by Ed Greenwood
As he reined up in front of Delg, the dark-armored Zhentilar swung a drawn long sword lazily through the air, trailing drops of fresh blood. He looked down at the grim dwarf, over at the sprawled wizard in the guardhouse doorway, and then around at the frightened, watching faces, and his cruel face brightened in satisfaction. He rose in his saddle with insolent grace and brandished his bloody sword again.
“Come out, wench!” he bellowed at the open guardhouse door. “Come out, or we’ll burn this village, and you with it!”
A murmur of fear went up. The bewildered folk of Thundarlun could not believe so many strong, capable Purple Dragons—a soldier for every three villagers—could be slain so quickly and easily. In numb silence, they looked down again at the still forms and the blood. Had the gods forsaken Thundarlun?
The Zhentilar beckoned impatiently without looking behind him; one of his men obediently rode up with a blazing torch in hand. With a cold smile, the Zhent swordmaster looked around at the stunned, fearful faces of the watching villagers. Slowly and deliberately, he wiped his blade on the flank of his horse—it snorted and shifted under him—and he sheathed it. Then he reached out, took the torch, and brandished it like a blade, trailing rippling flames through the air.
His horse rolled its eyes in fear; the Zhent pulled back sharply on the reins to prevent it from bolting and swung his new weapon in arcs of flame. “Come out!” he snarled, “or taste fire!”
Silence fell … and lengthened, hanging heavy on the smoky air. Villagers murmured in fear as the wait continued, and the swordmaster’s face grew stony. He raised the torch and sat his saddle like a statue of impending doom. The silence stretched. The fire he held on high spat and crackled.
The dwarf stood watching it, eyes narrow and shield raised over the kneeling form of Narm, who had grown pale and seemed to be having trouble swallowing.
And then a slim girl in dusty travel leathers stood in the doorway. Yellow-white fire seemed to dance around her eyes and hands, blazing like the torch in the swordmaster’s hand.
“You called for me, Zhentilar?” The words were calm and cool, but flames flickered from her lips as she spoke. At the sight, Zhents and villagers alike murmured and fell back.
Then the girl shuddered, and her face creased in pain. It cleared again. She straightened almost defiantly, looking up at the Zhent swordmaster, her hands going to her hips.
An arrow sang toward her. The swordmaster’s furious order was too late to halt its flight—but Shandril looked at it calmly, not moving. Under her gaze it caught fire, blazed like a tiny, leaping star, and was gone in drifting sparks and smoke.
The moan of awe and fear from the watching villagers was louder than the startled oaths some of the Zhentilar uttered.
“You called me out,” Shandril said in a terrible, hoarse whisper. Her eyes, blazing with fire, fixed on the Zhentilar swordmaster. As she glared, flames roiled around her face—and then lanced out.
The Zhentilar’s face paled as hissing flames leapt at him. He flung up an armored arm to shield his face. The flames swelled to a sudden, savage roar.
Then the swordmaster cried out in sudden pain, twisting in his saddle. Smoke rose from the half-cloak about his shoulders. His mount reared under him, neighing, and the torch fell from his smoldering hands.
Shandril raised one blazing hand, and in her eyes he saw his death. “By all the gods,” she said in fury, flames rising around her hair in a leaping crown of fire, “you’ll wish you hadn’t.”
1
A COLD CALLING
Tongues wag their ways on great adventures with ease. Feet oft find it harder to follow.
Mespert of Baldur’s Gate
The Book of the Coast
Year of the Talking Skull
Most of the long, high hall lay in chill darkness. Here and there, lamps shed eerie, feeble glows into the cold vastness. Menacing shadows swirled where this lamplight was blocked—by a long stone table, the many high-backed seats drawn up around it, and the robed men who sat in them.
“So you have all come,” came a calm, purring voice from one end of the table. “Good. The Lord Manshoon will be pleased at your loyalty—and eager ambition. We are looking for those who in days to come will lead this fellowship in our places. It is our hope that some among you will show themselves suited to do so. Others here, I fear, will reveal just as surely that they are not.”
Sarhthor fell silent. The men around the table knew his slim, graceful form would remain as still and as patient as stone until he wished to move a finger or change his expression. Right now, as the silence stretched, his calm, keen-eyed face was—as usual—expressionless. It might have been carved from the same gray stone as the pillar behind his seat.
Sarhthor’s dark eyes, however, glittered with cruel amusement, a look familiar to many seated there. They were the most ambitious and daring of the apprentice magelings of the Zhentarim, and had all been trained or inspected by this man.
Many long, tense breaths were drawn as quietly as possible in the dimly lit cold as the wizards sat and waited, trying not to show their fear, their personal hatreds of each other—and their mounting impatience.
