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by Unknown

  around saw that the warrior's upper body had been blasted away.

  The legs tottered for a moment and then fell. The two men beside the ash heap screamed in terror and

  ran. Narm dropped to his belly beside the pit. Its lid was held open by Delg's booted feet; the red-faced,

  furious dwarf lay below, just beyond his reach, spitting curses Narm was glad he couldn't understand.

  Shouts came from the trees behind them. The warriors they'd run from-who'd herded them here,

  Shandril realized were following up their trail. Fast.

  One man remained atop the other bank, sword drawn. He looked down at them uncertainly, his face

  gray with fear, his eyes wide.

  "Drop your sword, or die!" Shandril told him. "Now!" Alorth licked bloodless lips and looked across at

  what was left of the swordmaster. He threw his blade down, raising his hands to plead. "Please-"

  "Get down here!" Shandril hurled spellfire back down the gully behind her without looking; a cry of

  despair, abruptly stilled, answered her. She glared at the Zhentilar. "Come down-or die!"

  Almost weeping with terror, Alorth slithered down. Those burning eyes stared up at him from only a

  few feet away. They might belong to a young, frightened girl-but they held his death, and Alorth knew

  it. He trembled, sudden sweat running down his nose.

  "Touch no weapons," Shandril said, biting off her words. "Reach down and get him out of the pit. If

  he's hurt, or if you leave the pack behind, you die."

  Alorth stared at her for a moment, and at the young mage who rose up from the dirt to glare at him. A

  crossbow bolt whistled past them.

  "Move, or die!" Shandril hissed, eyes flaming. Spellfire lanced out. The Zhentilar cried out at the

  burning pain her gaze brought him, and fell heavily on his knees. Behind him, he heard screams and a

  roar like rolling thunder. He looked around-to find the forest lit by hungry flames, Zhentilar warriors

  shrieking and staggering in the conflagration. The young lass stood defiantly facing them, fire dancing

  in her hands.

  Then something gleamed, very near, as it slid down into his view: the point of his own sword, not a

  finger's length from his eyes, the angry face of the young mage behind it.

  Sobbing in fear, Alorth turned and reached for the dwarf. Too far. He'd never reach that far, without-he

  frantically scrabbled at the edge of the pit, but harsh hands were suddenly at his ribs and belt, heaving

  and shoving.

  With a cry of terror, Alorth Bloodshoulder toppled headlong toward the spikes, those cruel points

  leaping up at his face, and-there was a sudden pain in his knees as he came to a wrenching halt. Alorth

  groaned. Sweat fell past his eyes-and spattered on the sharpened wood only inches below. The mage

  must be sitting on his lower legs.

  The dwarf, still snarling dwarven curses, swarmed up his arms, digging in fingers with cruel force.

  Then the weight and the pain were both gone, and Alorth was roughly hauled up onto the ground.

  Freed, he slumped into the dirt, moaning softly.

  The noise like thunder came again. Alorth looked up with tear-blurred eyes, and saw a stream of white,

  roaring flames rolling down the already blackened gully away from him, the girl silhouetted against its

  brightness. Crossbow bolts leapt from the trees to either side, caught fire as Shandril looked at them,

  and crashed down in smoke and ashes. The dwarf, axe in hand, glared at Alorth from a foot or so away,

  and the Zhentilar fearfully snatched the dagger from his belt.

  Shandril heard his grunt of effort and spun around. Spellfire roared, and Alorth found himself staring at

  the bare bones of his arm. The smoking remnants of the dagger fell from them an instant before they

  collapsed, pattering to the ground in a grisly shower. Alorth found breath enough to whimper for a

  moment before the world spun, and he crashed down into darkness. . . .

  "Are there any left?" Narm was peering back through the trees as they stood gasping for breath in a

  little hollow deeper in the forest- They had run from the gully of smoking Zhentilar corpses for what

  seemed like an hour. The pursuing shouts and crossbow bolts seemed to have stopped-and far behind

  them, they heard barking calls that probably meant wolves had discovered waiting cooked meals.

