asked, pointing at one. “Witchfire?”

  Merith nodded. “Glow moss, witchfire, and other fungi that shine at night. Elves call them all, in Common, ‘nightshine.’ ” The elf lounged in his saddle, helm hung on its horn, very much at ease.

  Of course, Shandril thought, feeling less awed and much safer. To Merith, this endless wood is home. She relaxed and soon sank low in her saddle.

  Jhessail quietly worked a spell of sleep on Shandril and Narm, who rode nodding along on slumber’s edge. Merith took charge of the mules as his lady cast a floating disc.

  Torm chuckled softly, boosting the sleepers from saddles to disc—and then yawned himself.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Jhessail warned. “Get back on your mule!”

  Torm spread his hands in injured and feigned innocence. “Why you think these terrible things of me I don’t know—let Faerûn know I’m grievously wronged, and—” He staggered under a solid nudge in the back from his mule.

  His friends burst into laughter.

  “Be an adventurer,” he grumbled as he settled himself in his saddle. “Become rich and famous, they said. Hmph!”

  “Famous, anyway,” Merith assured him. “I’ve seen notices with your picture posted here and there—parchments that mention large sums of coin. Then there’re all these men with knives who keep calling on you.…”

  Torm made a rude noise. It was returned with spirit from Elminster, who rode in stately dignity ahead, startling everyone into silence. It all made no difference to the mules.

  The sun was bright and high when Narm and Shandril slowly awoke. Their arms had crept about each other in slumber, and they were drowsy and deeply rested.

  Narm saw sun-dappled leaves overhead, heard the familiar creak of leather and soft thud of mule-hooves, and relaxed. Shandril lay warm against his left side. His hand tingled. He wiggled his fingers to bring feeling back, and felt her stir. Then he realized he was flat on his back, with no mule bumping and shifting beneath him. He sat up in alarm.

  He and Shandril floated serenely along on a disc of firm nothingness. Jhessail rode just behind them and Merith just ahead. Beyond Elminster’s shoulder, Lanseril led them along a brightening way.

  Jhessail smiled reassuringly. “Well met, this morn. We’re almost in Shadowdale.”

  Shandril sleepily pulled herself up Narm’s shoulder to see. They emerged from the trees into a passage between two redoubts of heaped stones. Silver and blue banners, emblazoned with the spiral tower and crescent moon of Shadowdale, stirred in the faint morning breeze. Men wearing the same emblem on their surcoats stood watching warily, pikes and crossbows ready in their hands.

  “ ’Ware!” called one guard formally, barring the way to the bridge. The sudden recognition of the lords and lady of the dale had them bowing and standing aside. The sight of Elminster made the guards fall completely silent. Without a word of query or challenge, Narm and Shandril passed over Mill Bridge into the dale.

  No escort rode with them as they passed lush green meadows. The dale opened before them, framed by forest on either side. Trees stood in great green walls.

  Shandril looked about happily.

  Narm, who’d seen it before, asked Jhessail, “Lady, may we ride? I would feel … less the fool. My thanks for the traveling bed—’tis a trick I must learn one day. It moves where you will it?”

  “It does, though if you mind it not, it follows twenty paces behind—and if you proceed where it can’t follow, it passes away, dumping what it carries!” Jhessail grinned. “Of course you shall ride—’twould not do for you to look different fools than the rest of us.”

  So they rode to the Twisted Tower. Mourngrym came striding out, his cloak flapping, and looked at Narm.

  “So here you are back, and not only do you stick your neck into clear danger, but you drag all my protectors and companions with you, even Elminster, and leave the dale undefended.” His eyes twinkled. “And do I look upon the reason for your return to peril? Lady, I am Mourngrym, the lord left behind to sit the dale seat whilst his elders take the air, see sights, and enjoy journeys. Welcome! How may I call you?”

  “Lord Mourngrym, I am Shandril Shessair,” Shandril said, blushing faintly in shyness. “I am handfast to Narm.” Her voice lowered in curiosity. “These Knights are your comrades? You’ve ridden to battle together?”

  Mourngrym laughed. “Indeed,” he said, handing her down onto a stool. “What you know of them hints at how wild the saga of our adventures is, thus far.” Merith clapped him on the shoulder, and Mourngrym’s grin widened. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until too much drink has flowed before I start telling such tales, though others here”—he looked meaningfully at Torm—“are weaker.”

  They went into the tower. “How was your journey?” Mourngrym asked Narm as they entered a feasting hall. The mingled smell of cooking bacon and a great spiced stew made mouths water.

  “Oh,” Narm replied mildly, steadying Shandril as they came to the table, “eventful.”

  “You are called to feast, Lady,” said the serving maid. Through the open door Shandril could hear soft harping. “One waits to take you down. Shall I send him in?”

  “Oh—yes. Please,” Shandril replied, rising from the round, canopied bed.

  She gazed around at the beautiful bedchamber, with its hangings of elven warriors riding stags through the forest—the High Hunt of the Elven Court, a unicorn glowing in the far-off trees ahead. Shandril’s gown, too, was a beautiful thing, Calishite silk overlaid with a fine tabard for warmth in the stone halls of the North. The tabard’s beading interwove crescent moons, silver horns, and unicorns. On her arm, she proudly wore her joined ring and b
racelet of electrum and sapphires. It awed Shandril to see herself in the great burnished metal mirror.

  In came Narm, in a great-sleeved tunic of wine-purple velvet, matching silk hose, and boots trimmed with fur. The lion-headed dagger hung from his belt. His hair had been washed and trimmed and doused with perfume-water, and his eyes outshone the rings on his fingers.

  Eyes shining, he took a hesitant step. “My lady?” She turned wordlessly. “Shandril? You’re beautiful.” His voice was very quiet. “As graceful as any high lady I’ve ever seen.”

  “And how many such ladies have you seen?” Shandril teased. “It’s still the same me, if I’m in plain gray robes or a man’s tunic and breeches!”

  “Yes,” Narm said. “But I fear even to touch you, when you’re clad thus. I could only mar perfect beauty.” Torm would have made that sentence a lilting mockery, but Narm’s voice was husky and serious.

  “Shameless flatterer,” Shandril reproved. “If that’s so, I’ll have this all off and go down in thieves’ leathers. I’d rather be on your arm in rags than grandly clad but walking alone.”

  “No, no,” Narm said, taking her arm. “I can conquer my fears—see?—only promise you’ll talk with me after all the hurly-burly. I would not soon forget how you look now.”

  “Let us go down to table, my lord. Your hunger is weakening your wits.” Shandril led him to the door.

  In the passage, under the politely averted eyes of a guard, the young mage turned Shandril about and kissed her. The soft fanfare summoning all to first table sounded twice ere they parted and went downstairs. The guard kept his face carefully expressionless.

  “Thank you, but no, Lord. Truly, I can eat no more,” Shandril protested, holding up a hand in front of a platter of steaming boar in gravy.

  Mourngrym laughed. “Well enough, but the more you eat, the longer you can drink. When these here can’t eat a crumb more, they can yet find room to drink. It’s a mystery why some who come to my table say they are come to a ‘feast,’ when they eat a few bites and then hoist flagons all night through.”