Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Show-off,” Jhessail said affectionately.

  Rathan saluted the departing wizard with a rude noise, waving a bottle in either hand. Torm meanwhile dragged Narm up out of his seat and led him in the direction of a sideboard that sported gleaming decanters.

  Shandril leaned to speak to Jhessail. “Lady, wh—”

  “Call me Jhess!” Jhessail responded fiercely. She bent her head conspiratorially, hair almost falling into a dish of cheese-filled mushroom caps. “This ‘lady’ business keeps me thinking a noble matron stands behind me, disapproving of my every move!”

  “Jhess, then; forgive me. Why does Rathan drink so much? He never seems to get drunk, but …”

  “But he drinks a goodly lot?” Jhessail agreed. “Yes, you should know. ’Twas what our companion Doust Sulwood gave up lordship of this dale for.”

  “Rathan’s drinking?”

  “No, no. I meant they faced the same problem: A good priest of Tymora must continually take risks—reckless ones, most would say. Worshiping Tymora truly and trusting in the Lady’s Luck is a problem if you’re sensitive to what your recklessness does to others, or are by nature cautious or considerate. The life of trusting to luck sits not well with contemplating consequences or desiring security and comfort. You see that?”

  “Yes.” Shandril nodded. “But how—?”

  “Well, Doust as lord had to make decisions that affected the lives of the dalefolk. Concern for their safety was his duty. He couldn’t do well by them and serve the Lady of Luck. In the end, his calling proved the stronger, and he gave up the dale rather than rule poorly. I wish more who fought such battles within themselves between office and belief reached the right choices.”

  Jhessail looked fondly across the room at Merith. “As my lord, too, has done.” She looked at Rathan. “As for yon buffoon, his jesting’s but an act. He’s sensitive and romantic, easily moved to tears. He hides it and overcomes the barbs of Torm with his drunken sot act.”

  Rathan gave them a merry wave; both women returned it.

  “He drinks because he’s sensitive and prudent,” Jhessail continued, “and must favor luck and live in danger. He steels himself with drink. As he doesn’t want to become falling-down drunk, he eats like a starving wolf. This makes him fat, and able to take in more drink without staggering and slurring. Do not think him a drunkard, Shandril; he’s not. Nor is he a lecher or fraud, but a true servant of Tymora. I’m proud to ride with him.”

  Rathan roared with laughter at a jest of Storm’s.

  “You’ve given me different eyes to see him by, Lady.”

  “Jhess, remember?” Jhessail said softly. “The most valuable thing I’ve learned from Elminster is to look at all things and folk, however strange they seem, from all sides.”

  Shandril nodded, and it seemed tiny flames leaped in her eyes.

  “Act as you must,” Jhessail added, “but think as you act. You’ll see things as others do, as well as the way you’re used to. If you walk with the Harpers,” she nodded toward Storm, “they’ll tell you the same thing, dressed up in grander words.”

  The room was filling up as the good folk of Shadowdale and the staff and guards of the tower crowded into the large, high-vaulted hall. There was much laughter and chatter.

  Narm joined Shandril in the tumult, kissing her.

  “They party with a right good will here,” Shandril said in greeting.

  “We drink, love, laugh, and eat as if we may be dead tomorrow,” Jhessail replied, “for death hangs over us.”

  “What?” asked Narm, taken aback.

  “Zhentil Keep could sweep down on us any morn. Hillsfar’s new ruler has intentions unknown. Devils walk in Myth Drannor to one side and Daggerdale to the other. Now you’re here, and powerful foes may attack anytime to slay or capture you. Some know a duty to defend you; some merely fear they’ll be caught in the way. They fear you, too, Shandril, no little bit. Your spellfire on the hilltop is a scene told often, and vividly, in the Old Skull. You’re ‘Lady Spellfire’ now.”

  Narm and Shandril stared at her, stricken. “We should leave,” Shandril whispered.

  Jhessail caught at her sleeve and smiled. “No! Stay; the dalefolk accept you, and will fight for you as they would for any guest before their hearth. You’re welcome, truly. Besides, you’ll upset Elminster terribly if you run off now; he’s not finished with you. Come, let us dance, you two and Merith and I!”

