Spellfire ss-1

by Ed Greenwood

  The Bright Spear blazed in Burlane's grasp. He held it out to her. "Never freeze in a fight," was all he said. As he raised his head to look past her, Shandril noticed the white line of an old scar on his neck that she had not seen before.

  The mist had lifted enough to reveal, trampled in the grass, the still bodies of fallen enemy warriors. Before them stood the company's warriors, leaning on their weapons and panting. Thail looked worried as he turned to Burlane.

  "Perhaps I can use the art to drive some of them to slumber," he said, "but too many remain-far too many."

  Shandril knew he was right. The strangers had drawn back from the company's blades to gather their strength and attack as one. Shandril counted nearly twenty men, clad in leathers or chain mail. None bore any sigil or blazon; all were armed. They seemed to be led by a stout warrior who wore a dark helm. At his gesture, his men had spread out in a long crescent, curving around the company, advancing slowly to either side.

  Shandril turned to Burlane to warn him to pull back, to run now, but as her eyes saw his face-calm and bleak and a little sad-the cry died on her lips. Where was there to run to? She turned back to look at their foes. So many, so intent on her death. Beyond their grim, slowly advancing line, more men held the reins of a score of mules, all laden as the first one had been. There was no escape. Shandril, her shoulder throbbing, gripped the Bright Spear firmly, determined to please the war god Tempus even if Tymora, the Lady of Luck, had turned her face from them. She should never have left Gorstag and The Rising Moon… But she had, and she was going to see this through. She hoped she would not run.

  "Clanggedin!" Delg roared hoarsely, as if to the ground at his feet. He flung down his axe. "Battle-Father, let this be a good fight!" He drew the warhammer at his belt and brought it down hard on the axe with a ringing sound-a sound that thrummed and echoed around them before rolling away. To Shandril's amazement, Delg began to sing. The axe at his feet glowed and shimmered and then lifted slowly into the air before him.

  The whole company and their foes alike stood amazed. Delg, his weathered face wet with tears and his voice cracking as he sang on, extended one stubby hand and the axe rose into it, winking with a light that had not been there before. Delg seemed to grow and straighten. His beard jutted defiantly, and the warhammer he held began to glow faintly. Its radiance pulsed and grew as he sang, until it matched the sheen of the axe in his other hand.

  The dwarf stepped forward, then, singing old ballads in his rough voice. Pride and awe and gratitude rang in his songs as Ferostil and Rymel stepped forward to join him.

  Shandril looked to Burlane and whispered, "Does he do this every time? I mean-" She stopped, embarrassed at the twinkle in his eye. Suddenly, Burlane roared his laughter aloud and clasped her to him, and she felt foolishly happy. Ah, but if one is to die, she heard the voice of an old wandering priest of Tempus who sometimes stopped at the inn, it is best to die in a good cause, fighting shoulder to shoulder with good friends.

  That thought brought a sudden chill, and Shandril raised the Bright Spear's glowing point before her and tensed. Across the trampled grass, the enemy warriors exchanged a few barked commands and replies and began to trot forward, blades raised to slay. Delg sang on.

  The gleam of the dwarfs weapons grew dazzling and then died away suddenly as the mist parted.

  In the sudden morning light there was movement. Between the two warring bands walked two newcomers. One was tall and handsome, clad in forest green. A great sword was scabbarded at his hip, and a gray hawk rode on his shoulder. He strode easily, obviously slowing his stride to match that of his companion.

  The companion was an old and long-bearded man whose eyes shone with keen intelligence and good humor. He wore plain brown robes with a tattered gray half-cloak, and the stains of spilled food and wine were dry but copious down his front. He spoke to his companion in a voice of aged, crotchety distinction, and, as the two stepped nearer, Shandril could make out the words.

  "… Silverspear distinctly told me, Florin, that if there were elves left to meet us anywhere in the Elven Court, they would meet us here, and I've never known elves…"

  His companion had noticed the two groups of combatants in the mist. Darting swift glances about, he made to draw his sword. But the old man beside him walked on.

