Spellfire ss-1

by Ed Greenwood

  "Ahhh… stir the stew!" Elminster grunted. "I'm going out for a pipe." The door banged behind him. Lhaeo grinned.

  The stairs creaked as Storm came down them barefoot, silver hair shining in the firelight.

  "Leave the stew," she said softly to Lhaeo. "It's probably been thrashed into soup by now, between the both of you."

  Lhaeo smiled and put strong arms around her. "Let us go back upstairs," he said gently, "before he returns for a flame to light his pipe. Haste, now!"

  The bed creaked as they sat upon it, a scant instant before the door, below, banged open again. Outside, Elminster chuckled and then hummed his favorite of the tunes Storm had devised. One didn't get to be five hundred winters old without noticing a thing or two.

  They rode steadily south all that day on a road busy with wagons rumbling north out of Sembia. Hawk-eyed outriders and shrewd, watchful merchants looked them over often, and the scrutiny always made Narm and Shandril uncomfortable.

  Torm had acquired a moustache from somewhere about his person, as well as some brown powder of the sort used as cosmetics in the Inner Sea lands. Skillfully he rubbed it about his eyes and jaw and cheekbones, until his face seemed subtly different. He rode in silence for the most part-a mercy upon his companions-and affected a soft, growling voice when he did speak. He remained to the rear as they rode.

  Looking back, Narm could see the glistening whites of his eyes darting this way and that in the shadowy gloom of a cap that hid his face. The conjurer gathered that Torm was a little too well known in Sembia or nearby to ride openly on the high road this far south without his fellow knights around him.

  Rathan, however, paid such cautions no mind. He rode easily before Shandril, speaking loudly of the kindnesses and spectacular cruelties of the Great Lady Tymora, and occasionally pointing out a far-off landmark or the approaching colors of a merchant house or company of the Inner Sea lands. But he seemed to be addressing her as Lady Nelchave, and occasionally comparing things to 'your hold, Roaringcrest.' Shandril answered him with vague murmurs, trying to sound bored. In fact, she was enjoying riding in the comfortable security of Rathan and Torm's presence, with a guided tour of the countryside.

  Torm and Rathan preferred to lunch in the saddle without halting, Shandril found it fascinating to watch them fill nosebags with skins of water and lean forward to hang them carefully about the necks of their mounts and mules, after first letting each animal taste and smell the contents of such a bag. They deftly passed bread, cheese, and small chased metal flasks of wine about. Torm even produced four large, iced sugar rolls (probably pilfered from some passing cart or other) from somewhere about his person. Shandril began to wonder if he had endless pockets, like those of Longfingers the Magician in the bards' tales.

  A light rain squall came out of the west in the afternoon and lashed them briefly as it passed overhead. Torm nearly lost his moustache, but he regained his high, sly spirits. He danced about on his dripping horse, firing jests, rolling his eyes, and mimicking the absent knights.

  The day passed and the road fell away steadily behind them, until in high eventide they came to Blackfeather Bridge, where the road between the Standing Stone and Sembia crosses the River Ashaba. There Sembia maintained a small guardpost of bored-looking, hardened men armed with ready crossbows and long pikes bearing the Raven and Silver banner of Sembia.

  The guards looked long and coldly at the four travelers. Narm noticed a cleric of Tempus and a silent man in robes standing off to one side with two veteran warriors, watching them steadily. His throat went dry, but he tried to keep his face unconcerned and impassive. Dragon Cult and Zhentarim agents could be anywhere-and everywhere. Narm was certain Rathan was recognized, but nothing was said and no one barred their way.

  Two hills later, as the sun sank lower, Narm looked back, but he could not see any pursuit. An uneasy feeling persisted, however, and he was not surprised when at sunset Rathan led them wordlessly westward, well off the road, until it grew too dim to ride safely on.

  "This seems as good a place as any," Rathan said gruffly, waiting for Torm's soft-spoken assent. "Ready watch tonight," the cleric added. "If you must go off to relieve yourself, Shandril," he added, "go not alone."

  The knights seemed to share Narm's feeling of trouble ahead. Narm and Torm had barely drifted off to sleep, long after an exhausted Shandril, when there was a thudding noise, as someone tripped amid the webwork of black silk cords Torm had strung in an arc behind where Rathan sat watch. Rathan lifted the mace from his knees as he whirled and let out a warning bellow.

