Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  Narm started to bow hesitantly. Illistyl’s grip on his arm jerked him upright. “Narm,” she said, “this is Lord Mourngrym, of Shadowdale. He will ask questions; answer him well, or I shall regret having aided you.” Smiling, she turned to the man on the throne. “We found him beset by devils in Myth Drannor, Grym.”

  Lord Mourngrym nodded. The eyes he turned on Narm were very clear and very blue. Their gaze held the apprentice as if at the point of a gentle sword. “Welcome. Why came you to Myth Drannor, Narm?”

  Narm was silent a moment. His words came out in a rush. “My master, the mage Marimmar, sought the magic he believes—believed—the city holds. We rode out of Cormyr and up through Deepingdale seeking the ruins, just the two of us.”

  The Lord of Shadowdale arched one eyebrow, but his expression did not change.

  Narm drew in a deep breath. “There we met Merith Strongbow and Jhessail Silvertree of the Knights, who warned us back. My master was angry. He thought they were trying to keep him from the magic, so we went southeast and turned again to reach the city. We were beset by devils, and my master was killed. I would have died, too, had not this good lady and the druid Lanseril Snowmantle come to my rescue. They brought me straight here.”

  Mourngrym nodded. “Their patrol was ended. Here you stand; what will you do now?”

  Narm paused. “A night ago, Lord, I’d not have known. But I am resolved: I’ll go back to Myth Drannor, if I can.” He saw devils in his mind and shuddered. “If I run, I shall be seeing devils forever.”

  “It could be your death.”

  “If the gods Tymora and Mystra will it so, then so be it.”

  Mourngrym looked to Illistyl, whose eyebrows had risen in faint surprise. “What say you? Let a man go to his death?”

  Illistyl shrugged. “We must do as we will, if we can. The hard task, Grym—decreeing who can do as they will—is yours.” She grinned. “I look forward to observing your masterful performance.”

  Mourngrym’s mustache curled in a tight smile ere he turned back to Narm. “You now lack a master. Do you also lack spells?”

  “Yes, Lord,” Narm replied. “If I return again from Myth Drannor, I would seek a mage of power to study my Art. I have heard of Elminster. Are there others here who might welcome an apprentice?”

  Mourngrym smiled openly this time. “Yes,” he said. “The lady who stands beside you, for one.”

  Narm looked at Illistyl. She smiled faintly, eyebrows and gaze raised to the rafters.

  Mourngrym continued, “Her mentor, Jhessail Silvertree, for another. Other, lesser workers of Art in the dale may also welcome you. I try to make welcome only those who mean Shadowdale no harm. Do you yet serve anyone—the Dragon Cult, perhaps, or anyone of Zhentil Keep? Have you accepted coin from anyone to observe and report what you see?”

  The air around Narm suddenly tingled. “No, Lord,” he said firmly, letting a little more anger into his voice than he should have. “I swear I work for no one, and mean no ill to Shadowdale. You have my word on it.”

  The lord of the dale looked at Narm with interest. “And is your word good?”

  Narm’s face flooded bright red. “It is. Believe it.”

  “I do,” Mourngrym said thoughtfully, “and yet I ask myself why. Perhaps you’ll tell me.”

  “I … I must keep it good,” Narm told him grimly, “because it is all I have.”

  The lord inclined his head. “Illistyl trusts you,” he said gently, and the smile that followed was as dazzling as it was sudden. “Wherefore you have the freedom of the dale and are welcome, here in the Tower, to our table and a bed. May the gods smile on you when you return to Myth Drannor.”

  Narm bowed. “Thank you, Lord.” Turning, he offered his arm to Illistyl. “My lady?”

  Illistyl nodded, winking at Mourngrym. “Adventurers and fools walk together, eh?”

  “Yes,” Mourngrym agreed. A sparkle glimmered in his eye as he added, “But which is which?”

  4

  MANY MEETINGS

  Always we hurry through our lives, we who travel. Only folk tied to the land wait for danger to come to them. All others blunder ever onward, swords at the ready, through many meetings. Each may be the last, for in the wilds the wolf, the orc, and the gorgon hunt and smile when they meet dinner. What is more dangerous even than these? Why, any man you meet.

