Crown of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  A tongue of flame slid out of one of the skull’s eye sockets, and the woman moaned in fear. She swung the sword weakly at the flames, shrank back, and cried, “Tempus aid me!”

  Iliph Thraun laughed aloud and struck at the woman with its whip of flames. She screamed, waving the sword ineffectually as the fire raged around her. The lich lord lashed the woman with flames until she crumpled and fell, hair smoldering. Then it flew on into the upper levels of Tessaril’s Tower.

  At the top of the next flight of stairs, Narm and Shandril sat together on a bench, weapons in hand, uncertain of what to do as crashes and cries came up to them from below. At first, they didn’t see the silently floating skull drifting up the darkened stairs. Then Narm scrambled up with a startled curse and hurled a hasty swarm of bright bolts at it.

  Shandril stared at the skull. “What is it?” she asked of the world at large as Narm’s missiles hit home. Bright pulses struck bone and burst and flared around the skull, but it seemed to ignore them. It opened its mouth and spat spellfire at Shandril.

  Narm leapt between Shandril and the reaching spellflames, shuddering as spellfire struck him and swirled around his shoulder. The young mage staggered, but the skull rose quickly to direct its stream of flames over him—and into Shandril’s breast.

  Shandril gasped in surprise. It was spellfire! Then her face hardened, and her eyes and hands began to flame.

  “Yes! Yesss!” the skull hissed, as she hurled the conflagration back at it. Narm lifted a face tight with pain to peer at the skull, and he gasped—it was feeding on the spellfire Shan was using on it.

  Shandril hurled streams of spellfire at the thing. It chuckled, teeth clattering hollowly. She set her jaw and wove the blaze into a bright net of flames, cutting the air with so many arcs of fire that the skull could not avoid them.

  The skull plunged into the fiery net and spun there among the strongest flames. Where spellfire touched it, the burning fury darkened and died. The residue slid weirdly into the fissures and gaps in the bones—all except the eye sockets and gaping mouth, which poured an ever-increasing stream of spellfire back at her.

  Spellflames engulfed the girl, raging and roaring. Shandril shuddered under the attack—every inch of her seemed to be trembling uncontrollably—and then struggled to advance against the skull’s stream of spellfire. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, her face contorted with pain.

  “Shan! Nooo!” Narm screamed, but she seemed not to hear. He gulped, took two running steps, and leapt, reaching for the skull. His hands slid over smooth hardness and into the eye sockets. There they found burning, excruciating pain. Narm threw back his head and howled, as roaring blackness rushed up to claim him. Despairing, wreathed in the skull’s fire—Shandril’s stolen spellfire—Narm fell screaming into that onrushing darkness.

  Shandril stared as Narm toppled heavily to the floor, body blazing. His screams ceased abruptly as his limbs flopped loosely on the stone. Then he lay very still.

  Silence fell. The skull’s attack had ceased even as Shandril’s did. In horror, she stared down at her husband. The skull glided slowly forward to hang over her. It leered down, glowing, opened its mouth in echoing mirth—and then fell suddenly quiet, hanging motionless, its flames flickering and fading.

  In a dark room deep in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, Sarhthor, mage of the Zhentarim, sat at a black table and stared at a tiny skull that hovered above it. The skull was carved from human bone—from a bone of one Iliph Thraun, lord among liches. Small radiances swirled around it, chasing each other in little currents and eddies as Sarhthor bent his will against the far-off lich lord.

  Sweat ran down his face, and his hands trembled as he stared fixedly at the carved skull. Wrestling with the cold will of Iliph Thraun across a great and echoing distance, Sarhthor reached deep and found strength he hadn’t known was there—and held the lich lord from attacking Shandril.

  Weeping, Shandril hurled herself on Narm, as she had done long ago in Thunder Gap. Dragonfire had ravaged him then—but this was spellfire. Lips to lips, flesh to flesh, she embraced him frantically, pouring healing spellfire into him.

  Above them, the skull quivered, and its eyes flashed flame. Then it shook again, more feebly, and hung motionless.

  The door opened suddenly without a knock, and Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar of Bane, strode in. “What are you doing?” he asked coldly.