At length, one of the seated men spoke. “Teacher Sarhthor, we have come to hear High Lord Manshoon’s will of us, and to serve. May we know his plans?”
Sarhthor smiled. “But of course, Fimril. Lord Manshoon will tell you what you are so eager to hear.” He added a little smile, and then let it slide slowly and coldly into calm inscrutability. In the mounting silence, the men around the table regarded his face for a long time, trying to match the calm, unreadable expression Sarhthor wore. Some came close to succeeding.
Someone coughed, and heads turned, glaring. The heavy silence returned and slowly grew old. Sarhthor sat at the end of the table as though he was the tomb statue of some dead king and watched them all with cold patience.
Finally one of the magelings stirred in his seat. He was a handsome, fine-featured man whose upswept beard was scented and adorned with small, highly polished moonstone teardrops. They glistened here and there among his beard’s curled hairs as he spoke. “I am patient, Teacher—but also curious. Where is the high lord?”
“Why, here, as it happens,” said a new voice, full and rich and only gently menacing. Heads turned all down the table.
At the far end of the table from Sarhthor sat a regal, dusky man robed in black and dark blue. A moment before, there had been no man and no chair in that spot. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep smiled at all the turning heads. Before him on the table sat a serving platter covered with a silver dome, steam rising gently from around its edges.
“I’ve only now escaped from the pressing business of governing this great city”—the voice dipped only slightly in silken irony—“to meet with you all. Well met. I trust the patience taught by Sarhthor and wise others among us has kept you all occupied, and I beg you to excuse my not offering you any of my evenfeast. I am”—his voice dipped in soft menace—“hungry this night.”
Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone very white, and he uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the deep red ring of firewine sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord’s evening meal: a dark, slithering heap of live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A slim, jewel-topped silver skewer appeared in the lord’s hand from the empty air before him. Smoothly, he stabbed the first coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.
“Despite my apparent ease,” Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he looked down the table, “our Brotherhood—nay, the world entire—remains in peril. You have all heard of the recent commotion among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire.”
He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had changed subtly, and Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of their fear as they faced him
and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.
“That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks Faerûn somewhere south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate—a knave by the name of Narm, who is weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril alone commands spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect some Harper aid along her way.”
The quality of the listeners’ silence changed again at the mention of the Harpers. Manshoon smiled and, with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.
“Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about the known strengths and subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by those who have volunteered for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this Shandril, and bringing what remains of her in either case here to this hall.
“You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of late. This chaos may or may not be linked with spellfire—but it prevents us from surrounding the maid and overwhelming her with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can act unobserved, and the unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or concern.
“All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be placed entirely at the disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such probity will earn an immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl Shandril will have as many chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always.” His eyes smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl casually, and vanished with it in a flickering instant.
The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam remained behind, curling in slow silence.
The magelings stirred, shoulders visibly relaxing here and there down the table. Heads turned, throats were cleared—but these stirrings came to a hushed halt an instant later as Sarhthor’s purring voice came again from the near-darkness at the other end of the table.
“So who here volunteers to seize or destroy spellfire for us? Yield me your names, or”—he smiled faintly—“recall urgent business elsewhere and take your leave of this place … and also, I fear, of the Lord Manshoon’s favor.” He looked around, meeting the wary eyes of several wizards too brave or foolish to look away. “Your patience we have seen this night. We have also taught you to be decisive; show me the result of that teaching now.”
In the clamor that followed, a smile slowly appeared and crawled across Sarhthor’s face like an old and very lazy snake. But as each man there volunteered, Sarhthor’s eyes met theirs briefly and bleakly, like a sudden, icy lance-thrust in a night ambush. In his dark gaze, the magelings saw that he expected them to die in this task. Sarhthor felt he owed them at least that honesty.
“What’s wrong with you, then?” Delg asked, drawing himself up as much as his four battered feet of height allowed. The dwarf stood over Shandril, beard bristling as he squinted down at her. A pan of fried onions, mushrooms, and sausages sizzled in his hand. “Or don’t you like an honest panfry?”
Shandril smiled wanly up at him from the bed of cloaks and furs she’d shared with Narm, and she raised a warding hand.
“I—I’m seldom hungry these mornings.” Her slim face was as white as the snowcaps of the Thunder Peaks behind her. She shuddered and looked away from Delg’s steaming pan, wondering if she’d ever arrive at far-off Silverymoon. To reach it, they still had to cross half of Faerûn. The ruined village of Thundarlun was only a day behind them, and even draining the fallen war wizard’s wand had not fully restored the spellfire that smoldered within her.