  “But, I—”

  “We’ve never learned—”

  “No matter. Merith shall teach us all a dance of the Elven Court—we’ll all be new to it. Come!” The lady mage pulled them out into an open space, her long hair swirling about her shoulders, and let out a birdlike call.

  Merith looked up, excused himself from two fat farmwives, and joined them. “Storm! Will you harp for us?”

  The bard smiled and took down the harp of the hall from the wall where it hung among rusting shields of long-dead lords. It was of black wood inlaid with silver, and it sang like a mournful lover as Storm ran her fingers over its strings.

  “A gift from Myth Drannor,” Jhessail murmured.

  “You’ll be wanting to dance, my love?” Merith asked.

  “Of course. One of the gentler tunes, my lord, one that human feet can follow. Narm and Shandril, and you and I?”

  Merith bowed. “Of course. What say you to the frolic that of old we danced on the banks of the Ashaba? Storm, you know the tune …!”

  It was late, or rather very early. Stars glittered coldly in the clear dark sky as revelers climbed the stairs, footsore and happily sleepy.

  “Elves must be stronger than I’d thought,” Narm grunted as he and Shandril mounted the last flight to the bedchamber. The Twisted Tower was quiet around them. Far below, revelry continued unabated, but no sound carried this far. The guards stood silent at their posts.

  At the head of the stairs, Shandril stripped off her shoes and set her aching feet on cold stone. The chill on her bare flesh roused her somewhat. She slipped out of Narm’s grasp and, laughing, ran ahead.

  He grinned, shook his head, and made haste to follow.

  They were both running when the blow fell.

  Shandril heard a dull thud behind her, followed by a thumping and scrabbling sound. “Narm?” she called, turning as she reached the door. “Narm? Did—”

  A grim-faced guard ran hard for her, the mace that had felled Narm raised in a mailed fist. Shandril had no time to dodge or fight. She ran. Lady Spellfire fled on bare feet down the long, dim hall.

  The guard Rold stood far ahead under a flickering torch. He turned to look at her.

  A wild rage grew in Shandril out of shrieking fear for Narm’s life. She looked back through streaming hair. A mailed hand reached for her. Without thought, she dived to the rugs of the hall and rolled.

  Armored boots struck sharp, numbing blows on her back and flank. A startled curse rang out as her assailant tripped, landing in a crash of metal.

  Shandril rolled free and to her knees.

  The guard, fast and well trained, spun about, his legs kicking the air, and drew back his mace to hurl at her. Their eyes met across too little space.

  Fire exploded from Shandril’s raging glare.

  The guard yelled in fear as his mace whirled from his hand. Large, dark, like a bolt from the gods, it smashed aside hastily raised fingers and struck her hard on one side of the face.

  Shandril slid into a yellow haze of confusion … and down into darkness.

  Without mercy, Rold struck Culthar from behind, war hammer crashing down his helm. “Are you mad? You’re sworn to protect her!”

  Culthar slumped limply aside, blood running from nose and mouth. He crumpled against the wall and was forgotten as the man who’d felled him scrambled to reach Shandril.

  Rold recalled that her touch was said to be death when she hurled spellfire, but he drew off a gauntlet and gently felt her temple.

  He wiped away the blood, cursed, and flung his gauntle
t at the nearest alarm-gong. Wrapping her shoulders in his half-cloak, he held her close and drew a silver disc on a fine chain from his belt.

  “Lady Tymora,” he prayed hoarsely as the hollow singing of the gong rolled around him, “if you favor those cursed to be different from most folk, aid this poor lass now. She’s done no wrong and needs your blessing dearly. Hear me, Bright Lady, I beseech you! Turn your bright face upon this Shandril!”

  The old soldier held Shandril in his arms, waiting for the sound of running feet, and prayed on.

  A turret on the inner wall of Zhentil Keep held a small, circular room with no window, and in that room, Ilthond waited with scant patience. The time was come; still Manshoon came not back to the city of the Zhentilar. If Ilthond held spellfire and knew how to wield it, such a return would not have to be feared overmuch.

  The young mage paced before his crystal. The eagle that had to be Elminster even now came to earth by the door of the old, slightly leaning tower where he dwelt. The eagle became Elminster—pipe, battered old hat, and all—and went into the tower.

