Crown of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Shandril nodded, trying to still her tears. “H-He was trying to give me something, when he died … in his hand.…”

  Mirt looked at Delg’s fist, outthrust still in the agony of death. The broken ends of a fine golden chain hung from between the tightly clenched fingers. Mirt tried to pry them open, but he could as well have clawed at the fist of an iron statue. Pitting all his strength against the cooling hand, Mirt managed to ease the dwarf’s fingers apart. Saying a silent prayer to Moradin in apology for this desecration, he slid out what lay within.

  It was a silver harp pendant: the badge of a Harper, torn from around the dwarf’s neck. Mirt stared at it, open-mouthed—and his vision blurred.

  Shandril looked at the shaggy old warrior sharply. A thin, wheezing noise hissed from his bent head. She realized suddenly that the old merchant was weeping.

  At her shoulder, Narm asked wonderingly, “Delg was a Harper, too?”

  Shandril nodded slowly. Mirt abruptly thrust the harp pendant into her hand, rose, and said gruffly, “Burn him, will ye?”

  Narm reached out a hand to him, and the two men embraced in the night like scared children.

  Shandril stared at them for a moment. Then she carefully set down the pendant, raised her hands, and gave Delg a warrior’s funeral, engulfing the dwarf’s body in a pyre of spellfire lit by the red anger and grief that burned inside her. Flames roared up at the stars, even as the spellfire in Shandril’s hands faltered, sputtered, and died.

  They watched the dwarf burn to ashes. When all was done, Mirt said grimly, “Now, we walk—before all the rest of the Zhentarim come down on our heads here. I carry a ward that shields us against magical mind-prying and scrying. With that and thy spellfire, we can win our way on, as long as we give them no more chances to gather against us.”

  “No,” Shandril said softly.

  “What then, lass?” Mirt asked, peering at her in the night.

  “I’m done with running away,” Shandril said in a cold, resolute voice. “We stand—and fight.”

  “Here? Shan, every outlaw and prowling beast in the Stonelands heard the battle—and saw the pillar of flame ye just raised, burning Delg. Yer spellfire’s gone for now, an’ all Narm’s spells—and without Delg, I’m too old and fat to wave swords enough to defend both of ye. We must be gone from this place!”

  “Yes. Gone—to Zhentil Keep.”

  “Lass, are ye crazy?”

  “Probably,” Shandril said, her voice very steady. “Mirt, will you guide me there?”

  “Before all the gods, why?”

  “My days of running and skulking are done. I’m going to make Manshoon pay for—for Delg, if it’s the only thing I do before I die. Manshoon, any other Zhentarim wizards I can find … and anyone else in that city who stands in my way. I’ll probably have to kill everyone in the whole Brotherhood to make up for Delg’s death. They should pay in blood for those soldiers in Thundarlun, too.” The eyes that looked up into Mirt’s were like cold, dark iron. “Are you with me?”

  The old merchant sighed. “Aye, Shan,” he growled. “I’ll stand with ye. But I’ll do it in the morning, mind—and if ye’re in such a whirling hurry to get to Zhentil Keep, I know where we can get a teleport there, instead of stamping across the Stonelands and Daggerdale for days upon days, fighting every beast of the wilds and Zhentilar patrol.”

  “Where?” Shandril’s voice was quiet and calm.

  Mirt fought back a shiver when he heard it. “In Eveningstar, south and west of here. In the spells of a good lady by the name of Tessaril.”

  “Another old friend?” Narm sounded on the edge of tears, but managed a hint of the wry tone he usually adopted when sparring with the Old Wolf.

  Mirt bowed his head. “Aye, and I am honored she calls me so. No jests now, lad—I’m busy trying to keep yer little one, here, from throwing her life away.”

  For two long, cold breaths, Shandril stared at him thin-lipped, and then managed a smile, and turned to look west.

  “Find Eveningstar for me, then, and Tessaril,” she said.

  Mirt’s gusty sigh of relief echoed off the rocks around. Then they all looked back at the drifting ashes that had been Delg, and there were fresh tears.

  Later that night, as Mirt led the way up a narrow cleft, heading west out of the still-smoldering meadow, the Old Wolf said, “Tell me, lass: if ye’ve any plan for this attack, or if we’re all going to rush headlong to our deaths.”