  "There're always more Zhents, lad," Delg puffed. `they're like stinging flies." The dwarf was glumly

  looking at his torn and punctured pack. Shredded clothing protruded from the rents the spikes had

  made.

  Narm pushed the cloth back through the holes. Between gulps for air, he said brightly, "That could've

  been ... far worse ... aye?"

  Delg rolled a severe eye around to meet his. "Many men spend their lives trying to get out of one hole

  or another. Just take care, Narm, that yours doesn't wind up being a pit with sharpened spikes at the

  bottom of it."

  Shandril managed a weak chuckle, and then got to her feet. "We'd best go on while we can," she

  sighed. "Or they'll be on us again-and those crossbows can't miss forever."

  Narm was muttering something and passing a hand over Delg's pack. Where he touched it, the worst

  rents and holes shrank and closed, the fabric smoothing out as if new. Narm, finished, probed at his

  work, and looked up at her. "How are you feeling, Shan?"

  "Tired. When I said I was sick of endless battle," Shandril told him grimly, "I meant it."

  The glow from the pool lit the face of the Zhentarim priest who stared into it, watching them from afar.

  He smiled a slow, cruel smile and said, "Oh, maid, if you're sick of battle now, you'll be at the doors of

  death over it, before long-I can promise that." The warriors standing with him all laughed. It was not a

  pretty chorus.

  As they struggled through the endless green depths of Hullack Forest, and the day wore on, Delg felt

  the constant weight of watching eyes on them. More than once, he called a halt to peer around

  suspiciously, looking at the dim legions of tree trunks on all sides. "We're being watched," he said. "I

  can feel it."

  "Magic?" Narm asked.

  "Of course magic, stumblehead," the dwarf replied grumpily. "If a beast-or even a Zhent sneak-thief-

  was stalking along behind us, I'd have seen it by now."

  As you say, oh tall and mighty one," Narm replied, eyes dancing.

  Shandril flicked a warning look at her husband as the dwarf growled something under his breath, and

  Narm raised his hands. "Peace! Peace, oh giant among dwarves!" "A bit less tongue, youngling," Delg

  replied, "and we'd best be on our way again-unless Elminster taught you any clever spells that can ward

  off scrying magic."

  The mage frowned. "No, no... but I'm trying to remember something Storm said, back in ShadowdaIe,

  about the goddess Tymora."

  "Tymora?"

  "Aye ... Rathan gave us a luck medallion blessed by Tymora, and Gorstag gave us another. Storm said

  something about how such things can be used, but I can't recall-"

  The dwarf snorted. "Of course not. You're a mage, and mages can't even remember their own names or

  ages. Let me look at these medallions."

  Shandril obediently pulled on the chain around her neck, drawing her medallion out of the breast of her

  tunic. Narm brought his out of his robes. The dwarf squinted at them both and sighed.

  "By the gods, you two innocents'll be the death of me yet! With these, we can be cloaked from magic,

  twice - each use will burn away one medal
lion."

  "What?"

  "Aye."The dwarf fairly danced in impatience. "There's a charm on these things." He swung around to

  fix Narm with eager eyes. "You can cast an invisibility spell, can't you, lad?"

  Narm nodded. "Y yes."

  "Well, if you cast it on one of these medallions, the spell will last until the next morn, so long as the

  medallion isn't touched by a living being, or moved. The spell covers everyone within ten paces---or

  whatever, I forget exactly how far-and nothing can see, hear, or smell them from outside that space.

  Even sniffing beasts and wizard spells miss you. All the spells that detect things find all sorts of

  traces, aye-in the wrong places, and moving in the wrong directions."

  "You speak truth?" Narm's astonishment overrode his manners.

  "Nay, lad-I want to die under a dozen Zhentarim blades," the dwarf snarled, "after all we've been

  through thus far. So I'm lying to you both so Manshoon can walk right up to us while you think us safe.

  Of course I speak truth! One of these saved my life, once, when our company was too badly wounded

  to go on; with it, we bought time for healing."

