Crown of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  “It always takes longer to get out of a forest than it does to get in,” Mirt grumbled as the last of the light failed. Dusk hung heavy around them as they made a hasty camp amid the trees.

  Delg seemed upset with their route and everything else; when Narm asked him what was amiss, the dwarf turned dark eyes up at him and said, “I feel ill luck ahead, soon.”

  The gloomy dwarf stood first watch, and Mirt was soon snoring like a contented bear on one side of the fire. Shandril and Narm lay together in their blankets and held each other. After Narm fell asleep, Shandril stared into the fire.

  It seemed very long ago that they’d flown over Shadowdale together at their wedding—and longer still since she’d left The Rising Moon in search of adventure. And now, folk she hadn’t even heard of plotted her death.

  The watching skull was patient. It waited, floating low in the concealing darkness while silent tears fell onto Shandril’s blanket. It waited, motionless, while she settled herself down against Narm, stroking his cheek tenderly.

  It waited, as she fell asleep, and waited still, until Delg’s attention was elsewhere. Then, silently, it drifted down to feed.

  One bare shoulder had been left exposed as Shandril and Narm lay huddled together. The skull sank down and bit the smooth white flesh. Shandril stirred—and then, with a sort of sigh, relaxed. Spellfire flowed slowly, unseen, out of her.

  Delg got up then, as good sentries do, to walk about and check on the safety of those he guarded.

  The skull cast a hasty, silent spell to keep Shandril asleep as its fangs withdrew, and then another to quickly heal the wounds it had made.

  By the time Delg looked down at Shandril, the skull was gone. Plucky lass. If she’d been a dwarf, now … Not for the first time, Delg wished he’d married. This was the sort of daughter he could be proud of. Tenderly he covered her bare arm and shoulder with an edge of the blanket, then stalked on.

  The skull watched him go and made no move back to where it had fed. Its memories went back a thousand years. It had learned patience.

  7

  AT THE SIGN OF THE WANTON WYVERN

  Do ye remember an inn, Tessyrana? Old and dark and rambling, lost in the arms of the wild woods a long day’s ride from anywhere—but warm and firelit within, against the chill winds of the storm. The smoke stung our eyes, and its old and spicy smell enshrouded us as it did everything else in the house. We climbed worn, curving stairs away from the ready laughter and ale, into a candlelit room, a cozy den nestled amid others in the night, carved out of low beams, gentle mutterings and creakings, and uneven floors. And for one night, at least, that plain, tiny, and friendly little room was our home.

  Amhritar the Tall

  Tall Tales: A Ranger’s Life

  Year of the Striking Hawk

  Manshoon looked up, unsmiling. Fzoul and two silent upperpriests stood across from him, and two beholders floated overhead. In the air between them all, in an inner chamber in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, hung a naked man.

  It was Simron, late of the Eastern Stonelands Company of the Zhentilar, and he was very naked—much of his skin was missing.

  Blood flew as Manshoon’s invisible spell-claws tore at the veteran warrior’s flesh. He screamed hoarsely, the red rain from him being caught below in a huge bowl, for later use in dark, cruel magic. The Zhentarim did not like to waste the talents of their members.

  “You do still have strength enough to scream,” Manshoon said calmly. “Good, Simron—that means you’ve still strength to speak, too. Tell us more of what happened when the maid unleashed her spellfire.”

  Simron groaned. Manshoon frowned, and unseen claws raked deep, red furrows across the backs of the old warrior’s calves. Simron’s legs jerked helplessly, and gore spattered the beholders overhead. They did not seem to mind.

  “I—I—Lord Manshoon, mercy!” Simron said thickly, coughing crimson between his words.

  “Mercy must be bought, soldier,” Manshoon said mildly, “and you’ve still not told me what I want to know. Now, sh—” There was a commotion at the guarded door of the chamber, and Manshoon turned in some annoyance to see its cause.

  A mageling Manshoon had always thought of as more ambitious than sensible stood among the guards, face lit with excitement. “Lord Manshoon!”

  The High Lord of Zhentil Keep made a sign, and the guards drew back to let the young wizard rush into the chamber. Silently, Manshoon gestured to the mage to speak—and he did, words tumbling over each other in haste.