  “We get there, you show me Manshoon, and I burn him,” Shandril said sweetly.

  “That’s it? No battle plans at all?”

  “You’re my battle plans, Old Wolf,” Shandril told him.

  Mirt sighed and stumped onward. The comforting weight of Delg’s battered axe rode in his hands, and he stared ahead, looking for certain moonlit crags to guide him to the best way down into Cormyr again.

  In his mind, Mirt saw Delg’s dead, staring face, and muttered to himself that he really was getting too old for adventuring.

  When Mirt fell for the third time, the cold mists and the lightening gloom told them dawn was not far off. The Old Wolf announced wearily that he’d fall asleep walking if they went on. Narm and Shandril both murmured exhausted agreement, and a moment later they slumped together in a little dell, sitting on the turf. Wearily the old merchant wrestled Delg’s pack from his back and felt in it for a prickly handful of kindling.

  “Is that wise?” Narm was yawning as he spoke.

  Mirt managed a shrug in reply—and then stiffened. The other end of the chain Delg had broken must have somehow fallen into the pack. As the Old Wolf’s arm came out with kindling, the fine gold lay curving along it. Mirt stared. Dangling from the chain was a tiny four-pointed star fashioned of some white metal, set atop a tiny black anvil. Mirt touched it, shaking his head in wonder. “He was an Ironstar dwarf,” he murmured.

  “What’s that?” Narm bent forward, his voice thick with sleepiness.

  “The fabled lost clan of the dwarves,” Mirt said, his weary voice echoing with awe. “The mightiest, most noble dwarven house, driven into hiding long ago. They’re a legend among the Stout Folk—and among men who delve for metal, too.” Tears came into the old adventurer’s eyes. “Ah, Delg,” he growled and shook his head again.

  Shandril began to cry—and in the same instant, Narm began to snore. Mirt looked over at them. The young mage was asleep where he sat, face gray and drawn with exhaustion, eyes open and unseeing, his mouth gaping. Shandril shook, huddled into a ball, beside him.

  Long, still moments passed before Mirt went to lay a comforting hand on her head. Tears streamed down the face she lifted to him, and dripped silently from her chin. Shandril’s eyes were very gray as she bit her lip to keep from weeping loudly. She looked at Narm anxiously, not wanting to wake him.

  Mirt put an awkward arm around her shoulders. They shook, and Shandril whimpered once, deep in her throat, before she thrust her face against his chest and began to sob. Mirt held her tightly and said nothing. He’d done this before in his life, more than once, but still did not know any words to give her that were both comforting and true. Perhaps there were none.

  He stared into the little fire he’d kindled and saw places far away and faces from long ago. The Old Wolf barely noticed when the girl in his arms fell into an exhausted sleep. He was still sitting there when the last coals died away to gray ashes and the pale dawn came creeping over the crags.

  12

  WHAT FOUL WIZARDRY

  Raise not thy voice in anger, lest the sleeping dragon wake.

  Old saying of Faerûn, set down by

  Glarthlyn of Silverymoon, Sage

  Shadows in the Firelight

  Year of Dark Frost

  Somewhere in the Stonelands, Manshoon turned in satisfaction from his scrying ball.

  “It’s time,” he said softly, looking around at the encampment. Fear was in the faces that looked back at him; even the veteran Zhentilar here were wary of the High Lord of Zhentil Keep. Ma
nshoon had spent much of yestereve raising their dead comrades until an army of zombies stood around the clearing, silently waiting.

  “The wench’s fire has burnt out for now,” the high lord said as he strode across the sward to pluck a jack of hot wine-and-mushrooms broth out of the hand of a startled soldier. He drained it, tossed it back, and added, “She’ll be easy prey.” The soldier nodded uncertainly, not speaking.

  Manshoon turned. “Beluard? Where are you?”

  “Here, Lord.” His latest apprentice trotted hastily up to the master, wiping broth from his lips with the back of one hand. Manshoon favored him with a wolfish smile.

  “You recall my discussions with Sarhthor about arranging shortages of pork and sugar in Sembia?”

  “To drive prices up just before our caravans arrive, Lord?”

  Manshoon nodded. “Do it,” he said, and vanished. The last thing Beluard saw was his cold smile.

