by Ed Greenwood
Azlundar, Lion of Neverwinter
One Warrior’s Life
Year of the Sighing Serpent
Crossbow bolts hummed hungrily through the night around Shandril. She crouched low, looking around frantically for Narm and Delg. There they were, among what was left of the dogs. Shandril’s stomach lurched and turned over uneasily at the bloody sight; she let her revulsion fuel the rage that was building in her. Spellfire flared and raced down her limbs. Her tattered leathers caught fire, flaring up in bright flames that rose around her until they licked at her sweat-soaked hair.
Armored in spellfire, Shandril Shessair stood up and roared her anger into the night, flinging her arms wide.
Spellfire blasted out of her in all directions, low over the heads of her loved ones, lancing into the Zhentilar warriors. The white flash of its striking was blinding.
Trees cracked and fell, blazing. Men screamed briefly amid the roaring. Crossbow bolts flared into flying cinders. Heat-shattered armor fell from blackened skeletons, which toppled slowly after them to the smoking ground.
The spellfire died slowly and raggedly. There was a last rolling burst, and then only a slow sputtering of flames, fading to nothing.
Shandril stared wearily around at the smoldering devastation, smoke rising slowly from her hair. She moaned, her eyes went dark, and she crumpled to the ground.
Delg struggled to his feet, hurling bloody dog corpses aside. “Lass!” he bellowed, face white, “Shandril! I’m coming!”
Bloody axe in hand, the dwarf staggered across the beaten turf to where Shandril lay. A few flickering lanterns were still alight, and by their dim glow the dwarf found her. She was breathing and apparently unscathed, though very pale. Moving as stealthily as he could, he dragged Shandril to cover behind a tree. Then Delg straightened to see what foes remained.
A few Zhent warriors were still standing in the lee of two smoking trees. They seemed dazed; Delg counted seven—no, eight: a huge man in cracked and blackened plate armor rose among them, sobbing and clawing at his helm with spiked hand-gauntlets that were each as large as Delg’s own head.
Narm was moving feebly among the dogs.
“Narm!” Delg roared. “Up, lad—I’ve need of your spells! Hurl a few balls of fire at yon Zhents!”
The dwarf knew well that Narm’s Art was too feeble to work such magics, but if he read them right, the Zhentilar soldiers might run like rabbits at the thought of facing more fire. If he was wrong—well, one doom was as good as another.
He was half right. Delg heard curses, and saw men running off into the night.
“Simron, come back, you craven dog!” A swordmaster bellowed. “The curses of Bane and the Brotherhood on you!”
“Rally them!” This hoarse voice belonged to the giant with the spiked gauntlets. “Rally them, Swordmaster—and spellfire shall yet be ours! Does the priest live?”
“By the grace of Bane,” a cold and smooth voice answered him, “I do indeed. How fare you, Warcaptain?”
“My eyes, man! Cast a healing on me, by the Black Altar! I cannot see!”
As quietly as he could, Delg clambered over a tangle of grounded spears and the contorted bodies of dogs in order to reach Narm. With a grunt, the dwarf rolled a dead canine aside and dragged the still-groggy wizard to a sitting position.
“Up, lad!” he said sharply, slapping Narm’s face. “Up, and take this!” He thrust his belt dagger into Narm’s hand; startled eyes fell on it and then rose to meet his.
“Awake, lad? Good. Guard your lady; I’ve work to do.” Delg pointed out where Shandril lay, clapped Narm on the back, and set off through the smoking ruin to where the Zhents clustered.
Only five still stood there—the priest, the blinded but still-blustering warcaptain, a swordmaster, and two warriors. The last three had swords in their hands, and the swordmaster was snapping orders at the men to gather lanterns and make ready to look for the lass.
The dwarf went forward slowly, keeping his axe low and behind him, lest its blade flash back light and warn of his approach. Smoke still drifted lazily amid the blackened trees, but it seemed Shandril was not fated to burn down Hullack Forest this night.