  The miniature skull sank down to land softly on the table, and a weary Sarhthor looked up at him. “Lord Manshoon left this means to compel the lich lord with Art, and gave me orders to use it in his absence to prevent the lichnee from passing out of our control,” he explained. The wizard shook his head and wiped sweat out of his eyes. “I’m not the mage he is—and perhaps I lack some detail or secret to make this work, too; I can’t seem to contact Iliph Thraun properly. The lich is there, all right—but it seems almost as though something greater stands against us, fighting me.”

  “Elminster?” Fzoul snapped, wondering who else could be interfering with the skull in Manshoon’s absence.

  “Nay, nay; something greater. Bane, perhaps.” Sarhthor said that with a straight face but inner pleasure; the priests of the Black Altar never like to be reminded of their rebellion against church authority—and how the Dark One himself might feel about it.

  “Our Lord?” Fzoul’s voice was harsh. He tried to scoff, but it didn’t sound convincing. The two men stared coldly at each other for a breath or two.

  Then Sarhthor shrugged, and waved at the miniature skull lying motionless on the tabletop. “Try for yourself. My skill is not great enough to know clearly who it is.”

  Sarhthor took care to hide all signs of his inward smile as Fzoul silently but savagely spun around and stalked out.

  The lich lord hissed suddenly, and its eyes lit with flame. Freed of the restraint from afar, it sank down to bite into Shandril’s shoulder as she lay atop her husband. The spellfire that blazed from her pulsed and flickered as the skull began to drain her, hauling energy out of her reluctant body slowly at first, and then with greater speed.

  A grim and blackened Thrulgar burst into the room then, at the head of a handful of white-faced but grimly loyal Evenor farmers. They clutched pikes and pitchforks, and sleepiness battled horror in their eyes as they stared at the skull.

  By then, the lich lord was strong enough to rise from Shandril and lash out with rays of stolen spellfire. The sudden flames hurled the men to blazing and broken deaths against the walls of the room.

  Weeping amid the dying shouts and screams, Shandril lay sprawled atop Narm, feeling spellfire flowing steadily out of her. Twisting feebly, she tried to gather her will but could not stop the flow. The skull was draining her with frightening speed. A bright path of radiance, spellfire being sucked out of her forever, now linked her with the grisly thing as it floated low overhead, chuckling. Shandril struggled to pull free by willing a sudden surge of spellfire into the bone thing. It hissed at her in anger—but the steady flow of its draining continued, and the fire within her was fading fast.

  Narm lay lifeless beneath her. Shandril stared up at the grinning skull, and cold fear crawled along her spine. The only way to stop this skull slaughtering everyone in this town—in Cormyr, and even in Faerûn—was to cut off its supply of spellfire.

  And the only way to do that was to end her own life.

  Shuddering, Shandril crawled toward a dagger, fallen beside Thrulgar’s hand. The lich’s spellfire suddenly flailed her as the skull realized her intent. It wanted all she had; she must not die yet. Tears nearly blinding her, Shandril gripped the weapon and slowly, determinedly, brought it to herself. Would dying hurt much? She swallowed, shut her eyes against sudden tears, and pressed the keen, cold edge against her throat.…

  The roar of spellfire that rose around her now was deafening, numbing; it shook her like a leaf.… Could she complete the task? Angry spellfire thundered around her. Tears sizzled on her cheeks as the white heat dried them. She fe
lt a sudden, chilling jab at her shoulder: the skull had set its teeth in her again. In the storm of flames, Shandril struggled on, trying to die.…

  14

  SKULL UNLAID FORBEAR THEE

  When death comes unlooked-for, it finds a way into the strongest fortress. It does no good to set extra guards at the gates.

  Asargrym of Baldur’s Gate

  A Merchant Master’s Life

  Year of the Blue Flame

  “Ah, now we come to it, lass; ’tis time.”

  “Time for what?” Storm Silverhand had been drifting off pleasantly to that place of dreams where gods whispered to mortals. Elminster had finished his tale, and the stars still glimmered watchfully overhead.

  “For ye to guard me—remember, ye came on this ride to guard me?”