  “In Sembia, Lord—we’ve been attacked. Ah, wizards of the Brotherhood, Lord, seeking spellfire as you asked us to … they were set upon by some Harpers, and killers sent by the Cult of the Dragon. We won both battles, but Arluth is dead, and Chsalbreian, and—”

  Manshoon held up his hand, and the mageling fell silent. “Our thanks for your diligence, Sundarth. We are pleased. Leave us now; our favor goes with you.”

  Stammering thanks and farewell, the young mageling bowed himself out.

  When he was gone, Manshoon looked up at the bleeding, moaning man hanging in midair, and he sighed loudly.

  “Too many foes are after spellfire for me to just sit back and wait for blundering, ambitious underlings to bring it to us,” the High Lord of Zhentil Keep announced. “I’ll have to become directly involved in the hunt for this Shandril.”

  The beholders, hovering watchfully overhead, said nothing. Manshoon looked across the chamber to meet the eyes of the High Priest of the Black Altar.

  Fzoul shrugged and said, “That’s the way of wizards. For my part and my counsel, hold back for now, and watch to see if the claws we’ve sent out catch anything.”

  Manshoon rolled his eyes. “I grow no younger,” he said carefully. “What use is spellfire—or the triumph of our Brotherhood over all—to me, if I’m toothless, blind, and failing in my dotage before we gain either?”

  Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “You may not live to find any of these things if you move openly now. I hope you’ve not forgotten that your open participation in this hunt is sure to bring out Elminster of Shadowdale—to say nothing of the Simbul, Khelben Arunsun, and others—against you. Azoun has already doubled his patrols in eastern Cormyr and is killing our warriors as fast as he finds them.”

  Manshoon shrugged. “If I feared danger or opposition, I would never have come to hold the title I do now, nor to stand in this place.”

  A rumbling voice broke in on his words then, from overhead. It sounded amused. “How will you succeed, Lord Manshoon, where others have failed? Finding magic that will stand against spellfire will take time you have too little of, and much luck—or both.”

  Manshoon shrugged again, giving the eye tyrants overhead a thin smile. “The Brotherhood is often guilty of a fault dear to our natures: in trying to outdo each other, we try to be too clever. A far simpler approach than the schemes we’ve pursued so far will probably be all that is needed—brute force.”

  Fzoul raised an eyebrow and gestured for Manshoon to continue.

  The High Lord of Zhentil Keep turned expressionless eyes on them all and said, “Club the wench into submission with an army of zombies controlled by underlings using items of power. Bury her under undead, no matter how many she destroys—and bring her down. My magic is strong enough to take care of any Harper or Cult meddling in such a battle.”

  Manshoon strolled across the room and then turned to look up at the floating body of the Zhentilar. “Then we take the girl someplace secure,” he continued, “and let the lich lord drain her—or use magic to bind her wits and will ere she recovers, then study her at leisure.” He snapped his fingers. “Whatever plans we pursue, a watch must be kept on Elminster from this moment on to ensure he doesn’t show up to rescue her or ruin attempts to take her.”

  He gestured, and a guard at the door went out, returning in a few breaths with a wizard just old enough to master his awe and fear. After a quick glance at the hovering beholders, the young mage kept his eyes on the floor or
on Manshoon.

  “Heldiir,” Manshoon said in a cold, smooth voice, “you are to take twenty of your fellow mages, now, and keep a continuous spellwatch over Shadowdale. Monitor all magic wielded there, keep track of the doings of Elminster—and report any major castings or movements on his part to me immediately, whatever the hour. Go, speedily, and do this.”

  “I-I will,” Heldiir managed to croak, then hurried out.

  Manshoon looked up in time to see the beholders drifting back toward the arched windows through which they had first entered the room.

  “Your plan has some merit,” one said.

  “We shall watch—and see,” the other added in a deep, neutral rumble, as both eye tyrants drifted from view.

  Fzoul Chembryl glided to a door, spread his hands, and said simply, “The risk is yours.” Then he was gone.

  Manshoon watched the door close behind the priest, smiled without humor, and looked up at the silent, dripping soldier.