  Jarn Tiir of Lantan

  A Merchant’s Tale

  Year of the Smoky Moon

  Shandril desperately flung herself aside. The fearsome thing of stone wavered once more and toppled past her, shattering flagstones with a thunderous crash. Broken jaws and claws bounced and skittered, making the girl from the Rising Moon—she who should never have left the Rising Moon, by all the gods!—cough amid rising dust.

  So, statues could break. She’d always wondered.…

  She’d landed on her knees and forearms in an old, deserted room. It was a large dark hall, its corners and ceiling lost in gloom. Dim sunlight crept in from somewhere off to her right, across a stone floor littered with dust and rubble.

  Shandril rolled over and got up hastily to look behind her. She was alone. In the dust beside the toppled statue, she could see the marks of her landing. She’d simply appeared here, wherever here was.

  Shandril had no desire to explore. She sank to the floor, cursing softly at the pain of many minor bruises, and sat still, catching her breath. The inscribed bone remained clutched in one hand, though the smaller bones had fallen off. Shandril dropped it in her lap and sighed.

  Here she was, lost and alone, penniless, unarmed, barefoot, in pain, somewhere unfamiliar that she’d reached by Art she neither understood nor controlled. Moreover, she was thirsty, hungry, and badly in need of relieving herself.

  Shandril sighed, brushed tangled hair out of her eyes, and got up. Adventure, hah. Unending pain, fear, and discomfort are nearer the mark. That—she reflected, looking warily about as she loosened her breeches—and never relaxing, not even for an instant.

  All too soon, something moved high up in the darkness at the far end of the hall, flapping toward her. Three somethings, ugly creatures with curving beaks, barbed claws, and bat wings covered in dusty brown feathers. Small yellow eyes glittering nastily at her.…

  Shandril cursed, struggled to her feet, laced and belted her breeches, clutched the bone that had brought her here, and ran across the hall in the direction of the daylight.

  It’s not like this in travelers’ tales, she thought ruefully as she slipped on loose stone and twisted her knee. “Come to think of it, I’ve not seen a single gold coin yet.” She ran on.

  Sunlight came from two tall, narrow windows ahead of her, set high in the wall. Beneath them she could make out the arch of a small doorway, a wooden door carved with a beautiful design. Then she realized in horror that she saw no pull ring, knob, or even keyhole. Wings flapped close behind her.

  She reached the door, ran desperate fingers around it, tugged vainly at the ridges of the carving and the edges, and finally hurled her shoulder against the thick, polished wood, gritting her teeth against the impact.

  There was a dull crash, and she was through the door. Its rotten wood collapsed into splinters and pulpy dust around her as she … fell!

  Shandril twisted helplessly in the air, falling through daylight, down, down toward a well. Around her were huge trees and vine-covered stone towers. Where was she? She laughed wildly, shaking her head at her helplessness. Adventure, aye!

  Colder laughter answered. From a nearby stone spire, a woman with wings sprang into the air and flapped in Shandril’s direction. The maid from Highmoon had a brief glimpse of dusky naked flesh, cruel eyes, and a dagger flashing as the wings beat. Then she struck cold water with a crash that shook her very bones.

  She plunged deep. Only the icy water kept her from passing out. Numb, Shandril feebly struggled to the surface.

  “Lady Tymora!” she gasped as her face broke water. “Please! No more!”

  Overhead,
the winged woman gleefully swooped and darted. Her dagger flashed and struck, gutting the three little horrors who’d flown after Shandril. From the tales she’d heard, they were probably stirges, and the woman … the woman was some sort of devil.

  A devil. Devils lurked in ruins … and the nearest ruins she remembered from talk in the Rising Moon were those of Myth Drannor.

  “Gods preserve me!” Shandril groaned, teeth chattering.

  She splashed to the edge of the well and clawed her way out. Her arms felt leaden. The enchanted bone was gone in the dark water. At least, she thought slowly, crawling away, there was nothing waiting for me in the well.

  Something splashed behind her. Great tentacles reached up from the waters. A cluster of eyes goggled about on one dripping stalk. Other tentacles slapped at the winged devil and then coiled about it hungrily.…

  The she-devil was overmastered. Breast heaving and feathers flying, she struggled. Her fangs sank into one tentacle, but it swiftly drew her down. She struck feebly with her dagger as the tentacles dragged her under, leaving only bubbles and darkening water behind.

