Crown of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Mairara stiffened, met the cold eyes of her mistress for a long, chilling moment, and then whispered, “I’ll make you proud of me, Lady.”

  Gathlarue raised a hand. “Do nothing—yet—to draw their attention to us up here.”

  Mairara had already raised her clawed hands to work a spell that would blast the fray below with lightning. At her mistress’s words, she lowered them, frowned, and then nodded suddenly in decision. Flicking hair back over her shoulder with one hand, she gestured with the other, muttering.

  The sprawled form of the gargoyle Mirt had slain now moved, wriggled, slithered, and seemed to flow, unseen amid the tumult of clashing blades and lumbering Zhentilar. It rose slowly and split, twisting and flowing into sudden sharp definition—becoming the alert, deadly-looking forms of two smaller, unharmed gargoyles.

  Mairara made a growling sound deep in her throat, and spread her hands. Gathlarue smiled. Somewhere in the darkness behind them, Tespril whimpered. Mairara, eyes flashing, gestured again, lips drawn back from her teeth in killing laughter.

  Delg turned, bloody axe in hand. Something had moved—there! Ye gods! More gargoyles were leaping and flapping out of the night, heading for Shandril. Roaring, the dwarf bounded away from the Zhentilar who’d been cautiously approaching and ran full tilt toward the lass, swinging his axe for momentum as he went.

  Narm threw something into the fallen lantern’s flames to make them blaze like a bonfire. By its leaping firelight, he spotted the gargoyles. With one hand, he caught Shandril’s arm and dragged her around to see this new danger. Small bolts of light streamed from his other hand, but the monster ignored them as it plunged toward the human maid, claws reaching out to rend and slay.

  Shandril turned in time to stare into red, baleful eyes close enough to touch easily with her fingertips. Startled, she screamed—spitting spellfire into the face of the thing as it crashed into her, slashing with cruel claws. She screamed again. Spellfire suddenly exploded into a bright ball around her that made Narm stagger back—and the gargoyle disappear forever.

  In the wake of her fire-burst, Shandril lay dazed, smoke drifting from her torn clothing. Where the gargoyle’s claws had slashed her, ribbons of blood glowed briefly with the same radiance as spellfire, and then faded.

  On the trampled grass nearby lay Narm, groaning and clutching at his eyes. The burst of flame must have blinded him, at least for now.

  Delg cursed as he ran toward them both. He saw the second gargoyle flying in for the kill, sinuous stone wings beating as it stretched out long-clawed limbs. With a last, desperate bound, Delg leapt at it. It sensed him, and slid aside with frightening speed. Delg found himself about to pitch over its moving body, but he hooked his axe around one of its wings. The shock as he was brought up hard against a stony flank a moment later told him he’d succeeded. The gargoyle had crashed to the ground.

  The dwarf kicked and scrabbled against living stone for a few frantic moments, then got to where he’d hoped to be: crouched low astride the back of the gargoyle, with a firm grip on the root of one wing. He raised his axe to hack and hew.

  The gargoyle charged at Shandril—and with jarring force Delg brought his axe down on the side and top of its head. Stone chips flew. Beneath him, the monster shook and screamed. It tried to stand up, stony muscles surging—and Delg hacked at it again, putting his whole shoulder behind the blow. Sparks flew from the striking edge of his axe, and the gargoyle shuddered. A good part of its shoulder broke off and fell away—and a maddened instant later, the thing and Delg were both aloft. The beast whirled, buffeting Delg with stony wings, trying to shake him off.

  At the stars overhead, Delg snarled, “For the glory of the Ironstars!” and brought his axe crashing down again. The unwilling mount of living stone he rode plunged earthward with terrifying speed.

  Rocks rushed up to meet him like hungry teeth. Delg clung to the gargoyle, hacking desperately. Air roared past him in an angry wind—and at the last instant, the gargoyle twisted aside and shook itself, tearing his fingers free.

  The impact of the stone, smashing through his chest and guts like a great fist, drove the breath from him, and his axe spun away like a hurled hammer. Delg scarce heard the despairing cry of the Zhentilar it happened to strike, for he himself hung impaled on stone.