  Ilthond watched an instant more, and then drew forth a scroll tube fashioned from the hollow wing bone of a great dragon. He opened the scroll—a teleport spell, set down by the wizard Haklisstyr of Selgaunt. Since his bony back had met with a dagger, thoughtfully poisoned by the ambitious Ilthond, Haklisstyr wouldn’t need it anymore.

  That same ambitious mage rolled out the scroll on the table beside the crystal. He set coins, a dagger, a candlestick, and a skull at the corners to hold it open. Fixing in his mind a clear picture of a certain blanket-room on the third floor of the Tower of Ashaba, he began to cast the spell.

  From below him, from another room of the turret, came the faint piping of a glaurist blowing the mournful melody of an old ballad:

  Good fortune comes fleeting, and then it is gone,

  But the heart heavy with weeping must carry on.

  Ill luck comes and stays like winter’s cold snow.

  Always you must weather more than one blow.…

  Ilthond spread his hands in a grand flourish to finish the casting—and vanished.

  The floating, disembodied wizard eye that had been watching him from beneath the table winked out an instant later, leaving the little room once more as dark and uninhabited as it was supposed to be.

  15

  HAWKS WEEP, FOOLS PLAN

  Afterward, the greatest victories always look like the work of brilliant warcaptains. In the midst of the fray, they’re just as much cursing and slipping and tangles of death and disaster as the greatest defeats. The trick is to wind up among those who survive such battles relatively unmaimed.

  The gods reward those who die gloriously in their service. The rest of us have to reward ourselves.

  Raulavan Emmertide of Suzail

  Swordlord and Survivor:

  Forty Summers Under the Purple Dragon

  Yearof the Bright Blade

  “Of course she’ll live, if ye get out of my way for a breath or two!” Rathan roared. “Lanseril, stay and heal! Rold, ye saved her; ye stay too. Florin, bring Narm over here … be he awake yet? All others, get hence! Downstairs, the lot of ye! Mourngrym, ye and Shaerl may stay, of course. The rest—clear out! Get gone!”

  “Narm stirs,” Jhessail reported tersely. “We’ll take this guardsman, if Rold hasn’t quite slain him, and learn the whys of this. All others—back to your posts. Our thanks for your haste in coming.” The guards saluted her and left.

  Florin laid Narm gently on a sleeping fur, letting his bruised head down with care. “How is she?” Florin asked, looking at Shandril’s still face.

  “Well enough,” Rathan replied, “considering the blow she took. I only hope it hasn’t somehow harmed her ability to wield spellfire, now that half Faerûn will attack her to gain it.”

  “Why would just one guard attack?” Mourngrym muttered, frowning.

  “One seemed to do well enough,” Shaerl remarked, gesturing at the two still forms.

  “No, love—I meant I’d expect to find other attackers near at hand. Rold, I want this tower searched forthwith, this floor first. Jhessail, will you rouse Illistyl and stand guard over our two guests? I’ll remain also.” Mourngrym drew his slim, jeweled sword, set it point-down before him, and leaned on it.

  Shaerl nodded and knelt by Narm, who had begun to moan faintly.

  Florin was ready with strong, sure arms when the young mage suddenly surged up, arms flailing. “Where’s—? Shandril! Danger! Beware! Danger!”

  “Aye … aye,” Florin agreed gently, holding him. “Danger ’twas, indeed. Stay still now, and we can see to your lady.”

  “Shan—how is she? Sh—”

  “Quiet and still, please. She lies behind you. Rathan and Lanseril tend her.”

  “I—yes.” Narm sank back, as pale as snow, wincing as his head came to rest on the furs.

  “Narm, lie quiet and still, as you were bid,” Lady Shaerl said.

  Narm grimaced, and then he heard Shandril say softly, “I thank you. Narm was hurt; have you seen to him?” His heart knew peace, and he sank into the warm, waiting darkness … and was asleep, not even hearing Rathan’s reply.

  It was dark and close in the blanket room. The smells of pomander and moth mix were strong. Ilthond stifled a sneeze, nodded in satisfaction at his accurate journeying, and listened.

  He could hear nothing. Well enough. To work, then.

