by Unknown
swordmaster, her hands going to her hips. An arrow sang toward her. The swordmaster's furious order
was too late to halt its flight but Shandril looked at it calmly, not moving. Under her gaze it caught fire,
blazed like a tiny, leaping star, and was gone in drifting sparks and smoke. The moan of awe and fear
from the watching villagers was louder than the startled oaths some of the Zhentilar uttered.
"You called me out," Shandril said in a terrible, hoarse whisper. Her eyes, blazing with fire, fixed on
the Zhentilar swordmaster. As she glared, flames roiled around her face - and then lanced out.
The Zhentilar's face paled as hissing flames leapt at him. He flung up an armored arm to shield his face.
The flames swelled to a sudden, savage roar. Then the swordmaster cried out in sudden pain, twisting
in his saddle. Smoke rose from the half-cloak about his shoulders. His mount reared under him,
neighing, and the torch fell from his smoldering hands. Shandril raised one blazing hand, and in her
eyes he saw his death. "By all the gods," she said in fury, flames rising around her hair in a leaping
crown of fire, "you'll wish you hadn't."
One
A COLD CALLING
Tongues wag their ways on great adventures with ease. Feet oft find it harder to follow.
Mespert of Baldur's Gate
The Book of the Coast
Year of the Talking Skull
Most of the long, high hall lay in chill darkness. Here and there, lamps shed eerie, feeble glows into the
cold vastness. Menacing shadows swirled where this lamplight was blocked by a long stone table, the
many highbacked seats drawn up around it, and the robed men who sat in them.
"So you have all come," came a calm, purring voice from one end of the table. "Good. The Lord
Manshoon will be pleased at your loyalty and eager ambition. We are looking for those who in days to
come will lead this fellowship in our places. It is our hope that some among you will show themselves
suited to do so. Others here, I fear, will reveal just as surely that they are not"
Sarhthor fell silent The men around the table knew his slim, graceful form would remain as still and as
patient as stone until he wished to move a finger or change his expression. Right now, as the silence
stretched, his calm, keen-eyed face was-as usual-expressionless. It might have been carved from the
same gray stone as the pillar behind his seat. Sarhthor's dark eyes, however, glittered with cruel
amusement, a look familiar to many seated there. They were the most ambitious and daring of the
apprentice magelings of the Zhentarim, and had all been trained or inspected by this man. Many long,
tense breaths were drawn as quietly as possible in the dimly lit cold as the wizards sat and waited,
trying not to show their fear, their personal hatreds of each other-and their mounting impatience.
At length, one of the seated men spoke. "Teacher Sarhthor, we have come to hear High Lord
Manshoon's will of us, and to serve. May we know his plans?" Sarhthor smiled. "But of course, Fimril.
Lord Manshoon will tell you what you are so eager to hear." He added a little smile, and then let it slide
slowly and coldly into calm inscrutability. In the mounting silence, the men around the table regarded
his face for a long time, trying to match the calm, unreadable expression Sarhthor wore. Some came
close to succeeding.
Someone coughed, and heads turned, glaring. The heavy silence returned and slowly grew old.
Sarhthor sat at the end of the table as though he was the tomb statue of some dead king and watched
them all with cold patience. Finally one of the magelings stirred in his seat. He was a handsome, fine-
featured man whose upswept beard was scented and adorned with small, highly polished moonstone
teardrops. They glistened here and there among his beard's curled hairs as he spoke. "I am patient,
Teacher, but also curious. Where is the high lord?"
"Why, here, as it happens," said a new voice, full and rich and only gently menacing. Heads turned all
down the table.
At the far end of the table from Sarhthor sat a regal, dusky man robed in black and dark blue. A
moment before, there had been no man and no chair in that spot. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep smiled
at all the turning heads. Before him on the table sat a serving platter covered with a silver dome, steam
rising gently from around its edges.
"I've only now escaped from the pressing business of governing this great city" - the voice dipped only
slightly in silken irony "- to meet with you all. Well met. I trust the patience taught by Sarhthor and
wise others among us has kept you all occupied, and I beg you to excuse my not offering you any of
my evenfeast I am" - his voice dipped in soft menace - "hungry this night."
Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone very white, and he
uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the deep red ring of firewine
sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord's evening meal: a dark, slithering heap of
live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A slim, jeweltopped silver
skewer appeared in the lord's hand from the empty air before him- Smoothly, he stabbed the first
coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.
"Despite my apparent ease," Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he looked down the table,
"our Brotherhood - nay, the world entire - remains in peril. You have all heard of the recent commotion
among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire."
He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had changed subtly, and
Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of their fear as they faced
him and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.
"That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks Faerun somewhere
south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate - a knave by the name of Narm, who is
weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril alone commands
spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect some Harper aid along her
way."
The quality of the listeners' silence changed again at the mention of the Harpers. Manshoon smiled and,
with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.
"Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about the known strengths and
subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by those who have volunteered
for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this Shandril, and bringing what
remains of her in either case here to this hall.
"You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of late. This chaos may or
may not be linked with spellfire - but it prevents us from surrounding the maid and overwhelming her
with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can act unobserved, and the
unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or concern.
"All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be placed entirely at the
disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such probity will earn an
immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl Shand
ril will have as many
chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always." His eyes
smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl casually, and vanished with
it in a flickering instant.
The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam remained behind,
curling in slow silence.
The magelings stirred, shoulders visibly relaxing here and there down the table. Heads turned, throats
were cleared - but these stirrings came to a hushed halt an instant later as Sarhthor's purring voice came
again from the near - darkness at the other end of the table.
"So who here volunteers to seize or destroy spellfire for us? Yield me your names, or" - he smiled
faintly - "recall urgent business elsewhere and take your leave of this place ... and also, I fear, of the
Lord Manshoon's favor." He looked around, meeting the wary eyes of several wizards too brave or
foolish to look away. "Your patience we have seen this night. We have also taught you to be decisive;
show me the result of that teaching now."
In the clamor that followed, a smile slowly appeared and crawled across Sarhthor's face like an old and
very lazy snake. But as each man there volunteered, Sarhthor's eyes met theirs briefly and bleakly, like
a sudden, icy lance-thrust in a night ambush. In his dark gaze, the magelings saw that he expected them
to die in this task. Sarhthor felt he owed them at least that honesty.
"What's wrong with you, then?" Delg asked, drawing himself up as much as his four battered feet of
height allowed. The dwarf stood over Shandril, beard bristling as he squinted down at her. A pan of
fried onions, mushrooms, and sausages sizzled in his hand. "Or don't you like an honest pantry?'
Shandril smiled wanly up at him from the bed of cloaks and furs she'd shared with Narm, and she
raised a warding hand.
"I'm seldom hungry these mornings." Her slim face was as white as the snowcaps of the Thunder Peaks
behind her. She shuddered and looked away from Delg's steaming pan, wondering if she'd ever arrive
at far-off Silverymoon. To reach it, they still had to cross half of Faerin. The ruined village of
Thundarlun was only a day behind them, and even draining the fallen war wizard's wand had not fully
restored the spellfire that smoldered within her.
On the other hand, twenty more Zhentilar would ride and slay no more; she'd left them twisted bones
clad in ashes. Shandril shivered as she heard the screams again. Then Delg brought the pan so close to
her nose that its sizzle jolted her back to the chilly morning. She pulled away from the smell, biting her
lip to keep from gagging. She clutched the furs closer around herself.
"Well, why?" the dwarf demanded, frowning fiercely. "Are you ill?"
"No'" Narm said gently from behind him, "she's with child."
The dwarf almost fell as he lurched and tottered about speedily to face the young mage. "She's what?"
he demanded. "Did you have anything to do with this?"
Shandril giggled. "We are married, Delg," she added sweetly.
"Aye. But-but-what of the babe, with you hurling spellfire about, an' all?"
"I-" Shandril began, then fell silent, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. The dwarf saw
something almost desperate in her eyes, and he whirled about again to face Narm. The young wizard
also spread his hands anxiously but said nothing. Then he shrugged.
"You don't know," said the dwarf heavily. "You truly don't know what you'll give birth to after all this
hurling fire and collapsing and hurling fire again. . . ." Delg let his words trail away as he looked at
them both challengingly, but the two young humans were silent.
The dwarf sighed heavily and tossed up his arms in resignation. Mushrooms and sausages left the pan
to soar into the air, still steaming.
