Crown of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Priests traded unhappy glances and spread their hands helplessly, not daring to speak.

  “Must I do everything myself?” Sarhthor and Fzoul snarled in unison. They stopped and looked at each other in the sudden silence. Then, very slowly, they traded cold smiles, and strode to the door together.

  “Are you resolved then, lass?”

  “I am,” Shandril said firmly.

  Narm looked at her with pleading eyes. “You’ve killed Manshoon and other Zhentarim galore and half a hundred beholders. Isn’t it time to stop?”

  He looked around Tessaril’s audience chamber for support, but found none. Mirt sat with a friendly arm about each of the Harper pleasure-queens, Tessaril was behind her desk—and Shandril sat on it in their midst. Her long hair tossed behind her as she shook her head and leaned forward.

  “I want to stop, love—you know how much I do—but they’ll never leave us alone as long as they can put this defeat down to a mageling’s carelessness, that defeat down to ill luck, and everything else down to Elminster’s aid.” She waved one hand in exasperation. “None of them saw Manshoon die—even Mirt and Tess keep telling me he’ll be back from the grave in a few days. And all of them still think they can get spellfire if they can only catch me asleep or worn out or with my pants down in a privy. The worst of it is, they’re right. I’ve got to strike at them first, before they can spin another dozen traps and plans for me.”

  “There’s no place you can run to that the Zhentarim can’t find you,” Tessaril added softly. The three Harpers nodded.

  “All right,” Narm said grimly, “we’ll see this through. I just wish you’d never had spellfire, and the Zhentarim had never even heard of us.”

  “My, lad, but don’t ye wear the crown of martyrdom well,” Mirt said sarcastically. “All of us gripe at what the gods have given us in life—but the best of us go out and do something about it. Can’t ye see yer lady’s trying to do just that?”

  Narm glared at him and then nodded reluctantly. “I still think it’d be wiser to run for Silverymoon now—our best chance for a safe trip is while the Zhentarim are still disorganized.”

  “Giving them time to rebuild and try for you again,” Oelaerone put in, “as Shan says.”

  “A new leader will take them after new things—not throw more wizards away in going after spellfire when it’s cost them so much already,” Narm argued.

  Mirt growled. “Bah! Where’s Elminster, now that we need him to talk some sense into ye? Ye would turn down spellfire if ye led the Zhents—but power draws them, as moths flutter about a flame, and they will snatch again and again at the flame, even after they’ve been burned a time or two.”

  Narm looked thoughtful. “After all the deaths and the citadel laid waste around them? You really think so?”

  Mirt’s expression was exasperated. “Lad, lad—never credit the Zhents with too much good sense. What have they been doing to ye since Shadowdale, eh? Trying for ye again and again, whate’er their losses.”

  Narm stared at the far wall for a moment and then said, “You’re right. That’s exactly what they’ve been doing.” He looked at Mirt. “I’m sorry—I haven’t your experience, and shouldn’t be arguing with what you’ve seen to be true.”

  Mirt reached a long arm around Belarla and clapped Narm’s shoulder with enough force to make the young mage bounce in his chair. “That’s all right, lad. Never known a young wizard that didn’t argue. Besides,” he rumbled gently, “I lost ye Delg. The least I can do is give ye half the good advice he would have.”

  “Come what may,” Shandril said to her husband, “I’m going back to the citadel—now, while most of the Zhentarim are gathered there hunting for my blood—and bring all this harrying to an end once and for all. This time, at least, I’ll have some friends with me.”

  “Aye,” Mirt rumbled. “We’re all coming.” There was a general chorus of agreement.

  Narm nodded finally and said, “Agreed.” Then he looked at Tessaril, a question in his eyes.

  The Lord of Eveningstar nodded. “I have teleport scrolls ready for all of us, including you—and a sorceress once showed me how to work what she called a ‘mass teleport,’ where we all go together. This time,” she added simply, “the battle must be for all—or nothing.”

  Mirt nodded. “Let’s eat first,” he growled.