  For a moment the apprentice stared at the spot where Manshoon had stood, and then looked fearfully at the zombies standing all around. They stood in a gray, putrid, unbroken ring—the thin passage he’d threaded through them moments earlier seemed to have disappeared.

  Beluard took a deep breath, looked into undead eyes that stared back at him with hundreds of dark, glassy stares, and wondered if he dared to walk through them. The stench of death was very strong, and he stood there a long time licking his lips, face paling, trying to decide.

  The ring of stones was old, old beyond the eldest ruined towers Manshoon had seen in Myth Drannor. Perhaps elves had raised it in the dim past—or men who worked magic before Netheril was proud.

  The builders had certainly commanded great magic. Down long ages, through gale and blizzard and lightning crashing from the sky, the stones large as giants floated in a ring above the turf and never fell. Some power kept even the smallest birds and wild things away from the silent ring. There was something comforting in such titanic strength of Art—something that awed even Manshoon. He came here when he needed to think, to be alone, and to feel comforted.

  It was also the place he knew best in the Stonelands—a sure destination to teleport to. Out of habit, Manshoon put a hand on one of his magical rods as he stepped out of the teleport spell’s swirling mists and into the stony ring. From here it would be only a short walk to a height Shandril and her companions would have to pass.

  He stiffened. Men were standing by the cliff edge, just beyond the ring. Men in robes, and others in familiar dark armor. Manshoon relaxed just a little. What were mages and soldiers of the Brotherhood doing here?

  They had seen him. Swords slid out, and one sorcerer reached for a wand. Manshoon recognized him: Ghaubhan Szaurr, his double agent. Another traitor who wanted spellfire for himself.

  “Unhand that wand, or die,” Manshoon said coldly. He waited until the sounds of surprised recognition had died and the Zhentilar who were readying crossbows had set them down again. Then he favored them all with a wintry smile—and struck.

  Lightnings crackled white and terrible from the rod he held, and men died. He lashed out again at the shouting, running men of the Brotherhood. Warriors scrambled for cover, but their armor cooked them, lightnings dancing around the dark metal like swarms of angry insects, and, screaming, they died. A few magelings were robed in the shimmering cloaks of protective spells, and still lived. They made the pitiful beginnings of spells, shouting and stammering incantations so sloppily in their fear that Manshoon winced at the sounds—and then he worked more powerful magic and they died too, jerking and gasping and falling.

  So perish all traitors. Manshoon strode forward, plying the rod with cold precision, until only one man was left.

  Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr stood trembling in his black cloak at the edge of the cliff, one hand on his wand again. The fading, darkening shimmering of a failing protective spell hung around him.

  He did not dare draw forth the wand he held as Manshoon’s cold smile and dark, dark eyes held his. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep strode toward him.

  “M-Master? Lord, what have we done? Why have you slain all my men?” Ghaubhan’s mouth was suddenly very dry. He licked his lips, swallowed, and tried again to speak. “Lord Manshoon? It is you, isn’t it?” The sorcerer’s eyes narrowed. “Or are you Elminster, using Art to look like my lord?”

  Manshoon’s lips twisted. “Elminster!” he spat. “Try not to insult me more than you have already, Ghaubhan. Traitor.”

  “Traitor? Never, Lord! I swear t—”

  Manshoon gave him another wintry smile. “I found Asklannan’s book.” He watched a sickly look grow on Ghaubhan’s face, then added, “I know the orders you’ve given, and the plans you’ve made. Ramath was my creature from the beginning.”

  Ghaubhan stared at him in despair—and then, suddenly, grabbed for the wand at his belt.

  With two fingers, Manshoon made a very small gesture.

  The Dread Master felt the tingling and twisting, and looked down. His hand was shifting, turning green—and hissing. His arm now ended in the head of a serpent, which rose, reared back, and showed him fangs as it prepared to strike. Ghaubhan stared into its glittering eyes, looked up in horror at Manshoon’s grimly smiling face—and then whirled around and ran with a despairing scream.

  The edge of the cliff was very near, and in a moment, Ghaubhan Szaurr was gone.

  Manshoon walked to the edge, looked out for a moment at Cormyr spread out below him, and then peered down at the broken body on the rocks far, far beneath the height on which he stood.

