Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  Shandril shook her head and strode on, trying not to look down at the tunic that clung to her damply. It glistened with the blood of the man who’d nearly slain her. Her skin crawled. She hoped it would not begin to smell.

  Far to the east, the mist was thinner. Wisps curled about Marimmar’s pony as the Mage Most Magnificent led his apprentice through thickly grown trees. “This way, boy! Just ahead, and you’ll lay eyes on what few but elves have seen for four lifetimes of men! Myth Drannor! Who knows what Art may wait here for you and me? We could wield magic unseen in these lands for centuries, boy! What say you?” The pudgy mage trembled with anticipation.

  “Ah, Master …” Narm began, looking ahead.

  “Aye?”

  “Well met, lord of the elves,” Narm said hastily, “and lady most fair. I am Narm, apprentice to this Mage Most Magnificent, Marimmar. We seek Myth Drannor.”

  Marimmar blinked in surprise and beheld a tall, dark-haired male elf who bore both wands and sword at his belt. Beside him stood a human lady of almost elfin beauty—dark eyes, a gentle mouth, and a slim, exquisite figure—who wore plain, dark robes.

  They blocked the old, overgrown trail Marimmar had been following and showing no signs of moving aside. Both wore polite expressions, however, and had nodded courteously at Narm’s salutation.

  Marimmar cleared his throat noisily. “Ah—well met, as my boy has said. Know you the way to the City of Beauty, good sir?”

  The elf smiled thinly. “Yes, I do, Mage Most Magnificent.” His voice was low, musical, and faintly sarcastic. His eyes were very clear.

  Narm stared in wonder. This seemed an elf lord like the old tales told of.

  “However,” the elf continued, gently and severely, “I stand here to bar your way to it. Myth Drannor is not a treasure-house. It is a sacred place to my people, though most of my kin have gone from these fair trees. It’s also very dangerous. Evil men have summoned devils to the ruined city. They patrol the forest not far beyond where we stand.”

  “I am not a babe to be frightened by words, good sir,” Marimmar snapped, urging his pony forward. “We have come far to reach Myth Drannor before it is plundered, its precious magic lost! Stand aside. I have no quarrel with you and would not harm you!”

  “Back to your mount, mage,” the lady said calmly, “for we have no quarrel with it.” She stepped forward. “I am Jhessail Silvertree of Shadowdale. This is my husband, Merith Strongbow. We are Knights of Myth Drannor. This is our city, and we bid you politely begone. We have the Art to drive you back, Marimmar—or destroy you utterly. Force us to wield it at your peril.”

  Marimmar cleared his throat again. “This is ridiculous! You dare to tell me where to pass and where not to pass? Me?”

  “Nay,” Merith mocked the mage’s florid speech. “We but inform you of the consequences of your choice. Your destiny remains in your hands.” He smiled at Narm, who had backed his pony away.

  Marimmar looked around and discovered he stood alone. With a hasty “harrumph” he turned his mount. “Perhaps there is something to your warnings. I shall direct my quest for knowledge elsewhere for now. But know this: Threats shall not stay me—nor others who even now seek this place with greedier intent than I—from exploring Myth Drannor. When the opportunity proves more … ah, auspicious, my Art may open me a way you cannot gainsay!”

  Merith smiled. “ ’Tis said a man must follow where his foolishness leads.”

  “Safe journey, Narm and Marimmar, both,” Jhessail added, her eyes alight with amusement. Narm could see no less than three wands at her belt—just beneath her waiting hands.

  Marimmar saw them too, and nodded curtly to the Knights as he wheeled his pony. “Until our paths cross again.” The Mage Most Magnificent spurred his mount into a canter, tearing past Narm like a whirlwind.

  Narm turned and saluted the elf and the lady mage with a smile ere he trotted off in his master’s wake.

  The Knights watched them go. “The old one is too much the fool,” Jhessail said thoughtfully. “He’ll turn about and come by another way … and meet his doom.”

  Merith shrugged. “One less arrogant fool to swagger his Art, then. He was warned. I hope he doesn’t drag the young one down with him.”

  Jhessail nodded. “If not for the devils and the beasts, Myth Drannor’s population would have grown to rival Waterdeep’s. Why are these magic-seekers such idiots?”