  The mage worked invisibility on himself and eased the door open. The passage beyond seemed empty. He stole forth and looked about.

  Better and better, he thought. Muttering a spell of flight, Ilthond rose to drift unseen along the corridor. No guards … why? Was Shadowdale truly so lax? No, there must be some strife or alarm.…

  Around the corner came a dozen guards with drawn swords and forbidding glares.

  Ilthond floated over and past them in careful silence. Where might the young maid be? The tower’s mortar was mixed with substances to prevent scrying, but all he needed to do was find enough grim guards gathered before a closed door, and she’d be beyond.

  She might be above, in the plainer but more secure rooms, or below, as befitted a guest of importance. The greater risk lay downward—but so, too, did all chance of learning who was where. Ah well—a short, risky road leads fastest to the top, they say.…

  Ilthond reached a stair and headed down, keeping near the sloping stone ceiling. Carefully and quietly he went, nosing through rooms and along halls like a silent shadow, flitting swiftly, yet taking care not to be brushed against.

  After a time, his search brought him to a long hall where torches burned every twenty paces. At its far end, humans in rich garb stood or knelt near two more who lay on the floor. Ilthond drifted slowly and silently closer, straining to hear.

  “How d’ye feel?” Rathan growled. “Better, I trust?”

  Shandril nodded slowly. “My head still aches. My thanks indeed, good Rathan. Again I’m in your debt for healing me.”

  “Not in my debt,” Rathan corrected. “The Lady ’tis whom ye owe!” With the middle finger of his right hand, he traced a circle about the disc on his breast.

  “Yes. I’ll not forget the Lady’s favor,” Shandril replied. “How fares Narm?”

  Rathan looked over at Narm. “He sleeps. Best to let him sleep on. But ye must try thy spellfire.”

  Shandril had risen onto her elbows. Drawing her legs under her, she extended an unsteady hand. From her spread fingers spellfire spat down the hall in a long tongue of flame. It died away, curling into air. “As before, I can still—”

  A pain-racked groan came out of empty air down the hall.

  Florin and Mourngrym drew steel and stepped in front of Shandril. Shaerl drew her dagger and rapped the nearest gong with its pommel.

  A robed man with hawkish features and glossy black hair faded into view in midair. His face was twisted in pain, his robe smoldered, and his shoulder and breast were burned bare. Glaring, he hissed a word that un
leashed the power of the wand in his hand.

  Forked lightning crackled down the hall, striking both Florin and Mourngrym. The lord of Shadowdale staggered and fell heavily, blade clattering. Shaerl cried out and ran to him. Florin was driven to his knees by the bolt, but struggled up into a slow, weak charge, face black with pain.

  Shandril stood, furious and heartsick, and lashed out with spellfire. “Wherever I go! Always beset, always friends and companions hurt! You seek spellfire? Well, then—have it!”

  Spellfire roared out of her in a tumbling inferno that lasted for but a breath—but raged down the hall. It swept over the flying mage like a wave over rocks.

  The lightning had shaken Narm into dazed wakefulness. Gasping in pain, he struggled to his knees to work Art and protect his lady from this new menace. His hands froze as he saw the blackened, crippled thing that the spellfire left on the scorched rugs of the hall.

  The man moved weakly and twisted cooked lips in words of Art. Shandril raised a hand again but did not unleash her flames. His head sank down between smoking shoulders that shook with pain—and the mage vanished, gone as if he had never been.

  “Wherever we go,” Shandril said wearily, turning to Rathan, “your healing services are needed. I hope you’ll not grow tired of it all before this comes to an end!”

  “Lady,” Rathan replied, as he hastened to where Mourngrym lay. “This never ends, I fear. Worry not about my patience—’tis what I walk these Realms for.” He knelt by the lord of Shadowdale and looked back at her over one shoulder. “Ye do impressive work, I must say.”

  Jhessail arrived, robes held high as she sprinted along in the forefront of a large group of guards. “Shandril? Florin? Mourngrym?” Merith was at her side, blade out.

  “We need healing,” Rathan called. “The time for blasting and all that is past! Send four guardsmen for Eressea at the temple.… I’ve no more power to heal, and Mourngrym needs it.”