Good. Thank all the gods for that. Now, if they’d just spend a skybolt or two to deal with five Zhents …
Perhaps he’d not been devout enough. Or perhaps as a dwarf, he thought wryly, he was expected to act for the gods. Whatever, no bolt came from the sky. Delg grinned savagely at the thought of what spellfire must have seemed to the Zhents who’d run. Oh, there’d be tales of tanar’ri or gods making the rounds of the Moonsea North before long—unless the owlbears and wolves were thorough tonight.
Delg’s boot found a stone, painfully. With iron control, he halted and bent to feel it. Small enough. Good. Setting aside his axe, he took up the stone, leaned back almost to the ground with the rock in his raised hand, and came upright in a throw sped by all the weight of his stout body. The hurled stone sailed up into the night—and crashed down in the brush behind the Zhents.
“Who’s that? By Bane, answer!” Silence gave the warcaptain the reply he feared. “It’s one of them, getting away—swordmaster, see to it! Bring him down!”
The swordmaster looked about helplessly, caught the priest’s cold and level gaze, and reluctantly took up a lantern, tersely ordering the two warriors to his flanks.
A moment later, they waded cautiously into the brush, swords raised. Delg, axe held ready, used the noise they made to cover the sounds of his own cautious advance. He crept to the lit area where the warcaptain was pleading with the priest to heal him, and the priest was insisting that the helm come off first.
“It won’t,” said the big man, voice approaching a sob. “I’ve tried … it feels stuck to my skin. Gods!”
Keep sniveling, the dwarf thought savagely. Just a breath or two longer, and I’ll—
The axe came up quickly as Delg rounded the last tree, but it was impossible to move silently in the bad light. The priest saw and heard—and was very fast. He shoved the warcaptain into Delg and fled cursing into the darkness.
The fearful Zhentilar felt the impact, heard the priest’s fearful oath, and concluded something was wrong. He lashed out.
Delg had stumbled clear—but not quite far enough. One of those war-gauntlets caught him square in the ribs. He grunted and sat down with a crash. The stout dwarven mail held, but the breath had been driven out of him, leaving a searing pain behind.
The sightless man reached forward. He sensed where his foe lay. Delg dropped his axe and rolled aside, pivoting on his own knee to come in close to the warcaptain.
Those blindly grasping gauntlets triumphantly closed on the axe handle and used its blade to flail at the ground. Delg winced as his axe struck sparks from more than one rock—and then his reaching hands found the man’s belt dagger and tore it free.
The Zhentilar turned at the tugging, and Delg climbed the arm that swept around to strike him, clambering up it to drive the short blade hilt-deep through the helm’s eyeslit and the unseen and unseeing orb beneath.
Dark, hot blood splashed him as he leapt free, to the sound of startled shouts from the swordmaster and warriors, who saw the warcaptain topple dead with no apparent foe. Delg lay prone in the darkness and waited.
A moment later they were fleeing, crashing in headlong flight through the trees. Delg retrieved his axe and scrambled atop the warcaptain’s corpse so he could see farther.
His hunch was right. The priest had fled back into the darkness only a little way, and then stopped to watch what befell—so as to return triumphant, should his side win. He stood alone, uncertain, between two trees. Delg smiled grimly, shook his head at the man’s arrogant stupidity, and raised his axe.
Lanternlight caught the blade. It flashed once, and the startled priest half-turned to flee, peering through the darkness and trying to see what was happening.
That was time enough. Delg hurled his weapon, grunting as he threw his entire body into the
attack. The blade whirled free, and Delg rolled on the ground. The spinning axe took the priest in the head, ending all his thoughts in one brief, bright moment of pain. The black-robed body crashed down into rotting leaves.
Only a pace behind it, a stout figure hid in the deep night-shadows. It held a drawn blade up and ready; if the priest had gone a pace or two more, he’d have impaled himself on the steel. The figure shrugged, grinned, slid his sword back into its sheath, and melted into the night, unseen.
Delg, panting, thought it prudent to retrieve the warcaptain’s dagger before venturing out into the night in search of his axe. He had to tug the blade several times to tear it free of the helm. Turning, he set out, and had almost reached his axe when he heard Shandril calling his name, her voice soft with fear.