  Stone—always his friend, something he could work to his bidding, and trust, something solid and dependable.

  As if from a great distance, Delg Ironstar heard the voice of one of the elders, telling him long ago—so long ago—From stone we come, to stone we return, in the end.

  He looked out as the shattering pain rose to choke him, and he saw Shandril’s eyes blazing with grief and shock as she screamed his name. She was running toward him through the fray. Dying, Delg of the dwarves of Mintarn Mountain, Harper, and Shield-Son of Clan Ironstar, wondered if the young lass he’d come to love so much would reach him in time.

  11

  TOO LITTLE TIME, TOO MUCH DEATH

  Splendid, heroic deaths? Only in tales, ballads, and books, kitten. Death in battle is always brutal, painful, and messy—and there’s never time enough then for those heroic scenes legends tell of. Too little time, too much death. There’s never time enough in life for any splendid or heroic things, kitten. Remember that—and make time before you must die. If you do that, you’ll have forged a better life than most.

  Laeral of Waterdeep, quoted in

  Words to an Apprentice

  Ithryn Halast, Year of the Weeping Moon

  “Delg! Delg!” Shandril’s eyes spilled over as she ran, heedless, across the trampled grass.

  The battle raged around her, Mirt grunting with effort amid the crashes of steel on steel. Unheeding, Shandril wept tears of fire and fell on her knees beside the dwarf.

  Delg was reaching a trembling, clenched hand to her, eyes glittering in agony. “Sh-Shan …” he gasped faintly, blood on his lips. “For …” His eyes were still beseeching hers a breath later, when they went dark.

  In his ears, Delg heard the soft crackling of flames. The Lady Sharindlar had come for him, and his time in Faerûn was done. Tears blurred his last sight of the human lass he’d given his life for, and he couldn’t even tell her of the love he’d come to feel for her.… Raging against the Zhentarim who had brought him death, Delg Ironstar went down into the everlasting darkness, waving his axe.

  “No!” Shandril threw her arms around the hairy, sweat-soaked body, but the dwarf’s eyes stared past her, dull and unmoving. She knew they’d never see her—or anything else—again, and she clutched Delg tightly, her face pressed against his hard, strong-smelling chain mail. And she cried.

  In the rocks high above, Mairara curled her lip in the darkness and gestured with both hands. The crippled gargoyle turned on broken wings to swoop down on the unguarded, weeping maiden.

  Shandril cried uncontrollably, body shaking.

  Mirt roared out as he ran for her. The Old Wolf finally reached her, shook her, and bellowed, “Shan! Shan! We need yer spellfire, now!”

  Shandril stared up through a rain of tears that would not stop falling, and saw the gargoyle veer off for another pass.

  Mirt shook her roughly. “No time, lass! We’ve—”

  A spell raked them from the rocks above, bolts of crackling lightning that made Mirt grunt and bite his lip as they jolted him. Shuddering, his hand reached out and tightly grasped the haft of Delg’s axe.

  Shandril was oblivious, her face buried in the old dwarf’s sweat-soaked leathers. She wept silently.

  “Gods aid me now!” Mirt cursed. He hurled the sobbing girl away and spun around.

  Just in time. A Zhentilar blade was already cutting the air toward his neck. Mirt raised his left hand, Delg’s notched axe in it, and blocked the attacking sword. The impact shook both men, and the old merchant’s own curving long saber was in the man’s throat and out again while they were both still shaking.

  Another Zhent was hurrying at Mirt. The warrior held his blade low an
d deadly as he charged in, but was still steps away when flame rained down from above, cooking him and sending the old merchant staggering back, eyebrows smoldering.

  Thank Tymora and Mystra both for that carelessly hurled spell, the Old Wolf thought, wondering just how many Zhent wizards were waiting in the darkness up there. He’d led his friends right into a waiting trap this time … all because he’d been foolish enough to think the wizards wouldn’t know about the gate here. He quickly retreated to Shandril, glancing back to make sure no new dangers threatened. Only then did he discover where that last gargoyle had gotten to.

  There! High above in the night, the dark form of the gargoyle flapped in a tight turn, head leering down, preparing to dive.…

  “Shandril!” Mirt growled, backhanding the weeping maid. “Aid me!”