  The attacker was already coming to his feet, cursing softly, sword drawn-and there were others behind. Narm rolled upright with frightened speed. Torm was up and away into the night like a vengeful shadow before he could even draw breath.

  "Defend thy lady, lad!" Rathan bellowed back over one shoulder, as his mace struck aside attacking steel with a shrill clatter. Two faced him, with a third rushing up.

  Narm saw a man fall as he looked all around for danger on his way to stand over Shandril, who was rolling over drowsily. More men with blades were coming out of the night. Narm saw another fall, and this time he saw the glint of steel as Torm leaped onward to deal death again. Then a man rushed right at Narm, steel gleaming in the firelight.

  Coolly, Narm cast a magic missile spell. Then he drew his dagger and braced himself. The glowing pulses of his art swooped and struck. The man, who wore dark leathers and wielded a hooked sabre, staggered and fell. Narm set his teeth and leaned over to finish the job. Blood wet his fingers, and he felt sick as he looked up and around again for new dangers approaching.

  There were none. Torm dispatched another from behind-Narm saw the man stiffen and groan-and Rathan was chatting jovially to those he slew.

  "Do you not realize what moral pain-nay, spiritual agony-striking thee down causes me? Hast no consideration for my feelings?" The heavy mace fell again, crushing. "More than this, aye, ye-uhh! — grrh! — wound me. Instead, of challenging me in-ahhhh-the bright light of day, before men of worth to bear witness, with a stated-hahhh! — grievance, ye seek to do the dishonor upon my poor holy bones in the dark of the night! At a time when all good and-ahhh! — lucky men are abed, with better-unghh! — things to be doing than cracking skulls asunder! Don't ye agree-ahh! — now?" Rathan's last opponent fell, twitching, jaw shattered and bloody.

  Torm looked up. "The horses don't like this. We'd best move them, and us, in case there are others lurking. Narm, is your lady awake?"

  Shandril answered him herself. "Yes." She shuddered involuntarily at the sight of his bloody dagger. "Must you enjoy it so much?"

  Torm looked at her in silence for a time. "I do not enjoy it at all," he said quietly. "But I prefer it to getting a knife in the ribs myself." He bent down and wiped his blade on something that Shandril mercifully couldn't see in the darkness, but he did not sheathe it. "Shall we ride?"

  "Walk, pigeon-brain," Rathan rumbled, "and lead the horses. Who knows what we'll stumble over or down into if we try to ride in this? See to these, will ye? I want none alive to tell thy names and route, and this mace is not as sure as a blade."

  "At once, Exalted One," Torm said with sarcastic sweetness. "Mind you don't forget any of your baggage. I'll see if our late friends were carrying anything of value with them."

  Rathan nodded in the light of the dying fire. "Mind more don't come upon thee while ye're slavering and giggling over the gold. See to the campfire, will ye?"

  In quiet haste, they gathered their gear and led their mounts and mules into the night. Westward Narm and Shandril followed Rathan, pace by careful pace, over rolling ground.

  Torm caught them up before long. "The fire's scattered and out. I can find no one else following, but listen sharp everyone."

  "It seems I'll be doing that the rest of my life," Shandril said in a bitter whisper.

  Torm put his head close to hers. The faint light of Selune caught his teeth as he grinned. "You might even get used to i
t. Who knows?"

  "Who indeed," she replied, pulling a reluctant Shield up an uneven slope in the dark.

  "Not much farther now" Rathan said soothingly from up ahead. Loose stones clacked underfoot, and then Rathan said in quiet satisfaction, "Here. This place will do."

  Shandril fell into sleep as if it were a great black pit, and she never stopped falling. She awoke with the smell of frying boar in her nostrils. Narm had just kissed her. Shandril murmured contentment and embraced him sleepily as she stretched. He smelled good.

  Close at hand, a merry voice said, "Works like a charm, it does. Can I try it? Shandril, will you go back to sleep for a moment?"

  Shandril sighed. "Torm, do you never stop?"

  "Not until I'm dead, good lady. Irritating I may be, but I'm never dull."

  "Aye," Rathan rumbled. "Thou art many things, but never dull."

  "Fair morning to you both," Shandril laughed.