  As the group rose and began filing out toward the kitchen, Mirt steered the young mage by one elbow out the door, across the entry hall, and up the grand stair. When they’d reached the seclusion of the statues above, Mirt stopped among them and said grimly, “Listen, lad. We Harpers’re along to see to the Zhents that Shan can’t stop in time. There’ll be bowmen, priests, and wizards behind every door and tapestry, trust me. Stopping her, if she should go out of control and start behaving like another Manshoon, is yer task.”

  “What?” Narm’s face was white with anger. “You want me to slay the lady I love? Why of all folk in Faerûn did you dare to ask me?”

  “Ye married her,” was the gruff reply as the Old Wolf stalked away and started back down the stairs.

  “Yes, but—” Narm found himself arguing with empty air. He took a few quick steps after Mirt and demanded, “Even if I wanted to, how could I stop Shan? How?”

  The old merchant swung around and fixed Narm with one gimlet eye. “I know not, lad, but ye’d best be learning. As I said, ye married her.”

  “My thanks, Sarhthor, for a very good hunch as to where they’d be.” Fzoul lifted his gaze from the new disc of water that he and his underpriests had conjured in Wizards’ Watch Tower. He moved away, and Tessaril’s features in the scrying pool wavered and disappeared as the magic faded.

  He signaled the priests to let it collapse, then snapped at Sarhthor, “Go—ready our warriors!”

  Sarhthor only nodded, and Fzoul saw the weariness in his face. “Get some rest,” the high priest added. “I’ll be needing you soon.”

  “You will indeed,” Sarhthor replied, so quietly that Fzoul’s next coldly spoken orders drowned out the sound.

  Finished with his lackeys, the high priest strode out the room, down the stairs, and to the Spell Court.

  “Who speaks for Bane?” Elthaulin’s voice rang out, echoing from the towers around the courtyard as Fzoul came in. The upperpriest held the scepter of Bane high above his head. Sunlight gleamed on the glossy-smooth black hand at its tip.

  “The darkness of night,” half a hundred throats replied.

  “Who walks the night?”

  “Those who are faithful,” came the unison response.

  “How shall they be known?”

  “By the blood they spill,” the assembly thundered.

  Elthaulin brought the scepter down into the shield-sized bowl of black blood in front of him. Its level of liquid began to drop immediately. “Behold our sacrifice to the Dread Lord! Behold, the Great Lord Bane drinks the blood we have given! Behold!”

  In triumph, he held up the empty bowl. “Bane is satis—”

  “I’m sure,” Fzoul’s dry voice cut in, and sudden silence fell. The Master of the Black Altar added, “Enough, Elthaulin. Have done with ritual, Brothers—I need you all ready for battle within the hour. This Shandril is coming for me, and she’ll find her way here, no doubt, all too soon.”

  A rush of shocked, obedient priests followed. Amid the hurrying clamor, Fzoul stopped a servant and murmured some commands. The servant rushed off, and Fzoul strolled unconcernedly across the courtyard.

  Wondering priests, on their knees to pray to Bane for spells, looked up in awe at his cool and calm manner. Only when he was well inside the tower again and sure they could no longer see him did Fzoul break into a run, taking the stairs in frantic haste.

  Tessaril came out onto the porch and found her herald sitting with the guards, correcting a blazon with careful strokes of his brush.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Tzin,” she said quietly, and the tone of her voice made him look up quickly. “I charge you to
assume command of the king’s affairs and of justice in Eveningstar for a time. I’m going to the Citadel of the Raven—to war.”

  Mouths dropped open all down the porch. The blood drained from the herald’s face, and he started to say something.

  Tessaril held up a hand to forestall the torrent of words she knew was coming, then said, “If I do not come back, tell Azoun I did what I had to do—and that I have always loved him.” Her voice trembled, and fell to a whisper. “It has been an honor to serve the Purple Dragon.”

  She turned away quickly then, before her voice broke, and hurried back inside her tower. She did not want to look even once at the beautiful village around her—in case it should prove to be the last time.

  Fzoul found the room he was looking for. He chose a mace, a weighty hammer, and a javelin from the racks around its walls. The weapons hefted well in his hands. Next he turned his attention to the wall, where he knew a secret rune was hidden. The high priest smiled as he found it, pushed and turned the rune-adorned panel, and watched part of the wall swing open.