  Shandril turned away, feeling sick, and crawled toward some bushes growing up the side of the hall. Perhaps she could hide there, and rest—

  The stones beneath her gave way, and Shandril fell into musty darkness. She was too weary to care.

  Tymora, it seemed, had answered her prayer. Shandril sank into oblivion, wondering what she had landed on that was so hard. Whatever it was shifted under her metallically, for all the world like coins. Perhaps she’d die a rich adventurer, after all.…

  “Have a care, sot,” Torm said affectionately to Rathan, kneeing his horse to urge it closer, “else you’ll be right off your beast and headfirst in the mud!”

  The florid, red-eyed cleric clamped large fingers on the rim of his saddle and fixed Torm with baleful eyes. “Tymora love thee for thy ill-placed concern, bootlicking dog!” He belched comfortably, adjusted his paunch to settle a disagreement it had with the saddle, and wagged a finger at the mischievous thief. “So I like to drink! Do I fall from the saddle? Do I disgrace the Great Lady whose symbol I bear? Do I yip and yap incessantly in a double-tongued, fawning, untruthful manner, like certain nameless-but-all-too-near thieves? Aye?”

  Narm, between them, wisely said nothing. They were in deep woods, riding east to Myth Drannor. The horses evidently knew the trail, for the two Knights spared little attention for guiding them. Since departing Shadowdale days ago, the sharp-tongued Torm had spent his time needling Rathan, and the big cleric had spent his emptying skin after skin of wine. The pack mules that followed his mount resembled huge ambulatory bunches of grapes. Those behind Torm carried all the food.

  Mourngrym had lent Narm the mount that snorted and grumbled beneath him. He’d also suggested that Narm ride back to the ruined city in the company of two Knights of Myth Drannor leaving for a patrol there. Overwhelmed by a magnificent feast and a canopied bed in the Tower of Ashaba the night before, Narm had accepted. Several times since, he had questioned the wisdom of that decision.

  Torm’s thin mustache quirked in a smile. “Lost in thought, good Narm? No time for that, now you’re an adventurer! Philosophers think and do nothing. Adventurers rush in to be killed without reflection. A single thought as to what they’re facing would no doubt have them fleeing!”

  “Not so,” Rathan rumbled, wagging that finger again. “If ye worship the Lady Luck, Tymora the True, luck will cloak thee and walk with thee. Such thoughts but mar thy daring.”

  “Yes, if you worship Tymora,” Torm returned. “Narm and I are both more prudent men.”

  “Ye worship Mask and Mystra between ye and speak to me of prudence?” Rathan chuckled. “The world rears strangeness anew.” He leaned forward suddenly to point into the dimness. “Look, ye loose-tongues! Is that not a devil in the trees?”

  Narm froze in his saddle, his hands suddenly icy. He tried not to tremble. Torm turned his mount, slim long sword out. “Do they wander so far, now? We may not be able to wait for Elminster’s or Dove’s return before we raise all against them, if they’re grown so bold!”

  “It’s but one, oh bravest of thieves,” Rathan said dryly, standing in his stirrups to get a better look. “And there’s something awry. See how its flame scorches not? It passes through brush without so much as a leaf crunching or a twig cracking. ’Tis an illusion!” He swung about to fix Narm with a stern eye, the silver disc of Tymora shining in his hand. “This would not be your work, Narm Not-Apprentice?”

  “No,” Narm said, spreading honest hands. The Knights could see he was white with fear.

  Both turned to peer at the woods suspiciously.

  “Why an illusion, but to draw us away?” Rathan asked.

  “Yes,” Torm replied softly, “into a trap or away from someone who wants to pass?”

  “Hmmph,” Rathan said and rose in his saddle again, holding his holy symbol aloft. His free hand traced empty air around the disc, following its shape. “Tymora! Tymora! Tymora!”

  The disc began to glow, faintly at first and then more brightly, until it shone with a bright silver radiance. Torm scanned the woods, blade ready. Abruptly Rathan released his hold on the glowing disc. It did not fall, but hung silently in midair, as the priest sang to it:

  By Tymora’s power and Tymora’s grace,

  Be revealed now wherever I face,

  All lives and things that evil be

  Unveiled truly now before me!