  Storm rolled over and smiled sleepily at him. “I still can’t imagine what I can protect you against that you can’t guard against better yourself.”

  Elminster patted her bare shoulder affectionately and said, “Stand guard over my body while I go dream-weaving.”

  “Dream-weaving? You?”

  “I know no better way of putting ideas into the minds of sleeping folk to sway them into doing certain things without clumsy coercion or betraying my hand in it.”

  Storm nodded, stretched, and got up, shrugging on her leather jacket. “I knew it was too soon to take off my boots,” she said sweetly, stepping back into them with a sigh.

  Elminster waved a hand. “Ye won’t need them—who’s to see thy bare feet, out here in the night?”

  Storm smiled. “The ones who’ll be attacking, of course.”

  Elminster shook his head at that, and smiled. “Ah, ye al—”

  Then he broke off, swayed, and turned to her, his face suddenly grim. “I must attend to things, it seems,” he said, snatching up his staff.

  “Shandril?” Storm asked, her long sword already in her hands.

  Elminster shook his head. “Narm. When I trained him, I linked to him—and I’ve just felt him die.”

  Storm’s face paled. “Old Mage,” she said quickly, “may I?”

  Elminster inclined his head. “Of course.” The mists took them.

  They were in a room of stone, strewn with fallen farmers, splintered and tumbled furniture, and small plumes of smoke and dying flames. Elminster seemed to know where they were. He was staring not at Narm’s sprawled body, but at who lay atop him: Shandril Shessair.

  She lay curled on her side, unmoving. A human skull hovered over her, its teeth locked on her shoulder. The flesh there shrank as they watched, dwindling toward bare bones. There was a line of blood at Shandril’s throat, and the knife that had made it lay fallen by her open hand.

  “By Mystra’s bloody beauty!” Eyes blazing, Elminster was hurrying across the room.

  The skull rose from its feeding, fixed its gaze on him—and opened its bony jaws to hurl spellfire. The angry blast of spellfire tore through the Old Mage; its flames leapt out of his back and scorched the wall beyond.

  Shocked, Storm saw him stagger, tremble, and then struggle on toward the skull. Elminster’s body seemed to be alive with flames. He advanced slowly, fighting against the flowing spellfire like a man walking against a deep, fast stream. As he went, his staff blazed into life. Pulses of radiance raced along it to where the Old Mage’s hands held it. When they reached his hands, he tossed the staff aside, grunting in pain. Storm thought he looked suddenly very old.

  Elminster reached the skull, took it firmly in hands that caught fire, and hurled it against a wall. There was a roar of spellfire. Sparks as big as a man’s hand—bigger by far than the blackened, smoking, ruined extremities the Old Mage was now holding up, groaning in pain—winked and leapt around the room. Smoke rose where they touched.

  Elminster’s staff shattered with a noise like thunder, and the room was suddenly dark. A single, glowing light remained against the wall, growing slowly brighter.

  The skull was cracked but still hung together, spellfire swirling around it. Storm swallowed, and then set her teeth and leapt at it, bringing her blade down.

  The skull darted to one side. She pivoted and lashed out at it again. This time her blade just caught the edge of its jaw, and sent it tumbling end over end through the air.

  Desperately Storm ran after the skull, trying to hit it before it could spit spellfire at her.

  She failed. Flames roared out at her—and the bard flung herself frantically to the floor, landing hard on the cold flagstones. Then she was up, scant inches in front of the hungry blaze and dodging around the room, hacking at the darting, spinning skull as it spat swirling flames at her. She groaned, then screamed as spellfire burned her. Staggered, she slipped on a fallen sword and was burned again. The pain made her gasp, but she leapt over fallen townsfolk and fought on. She was burned again and again, the smell of her charred leathers growing ever stronger. Sweat ran down her limbs with the fury of her leaps and twists. She battled both the laughing skull, which hung always out of reach, and the agony inside her, which grew all too powerful as time went on.