  "Well met, lady," Rathan answered her. "Thy dawnfry awaits thee… simple fare, I fear, but enough to ride on. We were not bothered again in the night, but ye had best watch sharp today. It will not be long before those bodies are found."

  Narm looked around at the grassy hills. "Where exactly are we?"

  "West of the road, in the hills west of Featherdale," Rathan supplied. "Turn about. Do ye see that gray shadow-like smoke-on the horizon? That is Arch Wood. Between here and there lies an old, broad valley with no river to speak of anymore. That's Tasseldale. I would not go down into the valley. Though it's a pleasant place, indeed, with many fine shops and friendly folk, it is also full of people ye want to avoid. Nay, keep to the heights along the valley's northern edge.

  "There, ye'll meet with no more than a shepherd or two and perhaps a Mairshar patrol. Tell them-they police the dale and always ride twelve strong-that ye're from Highmoon, going home, Shandril, with this mage ye met in Hillsfar. Call thyself 'Gothal,' or something, Narm. Stick to the truth about Gorstag and the inn, lady, and ye'll fare the better. Give no information to any others until ye meet with the elves of Deepingdale."

  "Elves?" Shandril asked, astonished.

  "Aye, elves. Don't ye know anything of Deepingdale, where ye grew up?" Rathan's voice was incredulous.

  "No," Shandril told him. "Only the inn. I saw half-elven, under arms, when I left with the company, but no elves."

  "I see. Know ye that the present Lord of Highmoon is the half-elven hero of battles Theremen Ulath, just so ye don't say the wrong thing." The burly cleric rose and pulled on his helm. "Now eat. The day grows old."

  They ate, and soon the time came when all was ready, and Rathan sighed and said heavily, "Well, the time has borne. We must leave ye."

  He turned on his heel to look southwest. "One day's ride should take ye to the west end of Tasseldale, in the Dun Hills. That's one camp. Keep a watch-sleeping together's for indoors. Peace, Torm, no jests now. Another day's careful riding west-just keep Arch Wood to the left of ye, whatever else ye come upon-will bring thee to Deepingdale. Ye can press on after dark once ye've found the road, and make The Rising Moon before morning. All right?"

  They nodded, hearts full.

  "Good then," Rathan went on in gruff haste, "and none of that weeping, now." He held out a wineskin to Narm. "For thy saddle." He fumbled at the large pouch at his hip and brought out a disc of shining silver upon a fine chain and hung it about Shandril's neck, kissing her on the forehead. "Tymora's good luck go with thee" he said.

  Torm stepped forward next. "Take this," he said, "and bear it most carefully. It is dangerous." He held out a cheap, gaudy medallion of brass, set askew with glued-in cut glass stones on a brass chain of mottled hue that did not match the medallion. He put it about Narm's neck.

  "What is it?" Narm asked.

  "Look at it now," Torm said. "Take care how you touch it." Narm looked. About his neck was no cheap medallion, but a finely detailed, twist-linked chain of heavy work. Upon it hung two small, golden globes, with a larger one between them. "This is magical," Torm said, "and keep it clear of spellfire or any fiery art, or it may slay you. We call it a necklace of missiles. You, and only you, can twist off one of these globes and hurl it. When it strikes, it bursts as a mage's fireball does; mind you are not too close. The larger globe is of greater power than the other two. It needs no ritual or words of command to work. Keep it safe; you'll need it, some day… probably sooner than you think." He patted Narm's elbow awkwardly. "Fare you both well," he said.

  The knights mounted, saluted them with bared blades, tossed two small flasks of water, wheeled their mounts, and galloped away. Hooves thudded briefly upon the earth and then died away and were gone.

  Narm and Shandril looked at each other, eyes bright and cheeks wet, and slowly embraced. "We really are alone now, my love," Narm said softly. "We have only each other;

  "Yes," said Shandril softly. "And that will do." She kissed him long and deeply before she spun away, leaped into her saddle, and said briskly, "Come onl The sun waits not, and we must ride!"

  Narm grinned at her and ran to his own saddle. "Spitfire!" he called as he swung himself up.

  Shandril raised her eyebrows and spat fire, obediently, in a long rolling plume that winked out just in front of him. The horses snorted in alarm, and she grinned. "Ah yes," she agreed, "but thy lady." She looked west then and tossed her hair from her eyes. "Now," she commanded, lifting her chin, "let us away!"