  The niche within held a skull, a mummified hand, and several bottles of brown glass. He chose one bottle, wiped the dust from it, undid the seal, and experimentally licked the yellow liquid within.

  The burning sensation on his tongue made him nod with satisfaction; it was still deadly—to others, at least. Over years of careful exposure, he’d built up a resistance to this particular poison. Carefully the high priest anointed the weapons he’d chosen, girded himself about with them, replaced the bottle, and closed the door of its hiding place.

  Then he descended to the forehall of the tower, stood on a paving stone that had been enchanted by Manshoon years ago, and spoke one of the words the mage had taught him. An almost inaudible singing sound answered him as the hidden spell engine Manshoon had prepared spun silently out of another plane and into solid existence in Faerûn. It could appear only in this place, but Fzoul—being the spellfire maid’s target—was just the bait to bring her here to face it.

  Fzoul could not see the spell engine, but he knew that it now filled most of the room behind him: a great wheel that would begin to spin if spells struck it, absorbing the magic to power itself. Manshoon’s greatest work. It drank all magic cast at it.

  Fzoul smiled tightly, opened the front door of the tower, and waited.

  As though on cue, a man appeared in the doorway—a man in dark leathers, a bow slung at his back. He panted briefly, then caught his breath. “You sent for us, Lord?”

  “Aye,” Fzoul said, looking out at the score of Zhentilar archers gathered there. “Thank you for your promptness; it is appreciated. Do any of you bear any sort of magic item with you? Anything that carries an enchantment?”

  One man held up a dagger.

  “Leave it outside,” Fzoul ordered, “and retrieve it later. To carry it into this chamber could mean your doom.”

  Several other archers hastily divested themselves of small items; Fzoul hid a smile by turning away and saying, “Come!”

  In the forehall, he turned to face them. “Ready bows, and conceal yourselves behind the tapestries in this room, and in doorways and entries all around the Spell Court. I want you hidden, mind, and silent until I give the signal, thus. Respond only to this signal: other archers will be stationed openly in the court. Orders to them to loose shafts, or their doing so, are not orders for you to fire.”

  The high priest looked at them coldly. “When your signal does come, you are to fire at the intruders—not to kill, whatever they do, but only to bring down your targets. I will inform you verbally if there are any changes in these orders once battle begins.”

  His face melted into a slow, soft smile that held no mirth or friendliness, and he added, “I don’t need to warn you what your fate will be if you should happen to send an arrow my way. The wizards of our Brotherhood are running short of people to test new spells on.”

  He looked around briskly. “Any questions?” Silence. He clapped his hands. “Right—string bows, and hide yourselves! Be ready!”

  When they were hidden, Fzoul strolled quickly around Spell Court, nodded his satisfaction, and went back to the forehall.

  Standing not far inside the doors, he drew a deck of cards from a pocket in his robes, and idly began to play a betting game he was fond of. Without other players, he merely dealt two cards off the top of the deck to see what hand Tymora, the goddess of luck—or his own lord, Bane—had given him.

  The first two cards were a magician and a priestess, one of the two best hands in the game. Fzoul smiled in satisfaction. The second hand consisted of two priest cards, and his smile faded. They were the weakest hand one could draw. Whoever devised the game had not been fond of priests, he thought darkly, and drew another hand.

  This time, he drew the other highest possible hand, and hummed to himself contentedly as he shuffled the deck.

  He’d barely finished humming that first song when suddenly, figures appeared in Spell Court, very near the Wizards’ Watch Tower. Fzoul recognized the slim, curvaceous Lord of Eveningstar; a fat, aging man whom Fzoul knew to be a Lord of Waterdeep; two pleasure-queens of the citadel; the young mage—and his mate, the lass who wielded spellfire. An odd band of heroes, to be sure.

  Fzoul smiled tightly and gestured with his free hand. Arrows sang as they flew.

  20

  CROWN OF FIRE

  There is no greater glory in the Realms than winning—or defending—a crown. Never forget that.