  “Mercy, Simron?” he asked mildly. “Mercy is for the dead.” He made a small gesture with one hand, and there was a dull, splintering crack from the body overhead.

  Its head jerked, and then dangled limply at an angle, tongue protruding. Manshoon strode toward his own door and did not look back as the floating corpse slowly drifted down toward the bowl of blackening blood.

  “Watch sharp, now,” Mirt warned as they peered into the last gleams of fading sunset over the Storm Horns, far off on the horizon. “There’s sure to be at least one snake hereabouts who seeks Shandril and spellfire.”

  “Is there? By the ever-observant gods, your perception is keen. You surprise me,” Delg muttered sarcastically, keeping a hand over his axe blade to shield it from reflecting any of the sun’s failing glow. It was growing dark fast here in the trees, evening descending quickly on the rolling farmlands ahead.

  “What, again?” Mirt replied teasingly. “What an exciting life ye must lead.”

  Delg raised an eloquent eyebrow but thought it wiser to make no reply. Somewhere near at hand, Shandril sighed, and in mimicry of one of the haughty Sembian ladies who used to stop at the Moon for a night, she murmured, “Really, milord. Must you?” She smiled as Narm’s comforting arm closed around her shoulders.

  Mirt uttered a satisfied sound, came to a halt, and pointed. “That fence line, there? That’s the eastern paddock of the Wyvern. Come. My belly tells me it’s past time for some hot roast dinner.”

  “Master, we obey,” Narm said in gentle mockery. Mirt sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and waved at them all to follow him. The stout old merchant pushed past a tangle of wild raspberry canes, creating angry crackling and tearing noises. He waded through the canes toward the road, slipped on a muddy patch of bank—and fell with a heavy splash into the ditch.

  For a long, breathless moment, silence descended. Shandril smothered giggles, not very successfully. Delg cut his own way through the canes with a few deft swings of his axe, and then launched himself into an exaggerated pratfall down the bank, coming to rest so that one boot just crashed down into the edge of the water with a splash. The spray drenched Mirt’s face, which had just arisen from the muddy waters wearing a dark expression.

  “Unusual maneuver,” the dwarf remarked cheerfully, “but I can see its virtues now, O Great Warrior. It’ll certainly lull any waiting foes into false overconfidence and allow us to make a grand entrance while they’re still rolling about on the ground, laughing helplessly.”

  One muddy paw lashed out from the water, enfolded the dwarf’s boot in a loving grip, and pulled. Delg’s mirth was cut suddenly and damply short, leaving only bubbles to mark its passing.

  “I hope you don’t expect us to join you,” said Shandril carefully, reaching a hand down to him. Mirt waved it away, spitting muddy water considerately off to one side.

  “Nay, nay, lass—if ye gave me yer hand, ye’d end up in the wet here beside me, instead o’ getting me out of it. Nay, me an’ the intrepid Delg here’ll just wallow about for a bit, and then join ye on the far bank. If ye don’t feel up to leaping the ditch, any of ye, just step on my shoulder—here—and find yer way across … blast it!”

  Shandril did giggle then, but made use of his offer. Full darkness had fallen by the time they all reached the road beyond. Mirt and Delg dripped their way to the front and rear of the band, respectively, and both set off in grim silence for their goal.

  The farms and woodlots of Cormyr stretched out before them in the gloom, and stars winked overhead. Selune had not yet risen, and the four travelers went over the hill under the cloak of night.

  Before them, at the bottom of the slope, two bright pole-lamps flickered on the right-hand side of the road. The lamps flanked a stout gate that led off the road into a high-fenced yard. Up out of the dark shadows of this enclosure rose several large, dark buildings. The nearest one was a rambling place; they could see part of it by the light of another, dimmer lamp on a post near the door.

  From a leaning spar that jutted above the closed gate, a rusty shield hung down on a chain. On the shield, the words “Strike to enter” were painted. Under this sign slumped the body of someone filthy, dressed in a very tattered collection of rags, and sitting up against one of the gateposts.