Narm leapt forward but missed catching one. Most of the others landed on Delg's head or back in the
pan. The dwarf stood a moment more, looking down at Shandril and shaking his head. Sausages shifted
in his tousled hair. "Ah, well," he said, rather sadly. "Ah, well . . ."
Narm brushed off the sausage he had picked up. "Delg Hammerhand," he asked softly between bites,
"have you been so lucky - sorry, favored of Clanggedin - as to have gone your entire life through
always knowing exactly what you're doing and what the right thing to do is and what everything means
and the consequences of all?"
Delg glared at him, beard bristling. "D'you mock me, lad? Of course not"
"Well, then," Narm said mildly, "you will understand how we feel, doing our best with what the gods
have given us, beset by foes and wandering lost in the wilderness, far from aid and wise advice. Uh,
save yours."
Shandril laughed helplessly. Delg turned back to look at her, sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes for
good measure, and said, "Right. I stand corrected. Thy panfry awaits, great lord." He bowed to Narm,
waving with the pan at a nearby rock. "If you'll be seated, herewith we two can sate our hunger and
discuss how best to feed your lady without having her spewing it all back at us."
The morning sun shone down bright and clear through the trees of Shadowdale, leaf-shadows dappling
the rocks on the rising flanks of Harpers' Hill. Storm's blade flashed back its brightness as she slid the
steel edge along the whetting stone. The Bard of Shadowdale sat thoughtfully under a tree, putting a
better edge on her old and battered long sword. She kept silent, for that was the way Elminster seemed
to want it, this morn.
The Old Mage stood looking east, whence a cool breeze was rising. His eyes flashed as blue as the sky
as he raised the plain wooden staff he bore, and the staff seemed to glow for a moment in answer. The
wind rose, and the wizard's long white beard and mane stirred with the rustle and dance of the leaves
all around. Elminster was muttering things under his breath, using his old and deep voice, and Storm
knew that her sister, on her throne in far-off Aglarond, heard them and was whispering words back.
None other was meant to hear them. Storm took care that she did not, for that was the way she was.
Elminster stopped speaking and smiled. The wind died away again, and birds rose from the trees
around, twittering. The Old Mage stared eastward, unmoving. Storm watched him, frowning a little.
She knew him well enough to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes. The Old Mage stood silent and
motionless for long minutes.
When Storm began to grow stiff and the edge on her sword threatened to become brittle and over-
sharp, she slid her shining blade softly into its sheath and went to him.
Elminster turned to her thoughtfully. "I thought," he said slowly, his eyes very blue, "I'd put such love
behind me, long ago. Why do I keep finding it again? It makes the times apart from her" - he turned
away to stare into the green shadows under the trees - "lonely indeed."
Storm put a hand on his arm. "I know. It's a long walk back from Harpers' Hill. That's why I came."
In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went
down the twisting trail through the trees.
"Ready? We'd best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it's a long way to Silverymoon, an'
we're not out of the Zhents' reach yet." As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots,
and pans onto his should
ers.
Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. "No ... we haven't any
spellfire to fell our foes. I'm not going to use it again."
Delg's head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. "Shan? Are you
crazed? What - why?
His lady's eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.
"I'm not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It's ... not
right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?"
"Very much as it is now for you - if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him," Narm said with
sudden heat. "Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands."
"But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire - "the gift of the gods.'"
Shandril's tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance - "I... hate-
all this. Having folk hate me.. . fear me ... and always feeling the fire surging inside. . . ."
"You're not the first maid who's been afraid of things, you know," Delg said.
Shandril's head snapped up. "Afraid?"
"Aye, afraid," the dwarf said softly. "You're afraid of what you wield. Afraid of how good it feels to
use it, I should say ... and of what you might do with it-and become in the doing."
"No!" Shandril said, shaking her head violently. "That's not it at all!" She raised blazing eyes to glare
into his own. "How can you know what I feel?"
The dwarf shrugged. "I've seen your face when you're hurling spellfire. One look is enough."
Shandril stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, and then buried her face in her hands. The small,
twisted sound of a despairing sob escaped between her fingers, and they saw her shoulders shake.
Then Narm's arms were around her. "Shan, love," he said soothingly, trying to calm her. "Shan-easy,
now. Easy. We both love you. Delg's telling truth, as he sees it ... and truth's never an easy thing to
hear. Shan?"