On the other hand, twenty more Zhentilar would ride and slay no more; she’d left them twisted bones clad in ashes. Shandril shivered as she heard the screams again. Then Delg brought the pan so close to her nose that its sizzle jolted her back to the chilly morning. She pulled away from the smell, biting her lip to keep from gagging. She clutched the furs closer around herself.
“Well, why?” the dwarf demanded, frowning fiercely. “Are you ill?”
“No,” Narm said gently from behind him, “she’s with child.”
The dwarf almost fell as he lurched and tottered about speedily to face the young mage. “She’s what?” he demanded. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
Shandril giggled. “We are married, Delg,” she added sweetly.
“Aye. But—but—what of the babe, with you hurling spellfire about, an’ all?”
“I—” Shandril began, then fell silent, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. The dwarf saw something almost desperate in her eyes, and he whirled about again to face Narm. The young wizard also spread his hands anxiously but said nothing. Then he shrugged.
“You don’t know,” said the dwarf heavily. “You truly don’t know what you’ll give birth to after all this hurling fire and collapsing and hurling fire again.…” Delg let his words trail away as he looked at them both challengingly, but the two young humans were silent.
The dwarf sighed heavily and tossed up his arms in resignation. Mushrooms and sausages left the pan to soar into the air, still steaming.
Narm leapt forward but missed catching one. Most of the others landed on Delg’s head or back in the pan. The dwarf stood a moment more, looking down at Shandril and shaking his head. Sausages shifted in his tousled hair. “Ah, well,” he said, rather sadly. “Ah, well …”
Narm brushed off the sausage he had picked up. “Delg Hammerhand,” he asked softly between bites, “have you been so lucky—sorry, favored of Clanggedin—as to have gone your entire life through always knowing exactly what you’re doing and what the right thing to do is and what everything means and the consequences of all?”
Delg glared at him, beard bristling. “D’you mock me, lad? Of course not!”
“Well, then,” Narm said mildly, “you will understand how we feel, doing our best with what the gods have given us, beset by foes and wandering lost in the wilderness, far from aid and wise advice. Uh, save yours.”
Shandril laughed helplessly. Delg turned back to look at her, sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes for good measure, and said, “Right. I stand corrected. Thy panfry awaits, great lord.” He bowed to Narm, waving with the pan at a nearby rock. “If you’ll be seated, herewith we two can sate our hunger and discuss how best to feed your lady without having her spewing it all back at us.”
The morning sun shone down bright and clear through the trees of Shadowdale, leaf-shadows dappling the rocks on the rising flanks of Harpers’ Hill. Storm’s blade flashed back its brightness as she slid the steel edge along the whetting stone. The Bard of Shadowdale sat thoughtfully under a tree, putting a better edge on her old and battered long sword. She kept silent, for that was the way Elminster seemed to want it, this morn.
The Old Mage stood looking east, whence a cool breeze was rising. His eyes flashed as blue as the sky as he raised the plain wooden staff he bore, and the staff seemed to glow for a moment in answer. The wind rose, and the wizard’s long white beard and mane stirred with the rustle and dance of the leaves all around. Elminster was muttering things under his breath, using his old and deep voice, and Storm knew that her sister, on her throne in far-off Aglarond, heard them and was whispering words back. None other was meant to hear them. Storm took care that she did not, for that was the way she was.
Elminster stopped speaking and smiled. The wind died away again, and birds rose from the trees around, twittering. The Old Mage stared eastward, unmoving. Storm watched him, frowning a little. She knew him well enough to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes. The Old Mage stood silent and motionless for long minutes.
When Storm began to grow stiff and the edge on her sword threatened to become brittle and over-sharp, she slid her shining blade softly into its sheath and went to him.
&
nbsp; Elminster turned to her thoughtfully. “I thought,” he said slowly, his eyes very blue, “I’d put such love behind me, long ago. Why do I keep finding it again? It makes the times apart from her”—he turned away to stare into the green shadows under the trees—“lonely indeed.”
Storm put a hand on his arm. “I know. It’s a long walk back from Harpers’ Hill. That’s why I came.”
In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went down the twisting trail through the trees.
“Ready? We’d best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it’s a long way to Silverymoon, an’ we’re not out of the Zhents’ reach yet.” As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots, and pans onto his shoulders.
Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. “No … we haven’t any spellfire to fell our foes. I’m not going to use it again.”
Delg’s head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. “Shan? Are you—crazed? What—why?”
His lady’s eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.
“I’m not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It’s … not right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?”
“Very much as it is now for you—if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him,” Narm said with sudden heat. “Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands.”
“But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire—‘the gift of the gods.’ ” Shandril’s tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance. “I … hate—all this. Having folk hate me … fear me … and always feeling the fire surging inside.…”