  The disc flared blindingly as Rathan’s words ended. He plucked it from the air and held it out before him. Its glow slowly faded, and he peered down the path, eyes keen.

  “Aha!” he said. “Six creatures on the trail, headed this way!” Dragging a heavy mace from his belt, he whacked his armored knee lightly and swung his arm to limber his shoulder. “Ready, Torm?” he asked. “Narm, watch the rear, will ye?”

  Narm blinked. “Six? What if they’re devils?”

  Rathan Thentraver stared at him for a breath and then shrugged. “I do worship the Lady of Luck,” he explained, as if to an idiot child. “Torm?”

  The slim thief slipped back into his saddle and grinned. “It’s your head, oh smeller-of-evil. The mules are hobbled.”

  Rathan nodded briefly and jerked his horse’s reins, thrusting his mace into the crook of his arm. His mount reared, pawing the air. With practiced ease, the priest clipped the disc onto his shield. When the horse came down, his mace was back in his hand. “For Tymora and victory! The Knights of Myth Drannor are upon ye! Die!”

  Narm gulped as the horse and the roaring man atop it tore away through the trees at full gallop. Torm rode right at Rathan’s heels, waving his long sword in circles.

  From far ahead yells echoed in the forest, followed by the slash and skirl of steel on steel. There was a short shriek, quickly cut off, much thudding of hooves, more clangs, a few scattered yells … and then silence.

  Narm wondered uncomfortably what he should do with the mules if the two were slain. He had no wish to be thought of as an enemy of Shadowdale, or a thief, but …

  Something rustled along the trail ahead, nearer than the battle. Nervously, Narm drew his dagger.

  “Ho, Narm!” Torm’s voice came floating through the trees. “Haven’t the mules eaten all the leaves on that stretch yet?”

  With a cheery wave, the thief rode into view, eyed the dagger Narm was sheathing, and swung lightly from his saddle to see to the mules. “Adventurers out of Zhentil Keep—priests of Bane and an illusionist out to make a name for himself.”

  “Dead?” Narm asked.

  Torm nodded. “They weren’t willing to surrender or flee,” he said mildly, holding the reins of the mules. He thrust the hobble ropes through his belt and swung up into his saddle.

  Narm shook his head in disbelief.

  “Eh? Why so?” Torm asked.

  Narm grinned weakly. “Just the two of you, and Rathan bellowing war cries … and three breaths later you come back and tell me the
y’re dead.”

  Torm nodded. “It’s what usually happens,” he replied, deadpan.

  Narm shook his head again as they rode forward. “No, no,” he said. “Mistake me not … how can you attack like that, knowing you face six foes, at least one a master of Art?”

  “The war cries and all? Well, if you’re risking death, why not have fun?” Torm replied. “If I wanted to risk death without having fun, I’d be a tax collector, not a thief. Come on—if we’re much longer, Rathan’ll have finished all the food and wine, and we’re not even there yet!”

  When her sensibility returned, the light overhead was much brighter. Shandril lay at the edge of a huge mound of coins, feet up on the slithering riches, head down and aching. She felt weak and dizzy. It seemed days since she’d dared to open that tomb.

  Slowly, she got up and looked around. The coins—rusty-brown with age and damp—looked to be copper. Sigh. Above her, atop the heap, lay two human bodies on their backs, feet entangled. One wore armor, much blackened. About him clung a faint reek of burned flesh. The other wore robes and clutched the crumbling fragments of a stick of wood. A sword protruded from his rib cage, and a small shoulder bag lay crumpled beneath him.

  Shandril clambered up the coins. Perhaps one carried water, or wine.…

  The armored corpse was cooked black; Shandril avoided it. The other had a dagger, which she took, the bag, and boots—too large, but her feet had bled enough for her to take any boots over no boots. She thirstily drained a skin of water. What of the wand? She tugged the crumbling pieces free of the body and examined them curiously. The butt end of the thickest piece bore the word “Ilzazu,” but nothing happened when Shandril cautiously said it aloud. She scrambled down the heap again.

  The bag held hard, dark bread, a wheel of cheese sealed in wax, another half-eaten wheel speckled with mold (Shandril ate it anyway, saving the other for later), and a small book. Opening it cautiously, she saw crawling runes and glyphs, and slammed it again. There was also a hopelessly smashed hand lamp, a flint, and a metal vial of lamp oil.