  In heavy silence, Mirt went alertly forward, his sword drawn. The figure did not move. As they drew nearer, they heard faint snoring. Nonetheless, Mirt warily faced the fat, unmoving, ragtag figure, and he rapped the shield-gong with the pommel of his raised, ready sword.

  The snores broke off abruptly, just as a small wooden window squealed open in the gate above. A face looked out at them. “Travelers?” came a gravelly, not unfriendly voice.

  “Aye,” Mirt replied. “Two men, one women, and a he-dwarf, on foot. We’re armed but come in peace, and prepared to pay well for a warm meal and a good bed—if they’re as good at the Wyvern as I remember.”

  “Well met!” The voice was less wary. “Welcome to The Wanton Wyvern, then. I’ll open the gate.” The window closed, and they heard the hollow sounds of wooden bars and props being shifted. Then the gate groaned inward.

  The man standing inside looked tall and battered, and so did the stout wooden staff in his hand. They’d scarce got a look at him before he leapt out, past Mirt—who turned automatically to keep his drawn sword facing the man—and raised his staff threateningly over the ragtag, awakened sleeper.

  “Be off, you! Move, Baergasra! I’ve told you before—away from the gate!” The staff thumped the tattered derelict solidly in the shoulder, and the tall man used it to shove and roll his bedraggled, gruntingly protesting target away from their path.

  “Please come in,” he puffed over his shoulder. He raised the staff again as the bundle of rags moaned and tumbled hastily out of reach. “This old leper is always hanging about here—but we’ve never let her inside the gate. The Wyvern is clean, I assure you.”

  Mirt merely nodded and strode into the inn yard. The others followed.

  The tall man came after them, closing the gate hurriedly. “Please go within,” he said. “There, under the lamp. We’ve plenty of room tonight, and there’s food hot and ready.”

  “Good, good. My thanks,” Mirt called, and waved at Delg to lead the rest in. As Shandril followed, she noticed Mirt’s sword was still drawn, and his eyes darted around alertly, peering into the shadows.

  Their rooms were simple but warm and clean, clustered together at one end of a low-ceilinged gallery. Broad stairs led down from the center of that passage to a landing overlooking the main taproom of the inn, and from there descended again to a lobby just within the front doors.

  The Wanton Wyvern was old and dusty and dark, paneled in fine woods and hung with torn and faded, once-fine tapestries. “Battle spoils,” Mirt identified them briefly as they passed; Delg nodded agreement. Everyone noticed the crossbows hanging ready behind the front desk of the Wyvern.

  The place was warm and friendly, however, with perhaps a dozen other guests—two warriors, a rosy-robed priest o
f Lathander with two servants, and the rest merchants—already drinking and joking in the taproom. The staff was easygoing and attentive; a serving lass whose girth matched Mirt’s own showed them to a table against one wall, near the crackling hearth-fire.

  Shandril looked around, taking in the colors and lights and warmth for a while, letting the talk and the strong smells of wood smoke and cooking wash over her. She heard Mirt rumble something about this being one of those inns you could feel at home in, and Delg growling something in reply, about too much wood and not enough honest solid stone, but at least they didn’t give dwarves funny looks … and suddenly, even before the promised dinner came, Shandril felt something hard touch her forehead, hard and unmoving and restful.…

  “Thy lady, lad,” Mirt said, reaching over to poke Narm. “She’s out dreamstalking already.… Nay, nay, don’t wake her. Just keep her hair out of the soup when it comes.…”

  Unmoving, Shandril lay face forward on the table, her hair spread out around her in a swirl of ash-blond tresses. Narm’s gentle hands gathered it back to her shoulders, combing out the worst tangles. Shandril slept on, shoulders rising and falling faintly.

  She was running barefoot through night-dark woods, flames of spellfire racing up and down her bare body like a beacon. Where her feet came down, flames leapt up and left a fiery trail. Behind her, she could hear wolves running, wolves and men … men with dark cloaks and cruel eyes. They rode skeletal dragons that laughed hollowly, even after she blasted them. There were more of them, more and more, and the spellfire in her hands was fading away and failing.… They came nearer, the men laughing now along with the bony dragons … near, nearer … Dark hands shifted suddenly, fingers lengthening horribly into reaching, writhing black tentacles.…