Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  There were nods all around. The curly-haired priest of Bane jerked his chin at the tower across the murmuring, silver-shot river. “Right, onward! Cast your spell!”

  The guards on the bridge greeted Sharantyr with polite curiosity and let her pass. In the trees, she glanced back, saw them shrug at each other, and smiled ruefully. No doubt they considered all the Knights truly crazed. She walked on swiftly and quietly, past the temple of Tymora into the deep woods, until she found a stump where she could sit and relax.

  After a time, she heard unmistakable noises, and looked up with a frown. There were men moving off to her right. Best to be quiet until she knew who they were and why they were here.

  Utter silence fell.

  Puzzled, Sharantyr rose and peered through the trees. Eight men crept soundlessly down to the river Ashaba.

  “Time to stop shivering and make another round of the tower,” Torm said. “Even fools know that everything and everyone of value is within. If said dastards aren’t creeping through these trees, they’ll be over there on the other side of the river, in those trees!”

  “Think ye so?” Rathan grunted. “If they’re as foolish as ye say, why don’t they ride right up to the gates pretending friendship and then do their fighting? It’d save a lot of time and creeping around.”

  Torm chuckled. “Not all bladesmen are as bold—nay, reckless—as certain faithful of Tymora!”

  “Of that, ye can be sure. I may be reckless enough to please Tymora, but I’m not reckless enough to creep around as ye do!” He peered ahead. “Look ye, down by the old dock … was that not a man moving?”

  “I see nothing,” Torm muttered. “Get down, will you? They’ll be well warned if some great giant with a mace, all aglow with the sanctity of Tymora, sails into their midst. Down!”

  Rathan grunted reluctantly to his knees and then chest in the dewy grass.

  “Now,” Torm continued, “look along the ground and see if Selûne lights them from behind!” His tone changed. “There! Was that the place you saw before?”

  “Aye, and there’s another.” The priest rose to his knee. Holding the disc of Tymora out by its chain, he chanted softly. The silver disc sparkled. Rathan turned his head. “Evil. Aye.”

  “The prudent thing to do would be to summon guards and create a big fray. Look, they’ve one of those magical ropes that climbs by itself! By the time we roused all, yon rogues could have done much damage.”

  Rathan clambered to his feet. “Ye want to have fun? Right. Let’s go.” His mace gleamed in Selûne’s pale light as he raised it. “Don’t fall. ’Twould not do for a priest of Tymora to rush like raging lion upon them but arrive alone.”

  “Keep up, if you can,” Torm replied, breaking into a run of frightening speed.

  Rathan shook his head, set his shoulders, and followed.

  Laelar was third of four men on the rope. The adept at its top looked cautiously in a window. If the alarm were raised now, before they could get proper footing, things could go ill indeed. He belched to ease his taut stomach, knowing the magical silence would cover the sound. Overhead, the moon shone uncaring.

  There was a violent tug on the rope, and the warrior immediately above Laelar lost hold and crashed down on the Hammer of Bane.

  Torm rushed right at the two warriors. Blades swept out to impale him, but he dived at the turf in front of them, rolled, and straightened his legs to catch those blades and bring their points down.

  Rathan leaned over him, mace glinting, and struck a weighty blow. His target crumpled, neck shattered, and fell to the side, forcing his comrade to leap away or be struck and encumbered.

  Torm, on the ground, scissored the second man’s legs between his own and twisted. The warrior toppled, arms and blade flailing, and Rathan dealt another heavy blow with his mace.

  He spun to see if any of the other rogues were close enough to attack, but the velvet silence had prevented warning. Only the man at the bottom of the rope was turning, startled.

  Torm slammed into him like a dark wind and swept him away from the rope into the wall beyond, knife flashing repeatedly as they fell. Only Torm got up.

  Rathan hurried to the rope, wrapped his hand around it, hauled mightily, let go, and stepped back—not a breath too soon. Two mailed bodies crashed into the space he’d just left. Rathan struck again with his mace.

  Tymora smiles, surely, or it could never be this easy.

  It wasn’t. One of the two still moved.

  Torm sprang catlike, dagger raised—and was struck by a black rod out of nowhere. The impact shook him from teeth to fingertips. He staggered back soundlessly.

  Rathan moved in. Rod struck mace. Rathan felt the jolt up his arm, shuddered—magic! Gods laugh, wouldn’t you know it!—and struck again.

  His blow was countered with a force that drove him back.

  A warrior slid down the rope and drew a long blade.