  Merith grinned at her. “Adventurers and idiots are one and the same.”

  Jhessail’s coldly succinct reply consisted of a silent, level look.

  Merith smiled again and swept his wife into an embrace.

  It’s rare for elf and human to love so deeply and so simply without high tragedy, Jhessail thought, as she kissed him. Marimmar Oh-So-Magnificent would not appreciate this, but his young lad might.…

  “Here, then,” said the Mage Most Magnificent, a short time later. “I can see towers through the trees … this must be that part of the old city where the mages dwelt.”

  The confident words had scarcely left his mouth before a dark and grinning face rose from the underbrush just ahead.

  Narm, heart sinking, had not time for even a cry of alarm before the devil leaped, clapped batlike wings, and flew unhesitatingly at them. Its fellows rose dark and sinister from the brush.

  Marimmar’s voice quavered as he babbled a hasty spell.

  After that terrible instant of realization, they were fighting for their lives.

  3

  THE GATES OF DOOM

  My fires ring my foe around, and my fangs and claws strike at her while she flees. Cruel, am I? Nay, for until now she has ne’er really lived, nor known the worth of the life she has used so carelessly. She should thank me.

  Gholdaunt of Tashluta

  in a letter to all Sword Coast ports

  on his hunting of the pirate

  Valshee of the Black Blade

  Year of the Wandering Waves

  Mist rolled about them as the Company of the Bright Spear hurried quietly and warily over rising hills. Bare rock appeared more frequently. Somewhere ahead, hidden in the mist, the Thunder Peaks jutted skyward in a great wall. The warriors who’d attacked them hastened on, unseen but trailed by trampled grass.

  Burlane frowned. “What do you think, Thail? If their bowmen don’t return, will they be warned? Are we rushing into a trap?”

  Thail nodded. “Aye. Yet we dare not turn aside and approach the peaks another way. In this mist, we’d lose their trail and stumble into any number of traps. Best we continue close on their heels or turn back altogether!”

  Burlane looked at them all. “Well?” he asked. “Do we press on, turn back to Myth Drannor, or seek fortune elsewhere? This chase could mean our deaths, and soon!”

  “We face death every day,” Ferostil said with a shrug, “and treasure’s guarded the world over.”

  There were nods of agreement.

  “We go on, then,” Burlane said. “Weapons ready, and pick up the pace; we slow only where attacks seem likely.”

  They urged their reluctant horses into a trot. The hills climbed more steeply. Still the company saw no warriors or laden mules. The trail led through scrub, up into the mountains, leaving the mist behind. Loose stones soon forced them to dismount. Slip-hobbling their horses, they proceeded on foot, Ferostil and Burlane setting a brisk pace.

  “Who d’you think we’re following?” Delg grumbled, running hard to keep pace.

  Burlane spread his hands; each bore a weapon. “Who can say? No blazon displayed, blades a-ready and not slow to use them—outlaws, surely, but from where? Whence such booty, and where do they lair?”

  “Cheery speech,” Ferostil grunted sourly. “So we hasten to meet gods-only-know how many bandits, all well-armed and expecting us. And me without fresh bandages on my wounds!”

  Rymel chuckled, and Burlane snorted.

  Delg grinned wolfishly. “If it’s fresh bandages you seek, longjaws, I could provide fresh dressings—an’ f
resh wounds to go under them!”

  “Ahead!” Thail snapped sharply. All fell silent and looked.

  The trail led up a rocky rise between two pillars of stone. The land on all sides looked bleak and uninhabited. Between the pillars, the company could see a high, green valley, climbing to the right and out of sight. Mountains rose on either side.

  Burlane nodded. “A place to be wary. Yet I see no danger.”

  “Invisible, by magic?” Ferostil suggested.

  Delg gave him a sour look. “Waste all that Art to hide from six adventurers? You are a king among fools.”

  “No, he’s just a gloom-thought,” Rymel said, grinning. “Yet if we climbed one wall of that valley as soon as we pass yon pillars, I’d feel safer. This is a spot for ambush.”

  Burlane nodded again. “Once within, climb the right-hand slope, the first good place you see—and look sharp! I want no foes sounding an alarm or rolling rocks down on our heads. Understood?”