  … Even wizards can surprise ye.

  Mirt the Moneylender

  Wanderings With Quill and Sword

  Year of Rising Mist

  Shandril, behind her companions, raised her hands, and spellfire poured out. A bright net of spellflame suddenly surrounded the party. The arrows striking it burst into white pulses of light, hissing, and were gone.

  “Come!” she cried, and strode to the door of Wizards’ Watch Tower, keeping the bright net of flames behind them all. The Zhentilar soldiers around the edges of the courtyard did not follow, their faces fearful.

  From where he stood near the door, Fzoul watched her come, and he knew his own moment of fear. The maid’s spellfire seemed stronger than ever. Her eyes blazed like two small stars, and her feet left flaming footprints in the spell-guarded stone. He dragged his glance up from that astonishing sight and managed to greet her with a polite smile on his face.

  “Welcome, Shandril Shessair. I’ve been waiting for you. Fzoul Chembryl, at your service.”

  Fzoul willed the playing card in his right hand to melt into its true shape: a wand. It fired. He was still smiling as its radiant bolts leapt out to strike Belarla, Oelaerone, Tessaril—and Narm.

  Shandril snarled at him wordlessly, and her spellfire roared out to form another defensive net. She glanced behind her to see if her companions were within her shield of flames. Narm was crumpling to his knees, face twisted in pain, and Tessaril was staggering as she tried to hold a swaying Belarla upright.

  Shandril also saw Zhentilar guards in black leather as they stepped out from behind tapestries to block the doorway behind her. Beyond them, the archers whose arrows had greeted their arrival were closing in across Spell Court, bows in their hands.

  Anger rose and coiled like spellfire within her. “You’re good at trapping things, Zhentarim,” she spat angrily, “but let’s see if you’re any better than Manshoon at holding them.” She drew back her hand and hurled a blazing ball of spellfire at Fzoul.

  He stood watching calmly as it roared toward him, spitting flames. Then it seemed to swerve sideways, smashing into—a great, shining wheel of translucent force that appeared behind Fzoul. Spellfire splashed furiously along its edge, glowed, and was absorbed.

  Fzoul bowed mockingly. “I’m sorry for any humiliation this might cause you, Shandril—but I fear I must ask you to kneel and cast away any weapons you may be carrying. Or die, of course.”

  Elthaulin strode angrily into the nave of the Black Altar, his soft shoes
slipping on the polished marble underfoot.

  “Neaveil! Oprion!” he called, his voice echoing irreverently in the lofty darkness. Startled heads turned, but he paid them no heed. If Fzoul was going to interrupt devout rituals, Elthaulin could trample on a few meaningless traditions.

  “Yes, Master of Doom?” Oprion was at his side swiftly, as always.

  Elthaulin smiled approvingly at him. “Assemble all temple troops here, and any underpriests you deem more loyal to me than to Fzoul.”

  Oprion’s eyes widened. “What has befallen?”

  “Fzoul’s facing the wench with spellfire in the citadel—right now! He may well perish, or be left so weak we can seize power once and for all. Assemble everyone you can! Haste, for the love of Bane! All of you!”

  Priests scrambled away at his bidding. Unseen, one dodged out an archway and took a hidden way to the street. There his features changed, melting into those of a powerful and well-known wizard. Sarhthor was an old hand at quickly and quietly slipping away.

  “Kneel before you?” Shandril flung the incredulous question like a weapon at the high priest as she leapt toward him, tugging out her dagger.

  Fzoul gestured with one hand.

  Shandril heard bows twang. She screamed as a shaft took her in the shoulder with numbing force, spinning her around. A second shaft that would have found her breast missed as she fell, humming over her straight into the throat of a Zhentilar warrior blocking the doorway—just as the bloody point of Mirt’s sword burst through the man’s black leather tunic.

  Grunting with the effort, Mirt snatched up the guard’s body and staggered forward, using it as a shield.

  Fzoul shouted orders. Arrows whipped and whirred around the room. The guard’s body was rapidly transfixed with shafts that leapt, hissing, into the limp flesh as Mirt slowly advanced.