Fimril, mageling of the Zhentarim, smiled as he rose from his crouch over the dancing flames. The sweat ran down his pale, drawn face in sheets and dripped from his chin; the spell he’d just used was too exhausting to hold for long. Few mages—in or out of the Brotherhood—could call images from the flames of a campfire as clearly as he could. He shook with weariness—but it was crucial that he saw it all.
His voice, when he could find it, was warm with satisfaction. “Karkul and the priest are both dead, as are almost all of their men—and the maid’s spellfire has run out. The time to strike is now.”
He showed an eager, vicious smile to his frightened sell-sword bodyguards. None of them, however, saw the skull floating in the night gloom beyond the circle of firelight. Its smile matched Fimril’s own.
The twin doors flashed and flared as various magical locks and bindings were released—and then ground slowly and ponderously open.
A handsome, cold-faced man in swirling black robes strode through the doors, onto a midnight sea of slick black marble. He walked to the center of this room, which was always dark, turned to face the doors, and halted. Tiny motes of light flickered and pulsed on his robes, rising slowly into the air. They winked and drifted in small circles, gathered over the man’s head, and coalesced into a sphere of flickering light.
Under the gathering radiance of his conjured driftlight, Fzoul Chembryl waited patiently, like an impassive statue, in the center of the innermost sanctum. He listened to the familiar chants in the temple passages outside with the air of an old and jaded critic. In the growing light, his long red hair gleamed like new-polished copper.
The silence that then fell outside told Fzoul his guest had arrived. In moments, its massive shadow loomed up in the doorway. It drifted in with slow caution, eyestalks darting this way and that.
Fzoul lifted his head a little and said calmly, “Greetings, Xarlraun.”
The beholder turned its pale eyes toward him. Xarlraun was dark, the chitinous plates of its outer skin covered with many old and ill-healed scars. The monster was as large as a woodsman’s hut, its spherical body as high as three tall men standing on each other’s shoulders. For many years it had dwelt in its own high mountain valley, feeding on herds of rothe that roamed the grassy slopes. As the decades passed, it grew large, and its hunger had grown with it. Finally the day had come when all the rothe were gone from the valley, so the beholder had descended into the world of men—and found far more plentiful food. Men were bonier than their livestock—especially those who wore bits of metal—but far tastier. Xarlraun stayed, and grew wise in the ways of men.
Wise enough to ally itself with strength and come drifting down the dark night streets of Zhentil Keep to this meeting—at a time when its lesser brethren were keeping Manshoon and Sarhthor busy in another meeting, elsewhere. Wise enough not to trust the man standing alone before him in the dark room.
“Greetings returned to you, Fzoul Chembryl,” it said in a deep yet hissing voice. “You know why I have come.”
“I do. Spellfire, and our plans to seize it.” Fzoul paused. “I presume you don’t want to listen to me speak of all our failures thus far?”
“You presume correctly. Begin, if you will, with the passage of the spellfire wielder through Thunder Gap.”
Fzoul nodded. “At the Gap, Shandril Shessair fought the most powerful dracolich known to exist, Shargrailar the Dark—and destroyed it. This act officially ended any pursuit of spellfire by the Cult of the Dragon. We know of six Cult agents who continued to pursue Shandril after the council met in Ordulin. One, Thiszult, disappeared at Thunder Gap, and we presume him to have perished by spellfire. Another, Ghaubhan Szaurr, commands a large permanent force in the Stonelands—too large and skilled for us to eliminate at will, so we have suffered it to remain and harry the patrols of Cormyr for us. Szaurr will become a factor only if Shandril travels into his grasp. The other four have been eliminated by members of the Brotherhood.”
The beholder kept cold silence.
Fzoul cleared his throat and went on. “Our efforts to seize spellfire by magical force have failed repeatedly—due to the power of spellfire and the intervention of others, including Elminster of Shadowdale, the Knights of Myth Drannor, Harper agents, and powerful archmages unfamiliar to us, whom we assume to have been acting for their personal gain. The known Thayan agents in Sembia did hear of spellfire, but either acted through the Cult or were eliminated by us.”