  "If that's so," Shandril said quietly, "I could use a rest from all this running-and time to practice a bit

  with my spellfire. I'm still burning things to ashes when I mean only to cook them gently, or send

  spellflame past them at something else. I've no wish to burn most of this forest down, or slay things I

  have no quarrel with."

  "Let's go on until we find another clearing, then," Narm said. "And some water to drink."

  "We're past highsun," Delg said. "We'd best be getting on."

  It had grown late, the sun sinking low amid the trees, before they found another clearing. "Here,"

  Shandril said, giving her medallion to Delg.

  The dwarf set it on a stone near the center of the open, grassy space, and sat himself on an old stump

  nearby. "Your spell, lad," he directed. Narm carefully worked his magic and touched the shining silver

  disc. It flashed and then briefly sparkled, but nothing else seemed to happen.

  "Is it working?" Shandril asked. The young man and the dwarf traded looks and shrugged in unison.

  "I don't feel we're being watched anymore," Delg said. He turned to Narm. "Best study your spells, lad,

  while I get a meal ready."

  Shandril sighed, relaxing, and then walked a few paces away. She found some bushes and a

  comfortable mosscovered stone, and sank down thankfully. Yawning, she rubbed at her shoulders and

  aching feet. Then she stiffened. There was a tiny fluttering inside her; spellfire tingling faintly ...

  building again.

  She bent her will to calling the inner fire up, feeling it surge and roil about within her. When Shandril

  felt ready, she stood and hurled a tongue of flame between the two trunks of a forked duskwood tree.

  They smoked and creaked in the heat, but neither burst into flame.

  Pleased, she threw spellfire again. This time her target was a small cluster of leaves: could she burn

  them off their branch without disturbing other leaves nearby? The cluster flared and was gone; a few

  flames flickered and then died in their wake. Shandril frowned; she'd burned more leaves than she'd

  meant to.

  None of the three travelers saw the medallion begin to smolder. When the next burst of spellfire lashed

  out at a small patch of toadstools, the medallion pulsed with momentary fire. Drifting smoke showed

  that only a blackened patch remained where the toadstools had been; the medallion melted into a tiny

  remnant that crumbled and fell apart, unseen.

  When next spellfire licked out in a curving arc this time, reaching around behind a stout tree-

  malevolent eyes were watching, as before....

  "Watch well," Gathlarue said softly, looking into the glowing crystal, "and remember-this is not a fire

  spell. The maid's fire cleaves all spell barriers we know of and will scatter any wall of fire you or I

  might raise."

  Mairara lifted an eyebrow. "I find it hard to credit that wench with wits enough to stand up to any mage

  of skill."

  "She is said to have forced Lord Manshoon himself to flee," Tespril whispered. Her eyes were large

  and very dark; Gathlarue was pleased to see that at least one of her apprentices was smart enough to be

  scared.

  She stretched, then favored them both with a smile. "We shall watch and learn much more before we

  move against Shandril ourselves."

  She ran her fingers idly through a lock of Mairara's long, glossy black hair, and as its owner smiled at

  her, sat back from the crystal and told Tespril, "Order our evenfeast brought to us, here. Tonight we'll

  have rare entertainment to watch; the main troop of Zhentilar are to try their luck at capturing Shandril.

  The idiot sword-swingers are such crude fumblers they've been assigned one of Fzoul's best priests in

  case they should kill Shandril by mischance."

  The apprentices laughed merrily, and Tespril bowed and hastened away to give the orders.

  "Lady," Mairara whispered, bending over her mistress, "is this spellfire really so much more powerful

  than the spells of, say, a pair of capable archmages?"

  "Watch," Gathlarue murmured at her senior apprentice. "Watch what befalls tonight, in my crystal ...

  and govern your own mind in the matter."

  Mairara nodded, somber eyes on her, and then looked up swiftly as Tespril returned.

  "The men are taking bets on how this night's battle will turn out," the younger apprentice said,

  chuckling. "They want to know who commands the Zhentilar."