  Away they sped from that place, leaving only trampled grass and silent, unseen spectral warriors.

  The stars were clear and cold outside, but Elminster saw them not. He gazed into a twinkling sphere of crystal on the table before him in the upper room of his tower. Within the crystal he saw a rich, red-carpeted chamber with tapestries of red and silver and gold, a fine, roaring fire, and a lady in a black, tattered gown sitting at a table, gazing back at him.

  "Well met, sage, and welcome," she said with the faintest of smiles.

  "Well met, lady queen and mage. Thank ye for allowing this intrusion."

  "Few enough call upon me, old mage, and fewer still do so without some plan to harm or hamper me. I thank you."

  Elminster inclined his head politely. "I have further thanks for thee this night, lady. Thank ye for protecting Narm and Shandril on several occasions-possibly more-these past few days. I am most grateful."

  The Simbul gave him a rare smile. "My pleasure, again." There was the briefest of silences, and then the old mage asked a careful question.

  "Why did ye aid them so, when the maid is such a threat to thy magic, and with it, the survival of Aglarond-and of thee?"

  The Simbul smiled. "I know the prophecy of Alaundo and what it may mean. I like Shandril." She looked away for a moment, and then back at the old mage. "I have a question for you, Elminster. Answer not if you would not. Is Shandril the child of Garthond Shessair and the incantratrix Dammasae?"

  Elminster nodded. "I am not certain, lady, but it is very likely."

  An eyebrow lifted. "Not certain? Did you not hide the girl and shelter her as she grew?"

  Elminster shook his head very slowly. "Nay. Not I."

  "Who, then?"

  "Again, I am not sure. I believe it was the warrior Gorstag, of Highmoon."

  The Simbul nodded. "So I have come to suspect these last few days. I thank you for trusting me so, to answer me openly. I promise you, old mage, that I shall not betray your trust. The girl Shandril is safe from my power-unless the passing years change her as they did Lansharra and she becomes too dangerous to leave unopposed."

  "That is my present burden," Elminster said heavily. "Such a fall must not happen again."

  "What, if I may ask you without offense, will you do differently this time?" The Simbul was watching him closely, her eyes very dark.

  "Leave her be," Elminster replied. "She will choose her own path in the end. Her choice may be the clearer and happier for her-if not easier in the making-if I do not sit upon her every act and speak upon her every thought." Elminster met The S
imbul's gaze thoughtfully. "The Harpers can protect her nearly as well as I could, without locking her in my tower and thus keeping her under my eye… and I could not do that without ruining her choice, even had I the cruel heart to do it."

  The Simbul nodded. "That is the right road for you to ride, I think. It is good, indeed, that I needn't force you to take that route."

  Elminster smiled, a little sadly. "A good thing, indeed," he said very softly, "for such an attempt would likely have destroyed ye."

  The Simbul regarded him soberly. "I know." She nodded slowly and then almost whispered, "I have never doubted or belittled your power, Elminster. You take the quiet way and play the befuddled old fool, even as I take beast-shape and hide often. But I have seen what your art has wrought. If ever I should have to stand against it, I expect to fall."

  "I did not disturb ye this night to threaten ye."

  "I know," The Simbul said, rising slowly. "Will you allow me to teleport to you now?"

  "Of course, lady," Elminster said. "But why?"

  The Simbul's eyes were very dark as she let fall her tattered gown. Beneath it, she wore a garment of thin, black silk strands that reached from her throat to cuffs at her wrists and a broad cummerbund belt. The outfit covered little. Set with many small, twinkling gems that winked out when she did, her garment shone the more brilliantly when The Simbul reappeared beside Elminster. Unsmiling, she stood almost timidly amid the dark room's clutter of papers and books. Elminster gaped at her and then deliberately composed himself and smiled.

  "But, lady, I have seen some five hundred winters," Elminster said gently. "Am I not too old for this?"

  She stopped his lips with slim white fingers. "All those years will give us something to talk about, you and I," she said, "instead of art." She was slim and very light as she sat in his lap, and her skin as she leaned forward to embrace him was smooth and soft. "I would tell you something," she whispered, as Elminster's arms went gently around her. "My name, my truename, is-"

  "Hush, lady," Elminster said, eyes moist. "Keep it safe. We shall trade them, soon. But not now."