Fzoul took two slow steps and raised his hand. A glowing map of the Dragon Reach lands, from the Marsh of Tun to the Vast Swamp, and the Neck north as far as the Ride, began to form in the air. It was as large as the beholder that regarded it and pulsed with red, moving lines of light at Fzoul’s bidding.
“Our magical failures have led us to the conclusion that either creative uses of Art, or new spells, or both are necessary to deal effectively with spellfire. So for the first time we have thrown the Zhentilar into the hunt in force. The former Cult stronghold at Semberhome, and the old bandit keeps of Alarangh and Tossril, south of the East Way and just east of Thunder Gap—here and here—are bases for our troops. Their open presence will goad both Cormyr and Sembia to arms to protect their borders and keep the trade roads open, so they have been instructed to act only in emergencies, when the prize is worth the cost.” Fzoul paused to catch the beholder’s gazes directly. “Spellfire,” he added quietly, “was considered a prize worth any cost.”
“Let us hope those words do not haunt you overmuch,” the beholder replied, its deep voice sounding slightly wry.
Fzoul shrugged and went on. “From these strongholds, two groups of mounted lancers with crossbows set out. Twenty from Alarangh, and sixty from Tossril. The force from Alarangh passed through the Gap only a few days ago and caught up with Shandril—who is accompanied by a dwarf and her husband, a mage of no account—immediately.”
“She destroyed them,” said the beholder.
“Aye, with spellfire. It revealed clear limits to the energy she can wield. She collapsed when she had routed them—and her companions fled with her to the hamlet of Thundarlun, where there was a guard post of twenty-eight Purple Dragon troops.”
“At the same time, all of our agents in Cormyr, Tilverton, and the Stonelands were warned of Shandril’s coming. One of our forces in the Stonelands, under the command of Warcaptain Karkul Memrimmon, was ordered south into the Hullack Forest. With the aid of one of my upperpriests, they managed to cross the Moonsea Ride unobserved, east of Gnoll Pass, and rode by night to the headwaters of the Immer—here.”
“By then, your warriors had slaughtered the garrison at Thundarlun and set some of it afire, but Shandril slew them all,” the beholder added.
Fzoul sighed. “Aye. Either she recovers her powers very rapidly, or she found some sort of aid in Thundarlun that ah, renewed her spellfire energies.”
He paused, cleared his throat again, and went on. “When the swordmaster of the force from Tossril did not answer magical queries, we assumed he was dead and his force defeated. Spies riding foulwings from Semberhome were sent to overfly easternmost Cormyr, and return before they could provoke any response in force from Azoun’s war wizards. They found no sign of Shandril or he
r companions and concluded she must have gone into the Hullack Forest, seeking cover.”
“Your spies in the court at Suzail and among the war wizards?”
“Reported nothing,” Fzoul replied. “So far as we know, Shandril does not have the backing of Azoun—nor is he trying to gain spellfire for himself. He may not even know that it is within his borders.”
There was a faint shriek from outside the chamber, and then another, louder one. The eye tyrant turned. “Sacrifices? At this time, Fzoul?”
“No,” the priest replied. “We understand it is customary for you to feed about now, each day.”
The beholder’s eyestalks began to whip and coil sinuously in evident pleasure. “My thanks for this courtesy,” it said, drifting eagerly forward.
An instant later, they heard curses, sobs, and struggling noises just outside the chamber—and then a naked man was hurled into the sanctum, cartwheeling in the air. In the doorway, they saw a flash of moving metal from the staff that had struck him. It was still trailing motes of magical light as it withdrew.
Some of those same sparkling points of light clung to the body of the terrified man, who did not fall to the ground, but drifted to a halt in the air close to Fzoul.
The man saw the beholder looming over him, shrieked in terror, and lunged away, soaring through the air toward the doorway he had come in by.
“Sporting,” said the beholder, as the man flew away, into the light spilling from the passage beyond.
An instant later, he struck an invisible barrier with a crash. The snapping of bones could be clearly heard, and the man sagged limply, drifting toward the ground.