  Gathlarue smiled. "Karkul Memrimmon leads," she said. "A great beast of a man who fights with

  spiked gauntlets, and never stays out of the fray."

  "You've met him, Lady?" Tespril's tone was teasing, her eyes bright.

  "I kept well out of his reach," Gathlarue told her. "He's the sort who'd get thrown out of taverns I

  wouldn't go into. . . ."

  Spellfire crackled satisfyingly around the stump. Shandril watched a small thread of smoke curl up

  from the bark, and she nodded, satisfied. She could strike exactly the spot she aimed for-and high time,

  too, as DeIg would say.

  She sighed ruefully and looked at the dark, deep woods around her. A branch snapped somewhere off

  to her left, not far away. Shandril's eyes narrowed, and she backed up to a tree, calling "Narm? Delg?"

  as loudly as she dared.

  Her answer came swiftly-something large and hairy emerged from behind a nearby tree, lumbering

  along like a grotesque parody of a man. A cruel beak larger than Shandril's head protruded from the

  dusty, matted feathers on its face. Hungry, red-rimmed eyes glittered at her, and it began a crashing

  charge through the leaves.

  Shandril screamed and hurled spellfire at it in a frantic spray. Sputtering spellflames raced out of her

  and wreathed the huge monster-and it screamed. Shandril sent a bolt of fire right into its face and

  backed hastily away around the tree, as it roared and flailed blindly with its bearlike claws.

  Her flames hit it again, and its cries grew weaker. There were other crashing sounds behind her, now,

  coming closer. Shandril looked up. Delg and Narm were bounding through the undergrowth. She

  sighed thankfullyand the wounded beast charged toward the sound. Anxiously Shandril hurled spellfire

  into that reaching beak-and the thing recoiled, roaring again.

  There was a sudden flash of light in front of Shandril. It lit Narm's stern face as he
guided his conjured

  blade of force straight into one of the beasts eyes.

  Light flashed again inside that monstrous head, and with a rough, despairing cry, the thing crashed to

  the damp leaves at her feet. Smoke rose from its mouth and then drifted away. The beast thrashed about

  briefly and lay still, its eyes growing dull.

  "An owlbear!" Delg's voice was rough with worry. "You seem to run into the most interesting folk,

  wherever we go.

  Shandril looked down at the smoking thing at her feet, her eyes empty. She suddenly shuddered and

  turned away with a sob, starting to bolt. A moment later, she ran straight and bruisingly into something

  large and hard - Delg's shield. The dwarf stepped out from behind it, letting it fall, and caught Shandril

  by the arm. "You can't run from it, lass-sooner or later, you've got to face it. As long as other folk in

  Faerun want what you've got, you must kill to live-so, these days, killing's what you do."

  Shandril stared at him. "And what if it's not what I want to do?" she asked very quietly.

  The dwarf squinted up at her and then shrugged. "Then you'd best lie down and die the next time

  someone attacks. You'll save a lot of trouble-for yourself, not for the rest of the Realms."

  Shandril looked back at the smoking corpse, and then fixed tired eyes on his. "I don't like killing. I'll

  never like killing."

  Delg nodded. "If that proves true, 'tis good, very good, for us all."

  Shandril frowned. "What do you mean, `proves true'?" The dwarf leaned on his axe. "Slaying's never

  easy, lass. When you're young, it's a shock-the smell, the blood and all. . . ."

  Narm added quietly, "And when you're old, you see your own death in each killing. . . a part of you

  dies each time. "

  The dwarf looked at Narm in surprise. "Wise words for one so young; right you are, indeed." He stared

  off into memory for a moment, and added softly, "Much too right, lad."

  "And between youth and old age?" Shandril asked quietly. "What then?"

  DeIg squinted at her. "Ah," he rumbled, "that's the time when one who must kill is most dangerous.

  They get good at the task-very good, some of them-and they also get so they just don't care about the

  lives they take."

  Shandril looked at him. "And if that happens to me?" Delg looked into her eyes and then turned away.