  A dusty gray bone vulture had been disturbed into flight by the sorcerer’s dying plunge. It circled, thick wings flapping, and began its slow spiral down to the remains.

  Manshoon watched it and sighed. So we all, in the end, feed the carrion birds … or the worms. Then he stirred, slid the rod into its sheath at his belt, smiled, and turned away. What need had he of flying skulls, zombie hosts, or incompetent underlings? He’d wasted enough time here. It was past time to seize spellfire.

  The High Lord of Zhentil Keep walked past the sprawled corpses without even looking at them. He had quite enough zombies already.

  As they descended through ravine after ravine, Mirt tried again to talk some sense into Shandril. “Will ye not change yer mind about this craziness of going up against Manshoon? Ye’ll be killed, lass!”

  Shandril stared at him, eyes burning and chin lifted, and said slowly and very clearly, “I will not run away any longer. If foes seek me, they shall find me, before they expect to, and bearing less mercy than they might hope to find. If that is not the Harper way—too bad! Now guide me to Zhentil Keep—or I’ll walk that way, whatever the dangers, and Narm with me.”

  Narm nodded, and echoed quietly, “I’ll be with you.”

  Mirt shook his shaggy head and sighed. “If you must rush to your death, Shan, the fastest way is still south and west, a little ways more, to Eveningstar. It may take us the rest of this day—but it’ll save ye a tenday of walking in dangerous backlands. What say ye?”

  For a moment, Shandril stared at him with those blazing eyes, then nodded. “Start walking.”

  Mirt made a noise that might have been a chuckle, and turned without another word to lead the way to Eveningstar.

  Elminster frowned and set down the small crystal orb he’d been staring into. “Hold still, Storm,” he said, striding over to where Storm sat by the campfire.

  The Bard of Shadowdale froze obediently, the pan she’d been about to pack away still in her hands. Elminster put a hand on her head and muttered a few words.

  Storm tingled all over. A whirling light seemed to spin and snap in her mind. When his hand was gone, she looked up cautiously, and asked, “What was that?”

  “A spell to make thee more powerful at sorcery. It lasts only a little while—but that’s all the time we should need it for.” Elminster took hold of her shoulders and knelt facing her. Eyes bent on her own, he uttered some harsh, sliding words, and touched the first two fingers
of his left hand to the bridge of her nose.

  Force boiled through her, and the silver-haired bard found herself gasping, on her back on the ground, fingers twitching and wriggling as a yellow haze swirled and eddied in her head. “And just what, El, was that?” she gasped as her vision cleared.

  “A spell that allows ye to shoot forth a ray that’ll wipe some of a wizard’s spells right out of his mind.” Elminster gave her a grin that was not pleasant to look at, then added, “Too powerful for ye to carry normally—but I need ye to hit Manshoon with it, very soon now.”

  “Manshoon?” The bard was getting a little tired of gasping in surprise, but Elminster had managed to take her breath away again.

  “Aye. Now put that pan down, get away from the fire, and belt up! Ye’ve been after me to aid Shandril—well, now it’s time. The Zhentarim have been far too busy for their own good, and they’ve rushed things a little. Timing, and all that. Stand ye back, roll the drums, and—bring on Manshoon!”

  Elminster’s severe expression melted into a reassuring smile—just for an instant—and then his hands were moving, and he stared into the fire and mouthed curses Storm could not quite hear. She found herself glad of that.

  Ah, this was the place. Manshoon walked the last few steps to the narrow bridge of rock that led to the bare, windswept summit. He risked leaning out to glance down. Yes, there they were. The fat one, the young mage, and Shandril in a gully that turned toward him and passed under the overhanging cliff. Perfect.

  Manshoon took a step onto the stone bridge—and then paused as a robed figure suddenly appeared in his way. It was an old man with a mop of white hair and beard, a mockingly raised eyebrow, and features Manshoon knew only too well.

  “Well met,” Elminster of Shadowdale said wryly, not quite bowing. “Nice weather up here, isn’t it, Manshoon?”

  Manshoon snarled like one of his own hunting dogs and raised a hand threateningly.

  Elminster looked innocently at it, then mildly met Manshoon’s angry gaze. “Something troubling ye? Lack of spellfire, perhaps?”