  Rathan and Torm advanced together cautiously. A flurry of blows, much shoving and twisting, and the men reeled apart again.

  Torm threw daggers at the curly-haired priest with the rod, more to spoil any magic than to injure. The knives were struck aside harmlessly.

  The warrior plucked something from his throat and threw it over Torm’s shoulder. The world burst into flames.

  Torm and Rathan were thrown forward in that terrible silence. Blistering flames raged over and past them. Their foes reeled against the tower wall in the searing heat. The rope, still standing, was blackened in an instant but not burned.

  Torm sank to his knees, face twisting in a soundless scream.

  Laelar staggered grimly forward, his rod of smiting raised to strike.

  Out of the night came something long and slim, feet-first.

  The Hammer of Bane was struck in the neck and throat and flipped over backward like a child’s toy. The black rod bounced free of his weakening grasp as he hit the ground.

  After her devastating kick, Sharantyr, wet gown plastered to her, landed on her shoulders. She rolled over and up in time to face the warrior. Panting, hands spread but weaponless, she fixed her eyes on his advancing blade.

  Suddenly she could hear wet grass slithering under her foe’s boots and Torm groaning on the ground nearby—the spell of silence had lifted.

  Light sprang into being all around, and Rathan struggled to his feet. Someone—she’d not time to see who—plunged out of the darkness above, smashing to earth with a horrible wet thud.

  The warrior rushed her. “Die, bitch!” he hissed, and slashed at her crosswise, a blow she couldn’t avoid.

  Sharantyr flung herself back. The tip of his blade burned along her ribs. She cursed weakly and struck the ground, rolling straight into Torm.

  Oh, gods, she thought, this is it.

  She twisted, trying to raise her feet to kick away the killing blade.

  It never came. There was a solid, meaty thwack to her right, grunts and the ringing clang of hard-driven metal, and a crash in the wet grass.

  A weak whisper by her elbow said, “Good lady, I fear you’re lying on my arm. It’s almost worth the pain, for the view.”

  Sharantyr grinned in spite of herself. “Sorry, Torm.” She fell onto her side and rolled clear.

  Across the beaten grass, a blackened Rathan thoughtfully picked up the black rod. Hefting it, he brought it down on the back of the warrior’s neck and then smartly rapped the helm of the priest of Bane. He looked up.

  Mourngrym leaned out the window above, Jhessail beside him, wand in hand. “All well?” he called.

  Mutely shaken heads answered.

  Guards and hastily roused acolytes rushed up, waving weapons.

  “Don’t kill that one,” Rathan said faintly, pointing the rod at the cleric of Bane. “Mourngrym will want to question someone about this, and I’d rather it wasn’t me.” Then, laying aside his mace and his cares, he quietly fainted.

  11

  TO MAKE A CAT LAUGH

  There comes a time in the dance of man and m
aid when truths must be told. Wise folk see to it that such times come early and often. Most of us leave such uncomfortable moments until far too late, when words are apt to burn—or worse.

  Dauthin Maer

  master merchant of Baldur’s Gate

  My Battered Tankard Filled

  Year of the Bridle

  Dawn came clear and chillingly cold, though the sun shone on the Thunder Peaks above. The small party of Dragon Cultists climbed the last reaches of a familiar trail and stopped to stare at the destruction.

  Where a stone keep had stood above the cavernous lair of Rauglothgor the Undying Wyrm, there was now a vast, round basin of tumbled rock. Coins glimmered in the early light.

  “May the dead dragons wake,” a shocked Arkuel muttered.

  Malark ignored the blasphemy in his own amazement and gathering rage. It was as those cowards had said. The girl had blown the entire mountaintop asunder. The hallowed Rauglothgor, his treasure, and the armory of the Followers were gone.

  This was magic such as the gods must have hurled when the world was young! Oh, aye, a dozen archmages could wreak such a result on undefended, unmagical walls, given time—but one girl-child, untutored and alone, in the midst of battle?

  Malark drew off his gloves. A formidable foe, if she could do this to great Rauglothgor. She must die. The honor of the cult, of Sammaster First-Speaker, now dust in a ruined city, and of Rauglothgor, now destroyed, demanded it.

  The safety of us all, he thought wryly, also demands it.

  Malark, Archmage of the Purple, sat slim and cruel in his saddle and stared with cold black eyes. He gestured to the coins. “Pick those up—all of them. Let the treasure of Rauglothgor be recovered.”