  "… to be untrustworthy, or forgetful, mark ye. Never. I doubt overmuch that they've been either this time, say others what they may. Five hundred winters have I known them, and…"

  The tall warrior plucked gently at his companion's shoulder. "Ah, Elminster…" he ventured, hand on his hilt, eyeing the score of charging warriors on their left and the waiting six on their right. "Elminster!"

  "… though that be but a short time to an elf, it is long enough for these eyes and ears to take the measure of-eh? Aye then, what?" Irritated, the old man peered about, following the warrior's swift pointing finger to right and left.

  He peered at the Bright Spear in Shandril's hands and then seemed to pause and nod as he saw Delg. He stopped and nodded to his right. The warrior the old man had called Florin obediently turned toward the company, half-drawing his blade. It glowed with its own blue-white light. He did no more, but stood watchfully, wary eyes raking them all. Shandril thought that here was a man other men would follow to the death and obey with loving loyalty. The company stood unmoving.

  The mage called Elminster was chanting as he drew two items too small to be seen from his robes and brought them together, his hands moving with a curious, gentle grace. Abruptly, he drew his hands apart violently. Light pulsed between them, and the items were gone. Elminster faced the charging warriors, flung his hands wide, and spoke a last quiet word.

  The warriors came to a halt just short of the old mage, blades flashing; then they wavered and backed away. Trotting awkwardly as they turned and roared their bafflement, they gathered speed. In wonder, Shandril watched mules, warriors, and all charge away as fast as they could, crying out in rage and frustration and brandishing their weapons. The mist swallowed them long before their cries died away.

  The old mage walked on unconcernedly. The kingly warrior paused a moment, looking after the warriors Elminster had repelled, and then strode suddenly on to catch up with his friend, casting a last long look at the company. Shandril noticed that the green eyes of the hawk on his shoulder had never left them. Elminster looked again at the Bright Spear, made a "move away" gesture with the backs of his fingers at the company, and strode on into the mist.

  "Now, as I was saying, she said I was to expect them on the banks of the Sember, and I've never known Silverspear to speak falsely. There's many a time…"

  As the mists swallowed them both, the tall warrior cast his calm gaze at them once more, and Shandril could have sworn that he winked.

  The company stood a moment in shocked silence, and then Burlane dragged Shandril with him to where the others stood. "Come on!" he hissed, "Delg! Enough! Clanggedin has heard! Let us go, before they return!"

  "Who was that?"

  "Go? Where?"

  "Aye, while we can!"

  "Did you see that? A wondrous thing!"

  " Later! " Burlane said sharply, and the company fell silent. "Thank you, Delg. Let us not waste the good fortune Clanggedin has given us! Delg, check the bodies! Thail and Rymer, collect the horses! Be back here before I count six. Then we flee!"

  "What? Af-"

  "Later," Burlane said, and they went. No coins were to be found on the bodies, however, and the weapons did not measure up to their own. A few extra daggers and one good pair of not overlarge boots was their booty.

  Burlane had sheathed the Bright Spear's glowing blade while the others searched. He and Shandril bound Ferostil's shoulder with strips of cloth. Rymel and Thail arrived back in haste with the horses, which had not strayed far.

  Burlane pointed ahead and to the right. "We go this way," he said. "Quick and-at all costs-quiet. They'll expect us to flee. Men so strong in numbers and so quick to slay will not exp
ect us to pursue them." He strode forward.

  "What?" Ferostil hissed angrily. "Slink away with nothing to show for it? There was coin on that mule, maybe on all of them! Wha-"

  "Later," said Burlane again, almost mildly, but Ferostil flinched as if a sword had struck him. "I've no wish to let slip treasure, nor let pass those who draw our blood without so much as a greeting. Our skulker can trail them. We'll follow and strike when death is not such a close and certain answer." He smiled down at Shandril as they pressed on over the grass. "Ho, little skulker. A task for you… most dangerous. Will you?"

  Faces turned to her, curious, waiting, as they walked. Shandril flushed, then heeded the smile and ignored the danger warning to reply firmly, "Yes. Tell me what and how, and I will do it."