  The sobs broke off just as the gargoyle plummeted out of the night. With a curse, Mirt cast Delg’s axe at it and grabbed the magical dagger at his belt. Another Zhentilar warrior was trotting out of the darkness, shield and sword raised; the Old Wolf knew he couldn’t escape their blades forever.

  Then the air beside him exploded with a roar. Mirt cried out, turning his head away from the bright flash. He didn’t see the gargoyle burst into dust and flying stones, or the screaming Zhentilar vanish into ashes and shifting smoke.

  Shandril looked around at the ruin she had wrought. Smoke rose in wisps from the blackened turf. A man was crawling slowly through the scorched grass toward her; she raised a hand to destroy him. Then she recognized Narm’s head. A cold shiver ran through her as she realized just how close she’d come to slaying him. It could have been done in a moment; he would have been dead forever. It was all too frighteningly easy.…

  “Now! Hit her now—before it’s too late!”

  Without taking time to look, she hurled spellfire up at that shrill voice and was answered by more despairing screams—followed by a sharp cracking sound as rock shattered and began to slide.

  The ground shook. Smoldering figures in dark armor bounced and rolled amid tumbling stones. The ledge above the meadow where the Zhents had been broke off and slid down toward her. One slim figure floated in the air for a moment, rising above the cascading stones, and then flew to another rocky height, robes rippling.

  A Zhentarim! Shandril bared her teeth and hurled a gout of spellflame, blasting the rock where the dark-robed mage stood. Her foe rose above the shattered stone and hung in the air, mockingly. Arms raised, the Zhent began the gestures of spellcasting.

  With a shriek of fury, Shandril dashed her hands towards the ground, hurling spellfire downward. A moment later, she rose on columns of spellfire that pummeled the rock and turf beneath her, and she raced through the air toward the Zhent. A startled face gaped at her. The Zhent was a woman!

  Shandril charged right at her, eyes blazing fire.

  Gathlarue knew real fear for the first time in a long, long while. It hurt even to meet the maid’s gaze—raw, burning pain that would have torn her apart if she’d not twisted free. Gathlarue turned in the air and fled, flying as fast as she could.

  Spellfire tore the night apart above her.

  Gathlarue found herself falling. Rocks rushed up to meet her. Her mind snatched desperately at spell phrases; she magically steadied her descent and came to rest on smoking grass. Her hands trembled as she wove a shield-shaped wall of magical force before her, curving it to meet the cliff at her back.

  Spellfire struck Gathlarue’s shield an instant after she was done. It splashed on bare earth, ignited grass—and then clawed its way along the spell-shield. The flash of its strike left her eyes watering. She closed them hastily as a second attack came, striking with such fury that it shook the shield and Gathlarue beneath it.

  Still flying, Shandril screamed with rage, but the magic defied her spellfire. She hurled fiery destruction a third time, feeling the deep ache that told her she had little energy left—and saw that bolt, too, lick harmlessly off the Zhentarim’s invisible shield.

  Panting, Shandril landed on the smoking meadow, staring at the woman in dark robes. The sorceress turned her cruel, frightened face aside and would not meet her eyes. Breast heaving, Shandril stared at her enemy—and then her eyes narrowed, and she spread her hands over her head. She lashed out at the cliff behind the woman.

  Rock cracked, shook, and fell in a gathering roar. Mighty boulders crashed and rolled, and the Zhentarim disappeared beneath them. Dust rose.

  Shandril stood ready, eyes hard, until it cleared.

  One of the mage’s hands protruded from the fallen rocks, straining vainly toward the open air and freedom she’d never reach.

  Her fingers reached, twitched feebly, and then fell still.

  Puffing, Mirt rose from atop a rocky knob, the blood of Zhents all over him. The meadow was empty of living enemies at last. He raised his eyebrows and spared breath enough to mutter, “So young … so much power …”

  “Gods,” Mairara whispered to herself, crouching white-knuckled behind a rock in the heights above the meadow. Then her eyes widened in horror as the veteran Zhentilar beside her stood up and calmly hurled a dagger at the maid below, putting all the strength in his shoulder behind the smooth throw.