  With nods of agreement, the company hurried into the cleft between the pillars.

  Delg peered narrowly at the rock faces to either side. He wore a thoughtful frown, as if old stone could tell him things. The valley beyond seemed quiet and empty.

  Ahead, the grass grew shorter, broken by bare rock, moss, and weeds. Even Shandril could see where unshod mule-hooves had sunk into the mud.

  In the clear light of highsun, the vale before them lay small, green and rugged, walled in by mountains. Scraggly trees huddled along the base of a steep cliff that formed the northwest wall of the valley. Water gleamed in little pools to the company’s left, and rocks rose brokenly to their right. Nothing living met their eyes save a lone hawk, circling high above. There was no sign of warriors or mules except the trail running on.

  The company swung to the right and began to climb, Burlane waving Delg to the fore.

  The dwarf nodded, swarming up the rock with swift ease that gave way to slow, wary movements … and finally to a pause. Delg stood like a statue among the rocks above. Slowly he turned his head. “Does something about this place feel … wrong?”

  Mounting a rock, Burlane nodded, “Yes, and until—”

  A man in maroon robes seemingly stepped out of thin air and onto a rock farther up the slope. He was broad, stout, and thin-bearded. Though he bore no staff or weapon, he did not look friendly.

  “Who are you,” he called angrily, “and why have you passed the gates without leave? Speak! Show me the sign forthwith or perish!” The man held up his hands like a wizard and glared at them, his eyes black and glistening.

  Shandril had never before seen a man who looked so cruel and … evil.

  “What gates?” Burlane called, climbing nearer.

  Though Shandril crouched behind a rock, the rest of the company advanced with weapons out. They shifted apart.

  Their challenger watched them, his black eyes darting coldly back and forth. “The Gates of Doom,” came his cold reply. His fingers moved as if they were crawling spiders. He chanted a rising phrase, and lightning leaped from the empty air before his fingers in a spitting, crackling bolt.

  In its blue-white flash, Ferostil raised his sword in a convulsive, jerking dance. The warrior’s roar of agony died away as his body blackened, tottered, and fell. The corpse dropped out of view between two rocks.

  Rymel threw a dagger as the company leaped to attack. The short blade flashed end over end toward the dark-eyed mage. In midair, the knife struck an invisible barrier and bounced to one side.

  The mage pointed at the company and said something clipped and cold. Nine streaks of light blossomed from his finger. Glowing missiles darted down with frightening speed, turning to follow the adventurers. Thail and Burlane were struck by two bolts each before there was a flash of light around the edge of Shandril’s boulder. Something cold and burning and almost alive hit her. Very hard. Such pain …

  Shandril twisted in agony, crying out as she hugged herself. She wrapped her arms tightly around the searing fire in her gut. It burned into her chest and nose and brought tears to her eyes. At last, it died away, leaving her empty, weak, and sick.

  Shandril found herself on her knees leaning against the rough rock, her hands shaking uncontrollably. She knew she should draw her blade and attack, but the world spun around her in gathering darkness.… Stone scraped cold and hard against her cheek as she slid down it.

  Down … down … gods above! What had the wizard done to her?

  From somewhere dark and increasingly chill, Shandril tumbled back to the Realms again, rising, drifting … here.

  Where was here? She slumped against stone, stiff and torn. From somewhere above her, cold laughter came.

  She should have stayed at the Rising Moon.…

  Groaning, Shandril looked up over rising, broken rocks to where the dark-eyed wizard stood, his hands twisting in spellcasting. Rymel was only a few feet below him, climbing grimly. Not far below Rymel, the radiance of the Bright Spear bobbed into view. Burlane leaned in pain on his enchanted weapon as he climbed. On the rocks below lay the still, twisted form of Thail. Delg, obviously hurt, crouched beside the fallen mage.

  Rymel was not going to reach the dark-eyed wizard in time. A spell was going to tear open his face while he was still half a spear’s length away.

  The wizard snarled and brought his hands down with a flourish, as if thrusting a great sword at Rymel. The bard sprang into the air like a child playing at being a frog, caught at the top of a higher rock, and desperately swung himself onward and upward, shoulders rippling.