  "Well said," Burlane said with a grim smile. "It is a simple thing, and yet it will be difficult in this mist. Hide-belly down was Lynxal's usual way-and lie near where we fought. Not close to the bodies, mind-they'll check those. Keep close and quiet. Follow us this way only if they haven't come back before you get hungry. I think they'll be back soon, and expecting us.

  "You follow them, without being seen. Come back to us if they camp or night falls, or they go where you cannot follow. We will try to keep near, but I can promise nothing in this mist. No fighting, mind-just eyes and ears. Understood?"

  Shandril's nod brought another pain-twisted smile to his face. "Good, then, enough talk. Pass me your reins, and wait here. May Tymora and He Who Watches over the Shoulder of Thieves smile upon you." Burlane did not name the god Mask. To any who did not worship the patron of thieves, the utterance of the god's name brought ill luck.

  Shandril shivered a little at the thought of what the evil god's aid might be, as she watched the company hasten on until the mist swallowed them all. Better to trust in Tymora, Lady Luck, capricious though her luck might be. Suddenly remembering Burlane's instructions, she sank to her knees in the wet grass, ignoring the pain remaining in her shoulder. The dew made the grass about her glisten silver-gray. Shandril slipped the tail of her cloak in front of her and lay down upon it to wait. The unseen sun was brightening the mist, revealing the ground a few paces around her. Wet grass tickled her nose.

  Shandril peered intently all around. She had not quite yet escaped death today… and there would be no Elminster to magically rescue her this time, if the twenty warriors saw her, with their treasure and all. She lay very still.

  With heart-stopping suddenness, a warrior loomed out of the mist perhaps forty paces away. Another followed, and another, and they looked familiar to Shandril. The men whose names she did not even know were returning, free now of the mage's magic. They came carefully in the wet grass, weapons ready, close together, not speaking.

  Shandril tried to keep count. She did not want to creep out behind them only to find others behind her. If she were caught, she thought with a sudden chill, a quick death might be a kind end. Adventure? Aye, adventure.

  She tossed her head in silence and counted warriors. Like creeping shadows, they passed in front of her-sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one. Now the mules passed, all loaded with chests and canvas sacks. Shandril counted fifteen before the procession ended. She waited for the space of two long breaths, fearing a rearguard.

  Her caution was rewarded when six silent bladesmen stalked into view, looking all about, swords drawn. One seemed to stare at her all the while they passed. Shandril kept still, hoping he would not be too curious or too diligent. He was not. The gods were with her. She drew a trembling breath and waited until she had drawn two more before she eased herself up and crept after them.

  The mysterious warriors were heading roughly westward, close to Lake Sember. They were moving rapidly despite their wariness, as people do who still have a long way to travel. An occasional tree loomed up out of the mist as Shandril followed them, cautiously working her way closer on the higher ground and carefully dropping back in wet areas where one slip and splash might bring them all down on her. She was soon soaked and shivering.

  So this is what Gorstag meant when he said adventure usually means pain and weariness, both conveniently forgotten later, Shandril thought, recalling a fireside talk. Grinning, she crept closer. She had seldom felt more alert, more alive, more excited. You never told me it was this much fun, she chided Gorstag mentally as she climbed a little rise and dropped to her belly in the tall grass.

  It was well she did. The mist rolled away briefly, revealing six warriors, standing just below the brow of the hill on which she lay. Mules were being led up the hill beyond. The land was rising, and the men were taking their treasure west. These must be the rearguard, Shandril reasoned.

  Shandril could hear the low mutter of their voices, but could not make out the words. She dared not crawl nearer. Three of them were deliberately peering her way.

  The mist began to close in again. They were waiting here, probably planning some sort of trap for anyone following them. It would mean her death to come up over the ridge of the hill, even with the mist. Shandril lay still on the damp ground and thought for a bit. What should she do now?

  Without warning, a man loomed up out of the mist no more than two steps away, strode past her with the wet grass whispering around his boots, and was gone, walking back the way she had come. He held a strung bow and a shaft ready in one hand, and wore a long knife at his belt, but no armor. He looked young and bleakly confident. After a moment, another archer followed, and then four more, passing farther away. Shandril gasped in horror. The archers were going back to slay the company!