  Steel spun through the night. The venomed blade had served Unthlar Highsword well over the years, slipping into many a rival’s back or unwary eye. Its touch meant death. Unthlar watched his deathfang hurtle toward Shandril’s slim, unprotected back, and he started to smile.

  Too soon. Mirt saw the flicker of its flight. Groaning in his haste, he leapt between Shandril and the attack, throwing up both his own blades to knock the dagger aside.

  At the same time, words of soft anger came out of the night beside the puffing merchant. The strongest spell Narm could hurl—one that always left him utterly drained of wits and strength—rent the night, exploding in the air right in front of Unthlar.

  Mairara shut her eyes and flung her head to one side as wetness splattered the rocks around. She looked back in time to see Unthlar’s lower half—all that was left of him—stagger backward and fall heavily among the rocks beside her.

  She heard curses and scrambling sounds from behind her as the few surviving Zhentilar fled in terror. Then Mairara looked down again—straight into the hard eyes of the maid who bore spellfire.

  Shandril stood staring up at the Zhentarim sorceress. Her hair was moving about her shoulders with a life of its own, curling in slow menace.

  “By Mystra’s mercy,” Mairara whispered, looking at Shandril with wide eyes, “make it quick.”

  Shandril granted her that last wish. When the roaring had died away, all that was left was drifting smoke and the cracking of overheated rock.

  White-faced, Shandril looked down at Delg’s still body, and then turned to look east. The tears that fell from her cheeks burned the ground they touched. “Right, then, Lord Manshoon,” she said, voice brittle and quavering. “I’ve done all the running I’m going to do. Now you will learn what it is to be hounded!”

  A skull that floated unseen in the darkness near the top of Irondrake Rock looked down and chuckled, the teeth of its perpetual grin chattering hollowly.

  “It’s not as though I’ve naught else to do, look ye,” Elminster said, spreading his hands. Released from his grasp, the pipe floated off by itself to hang ready in the air nearby.

  Storm glanced up from the strings of her harp. “More important than spellfire?”

  Elminster’s expression was sour. “Who’s to say what’s of more import—my giving a little boy a scroll to play with so he grows up to become an archmage—or passing on word of a foe to a nomad chieftain—or telling a Waterdhavian guildmaster of a plot against him? I’ve done all these in the last few days, and there’s always much more still to do—the untended garden grows weeds best.”

  “Shandril needs help now,” Storm said quietly, her eyes dark and troubled. “I can feel it.”

  “And she shall have it,” Elminster said, hands moving in the opening gestures
of a spell. “Why d’ye think we rode out of the dale, if not to keep it safe against spells I might need to hurl—or the careless cruelty of those who might come looking to hurl spells at me? But know ye, timing is all-important in affairs of power—and her moment is not come.”

  He cast a stern look at Storm’s harp, and she obediently stilled the strings and shifted it to her shoulder. “I spent much of the night scrying the Realms as ye slept, and saw—too much. Matters that must be dealt with now, I tell thee! The lass must find her own wings to fly with while I deal with Dzuntabbar of Thay—and the wizard Vlumn’s plans to create ice golems the size of mountains in the High Ice—and a little matter of twisting awry some poison-creating spells that certain Calimshite satraps are perfecting before they get the idea such deadly craziness might work.”

  “All that, before highsun?”

  “Aye, and more. Come!” The Old Mage squinted at the night sky and muttered, “With luck, we’ll have time to look in on Shandril by now tomorrow.”

  “If she’s not dead by then,” Storm murmured in reply, just before Elminster’s spell swirled around them both.

  Irondrake Rock trembled, melted, and slid down into liquid ruin. The stars around it wavered and fell, as Shandril looked away from the spire. She blinked, and fresh tears came. Again.

  Mirt knelt beside her. “Thy lad’s okay,” he said roughly, as he awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders. “But milord dwarf, here …”

  Shandril nodded. She was crying freely now, tears raining into her empty hands.

  Mirt looked at Delg’s body, shook his head sadly, and said, “We haven’t even time to bury him. Shan, will you take him to ashes? He’d prefer that to Zhentarim spell-pestering, I’m sure.”