  Shandril tasted blood. She spat it out angrily and started her own grim climb, knowing that long before she could reach the wizard he’d have doomed the company with his spells—but also knowing she had to do something.

  Rymel whirled. His outstretched sword bloodied the mage’s hand and ruined another spell that might have slain them all. The bard drew back his sword to strike again, fighting for balance.

  The wizard stepped back and shouted one thunderous word in desperate haste.

  An instant later Rymel stood alone on the high rock. His sword glittered as he spun, searching for his foe.

  Air trembled above a rock in front of Shandril but behind the rest of the company. Suddenly the dark-eyed wizard stood there, very near.

  With a cry of rage and terror she snatched out her sword, knowing she was too weak and unskilled to do any harm.

  Burlane heard her cry. He turned and threw the Bright Spear in one smooth motion.

  The mage stood grinning down at Shandril, his hands moving again. A flicker came behind him. He glanced back a moment too late.

  Suddenly the spear’s long shaft was standing out of the mage’s side. Its strike hurled him sideways off the rock. Crumpling around the spear, he fell out of sight.

  Shandril clambered over the rocks toward the spot, peering anxiously. Even as hope rose in her, the mage’s shoulder and drawn, furious face appeared again.

  He thrust a fist into the air. On one of his fingers was a brass ring that flashed with sudden light.

  Shandril ducked hastily behind a rock, praying aloud to Tymora that whatever the ring unleashed would spare her. Two long, ragged breaths after her prayer had ended, with no cries or flashes, Shandril dared to rise again, sword ready.

  The mage hadn’t moved. He stood against a rock, clutching his side where the spear was still lodged. Burlane climbed over the rocks toward him, brow bristling in fury, sword drawn. Rymel also clambered to the attack, moving faster among the rocks but coming from farther off.

  The mage raised bloody hands to cast another spell. Burlane cursed and flung his blade. The mage ducked and stepped back a pace, but did not cease his weaving of Art. The whirling sword missed, clanging on the rocks before it slid out of sight.

  Burlane cursed horribly, staggering as he came down off a large rock. He drew the long knife he carried at his belt and hurried to the next rock.

  Shandril remembered the knives in her own boots. She plucked one out, shea
th and all. Carefully she judged the distance, drew off the sheath, and threw the dagger.

  She was too slow.

  The mage finished his spell, and Burlane was suddenly shrouded in a dark, sticky web of strands that held him fast among the rocks, shouting in helpless rage.

  A moment later, the mage cried out and cursed. He glared at Shandril in hatred, clutching the back of his left hand where her dagger had cut him.

  Cold fear settled in her, but she raised her sword and climbed toward the wizard. Only a few rocks separated them, but Rymel was even nearer, springing rock to rock in angry haste.

  The wizard backed away, the spear quivering. Its end caught and scraped on a rock. The mage gasped and stopped, sinking briefly in pain. He staggered to his feet and turned away from them, his ring flashing as he lurched between two rocks, seeking to flee.

  “Oh, no, you don’t!” Rymel roared, leaping wildly over Burlane’s webbed form and landing precariously on the rocks beyond. He drew back his arm to hurl his own sword—

  A deep roar shook the rocks. The wizard turned with a triumphant laugh. The light of his ring seemed a bonfire on his hand.

  The roar filled the valley, echoing off the mountains around—and no wonder. In the sky above, turning ponderously as it emerged from between two frowning crags, was the vast, scaled bulk of a green dragon. Its huge, batlike wings beat once. It dipped its great serpentine neck and dived at the company.

  Vast and terrible, it was, as long as seventy Rising Moons or more.

  In its glittering gold-and-white eyes, Shandril saw her death. Paralyzed with dragon fear, she could not even scream as the dragon spewed a billowing cloud of thick, greenish-yellow gas.

  Rymel’s hurled blade flashed past the laughing wizard, company members cursed or screamed—then, amid racing, whirling green mists, the shadow of the flying wyrm fell on them.

  Shandril couldn’t breathe. Her lungs burned, her eyes smarted. Choking and coughing, Shandril fell to her knees, a searing pain racking her lungs. Darkness closed talons around her, and she fell.…