  In her mind she could see arrows leaping one by one from the mists to bring down Delg, Burlane, Rymel, Thail-one by one, convulsed and writhing in the grass, their slayers quickly gone. Any chase would run straight into a storm of arrows.

  How to warn the company? Shandril doubted she could get around the archers without being killed. There was only one thing to do, she realized with a sick, sinking feeling. Fun, she reminded herself wryly as she rose out of the grass and turned, drawing Lynxal's blade-her sword now-and went off to war.

  She hurried forward as quietly as she could, picturing the faces of her companions as she strolled up to them with dripping blade and tossed two heads at their feet. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and she stared down at the blade, cold and heavy in her hands, with real revulsion.

  She looked around in the mist, feeling suddenly lost and helpless. A sharp blade is little comfort when you know you can't use it on anyone. Even less comfort once the anyone realizes that. She stopped for a moment to lean against a gaunt and bare tree. Sheathing her sword carefully, she looked over the tree. The wood was dead but damp; it broke with a dull sound, not the sharp crack she had feared. She held a curved, surprisingly heavy, twisted limb. Shandril hefted it a few times and then stalked on through the mist.

  She came upon him quite suddenly. The archer who had passed close to her was now standing alone, bow ready, listening intently. He heard her and half turned. As his eyes met hers and his mouth opened in surprise, Shandril leaped forward, heart pounding, and brought the tree limb down as hard as she could across his throat.

  The force of the blow numbed her hands and knocked her off balance. She slipped in the wet grass and slid right beneath him, getting tangled in his legs. He made a horrible gurgling noise, and his knee hit her forehead hard. Dazed, Shandril lay staring up at the mist for a moment, the breath knocked from her hings, her back and bottom aching. Then she heard thudding footsteps.

  "Bitch!" a man's voice snarled close by. Shandril rolled to one side and looked up. The other archer was charging at her, a long, gleaming knife drawn up to strike.

  Shandril screamed in helpless terror as the knife leaped at her throat, so bright and so quick. She threw up her hands-the tree limb gone, her sword too slow to draw-and tried to jump aside.

  Too late. The archer's grasping hand caught her left shoulder as she shifted to the right. The cruel force of his fingers drove her back and spun her sideways. His biting blad
e stabbed again and again at her shoulder and back. Shandril screamed again at the burning, slicing pain, as they fell together on top of the sprawled body of the first archer. Her shoulder felt wet and cold as the knife slid across it.

  The man's angry face was inches from her own. Shandril struggled furiously to avoid his clutching hands and block the knife, clawing, biting, and driving her knees viciously into him. Somehow, she got both hands on his wrist and forced the knife past her, but he was stronger and he pulled it slowly around at her again.

  Then the snarling face inches from her own gasped. The eyes darkened, and blood dribbled from the lips. Shandril felt his strength ebb away, and then strong hands lifted the man's weight from her. Through bleary eyes she saw the bright and terrible tip of a blade growing out of a dark, spreading stain on the archer's chest. His head lolled as he was lifted aside.

  Anxious faces looked down upon her. Shandril smiled weakly as she met Rymel's eyes, and saw Delg, Thail, and Burlane behind him. She caught a shuddering breath, steadied her shaking hands, and said, "My thanks. I… think these two were… sent back… to slay you all with their arrows… I… had to stop them."

  She winced as gentle hands touched her shoulder to raise her. Burlane murmured something comforting as Thail's fingers probed cautiously. The wizard took a flask from his belt with crimson, dripping fingers and said simply, "Drink."

  The liquid was thick and clear and slightly sweet. It soothed and refreshed, and a delicious warmth spread from Shandril's stomach. "Thanks."

  Her eyes sought Burlane. "I followed them," she said. "They went west… the land rises. Two hills away the rearguard split. Four swordsmen followed up the mules, and these two came back this way to slay any who pursued." She realized with sudden vigor that the pain had subsided, and with it her sick, dizzy feeling. "What was in that vial?"