  Storm smelled her own cooked flesh as she raised a burned arm to drag her long sword around for yet another strike, trying to smash the skull in a corner. It ducked and weaved under her blade, and shot free—only to spin about and spit gouts of spellfire at her as she ran desperately along a wall. Fire was suddenly all around her again, and Storm rolled, scraping over an armored body she couldn’t see. She fought to keep control of her stomach against the sickening pain of fresh burns. Though the pain made her weak, she kept up her attacks, trying to buy time for the radiance growing at her feet:

  Shandril, whose body was glowing ever brighter.

  Shandril’s eyelids fluttered as Storm rolled past her, and spellfire rained down all around. The bard staggered to her feet and faced the lich lord once more, circling to keep it from seeing Shandril. Storm’s heart soared as she slashed the air and forced the skull to back hastily away. Behind them both, Shandril stirred.

  The bard could barely stand now. Spellfire roared past her ears, and she heard her hair sizzle. Storm stumbled, moaning in her agony, bracing herself against the fresh pain she knew would come tearing into her.

  But it did not come. Blinking, Storm stared at the skull—and saw Shandril’s arm raised from the floor in front of her, gathering in all the spellfire that was meant to slay Storm. Shuddering in relief, the bard fell to her knees, leaning on her sword in exhaustion. Her silver hair swept down over her burned body, and she whimpered.

  Shandril looked at her once, and her eyes flamed. She rose, struggling against the stream of spellfire as Elminster had done, and snarled in sudden defiance. Spellfire roared out of her eyes, white-hot and destroying. The force of her blasts hurled the skull back against the farthest wall of the room and held it there. The skull tried to break free of the streaming flames, but could not. It tried to scrape along the wall, but she forced it into stillness, pinning it against the cracking and protesting stones with the continuous force of her blasting fire. She knew how to destroy it now—she hoped. When she’d willingly given it that surge of fire, it had been angry, and its draining hadn’t quickened.…

  A tongue of darker force curled out from the skull, reaching for her. Shandril watched it come, knowing that it would drain her of spellfire again if it reached her. She snarled and pounded the skull with her spellflames.

  The bony jaw moved, and the skull spoke. “Why do you tolerate these fools, child? How do you endure the stupidity of Those Who Harp? They waste their power helping others—craven weaklings, all. As are you, little one, for aiding them and consorting with such dross.”

  “And you, skull,” Shandril replied in a voice of cold, biting iron, “are too selfish to find any joy in aiding others, or in what good might befall them. If you think kindness and love are marks of weakness, you are the stupid one.”

  She strode forward. “I am tired of pain—and of what you have done to my friends. You want my spellfire so much—
well then: Take it! Take it all!”

  And she leaned forward to embrace the dark tentacle of flame that was straining to reach her. Spellfire rolled out of her—but this time, she did not fight it. Instead, she forced the energy out of her in waves, hurling it through the linkage at the ever-brighter skull that bobbed against the wall.

  A holocaust swirled around the skull, white and bright. The thing of bone shook, teeth chattering, and then a keening, rising wail escaped it: “NnnnooooooOOO!” The wail ended abruptly in a burst of flame.

  Shandril felt the brief, stinging rain of powdered bone on her cheeks—and then the room fell silent.

  In the sudden quiet, both women heard the Old Mage groan.

  In an inner chamber of the temple, Fzoul Chembryl reeled back from a font of water that still flashed and bubbled, and he howled in pain.

  The lich lord was gone—destroyed while it was linked to him. Fzoul clutched his head and shrieked. An upperpriest rushed in.

  “Master?” he asked hesitantly. Fzoul was crouched against the wall, whimpering.

  At the sound of his voice, the Master of the Black Altar turned his head and looked up. He stared at the upperpriest but did not see him—and small wonder: smoke was curling up from his eyes in two thin, gray plumes.…

  “Old Mage,” Storm whispered, “are you—all right?”

  “Of course I’m not all right,” Elminster replied as the bard rushed toward him. He tried to rise, and then reeled back, fires rising from his body. “Stay back!” he ordered Storm weakly, waving a hand. “There’s still enough spellfire in me to kill ye!”

  The Old Mage groaned, then raised his head, cleared his throat, and said testily, “Must I do everything, look ye? Can no one else save the Realms this time?” He seemed to be speaking not to the two women, but to someone else. Though no one answered him, Elminster nodded as though satisfied.