  He dismounted, cloak swirling, and strode to stare at the shattered stone. Gods above, he thought, shaken anew. The entire mountain has been smashed. He looked at the fist-sized rubble, recalled the tower on its bare ridge of rock, and shook his head. He was this but could scarcely believe it. Even the great Shargrailar could not work such shattering.

  He, Malark Himbruel, must stand against—and defeat—the power that had done this.

  If not he, who? There were the liches, yes, but liches were chancy. They served only themselves and, like the wine of Eversult, did not travel well. There were lesser mages among the Followers, but he dared not let one prevail against an important foe, lest his own standing in the Purple be threatened.

  He was not loved. Most of the Followers hated and feared magic they couldn’t control. They’d not be slow to replace him if more biddable mages came to hand. Of course, they’d merely exchange one dangerous blade for another—but by then it would be too late for Malark.

  What would it be—poison? A knife while he slept? A spell duel? The Purple would run red then.

  There were ten nonmages in the Purple: Salvarad, a dangerous renegade priest of Talos; Naergoth Bladelord; seven warrior-merchants—vicious clods, every one; and the soft-spoken, slimy little master thief, Zilvreen. They’d all watch Malark Himbruel to see if he put a foot wrong in this affair.

  Malark thought silent curses on the head of this mysterious girl and resolved to find a witness to the fray. He had to know just what this power was!

  Malark let none of this show on his hawkish face as the men-at-arms scrabbled on the rocks. “Enough, Arkuel,” he called. “You and Suld, to me. You others, find all treasure, the remains of Rauglothgor, and any other recently dead creatures, and bear them to Oversember.” He turned his back and began casting a Tulrun’s tracer.

  The girl who destroyed this place, Malark ordered firmly in his incantation. The air about him began to glow. The radiance streamed north down the trail, into the trees. Well enough.

  “Arkuel, Suld!” he snapped, and led his horse down the trail without looking back. Looking back was a thing the Purple could seldom afford to do.

  The Seat of Bane stood as empty as ever. The wan-faced High Imperceptor regarded it in awe, as always, in case one day the Black Lord himself should be sitting there.

  Empty. The head of the church of Bane sighed and took his own seat. Beside his throne stood a little gong, which he rang with the Black Mace, wielding the great weapon with a strength and skill surprising in one so thin and sallow.

  An upperpriest hurried in and knelt before the throne.

  “Up, Kuldus. The reports should be in by now. Tell me.”

  The priest nodded. “There’s no report from Laelar yet, Dread Lord, or any with him. Eilius has just come from Zhentil Keep, and he says Manshoon has been absent from the city since the meeting he dismissed! The other lords seek him, and the rebel Fzoul seeks to contact Manxam and the other beholders. The Zhentarim plot and whisper like Calishites!”

  The High Imperceptor’s smile lit his face as if a flame had kindled within. He rose. “Call the upper-priests! If Laelar reports with the girl, well and good. If he reports and has not taken her, have him return here at once. To Limbo with this maid and her spellfire while we have a chance at Zhentil Keep and the traitor Fzoul! Go, speedily!”

  He whirled the great mace overhead as if it weighed nothing and brought it down on the stone altar with a crash that shook the Seat of Bane.

  Kuldus scurried out, the wild laughter of the High Imperceptor ringing in his ears.

  Dawn’s light laid a network of diamonds on the bed as it came through the leaded windows. Narm woke as it touched his face, reaching vaguely for a dagger. Abruptly he recalled where he was: in Shandril’s bedchamber. But—where was she?

  He sat up, which made his head throb, and looked around. The tapestries were beautiful, as were the vaulted corners of the ceiling, but they were not Shandril. He looked the other way, past an arched wardrobe and a burnished mirror, to the door—which obligingly opened.

  A robed but barefoot and damp-tressed Shandril looked in and grinned. “Ah, awake at last. Not feeling ill, I hope?”

  Narm held his aching head. “Not really, my lady. Is there morningfeast? And—and a chamber pot?”

  Shandril laughed. “How romantic. Morningfeast is an ask-in-the-great-hall affair that lasts until highsun. The pot’s under there, if you must, but behind yon door is a jakes with a waterfall-seat—you flush with the jug or hand-pump. All the ladies here have one. Was there not one in your room?”

  “No,” Narm said, vanishing through the little door to investigate. “Nothing like. It has only a bed, clothes chest, wardrobe, and window.”

  “That,” said Jhessail from the doorway, “is because Mourngrym and Shaeryl figured you’d spend more time here.”

  “Oh?” Shandril asked with lifted brows. “How came they by that idea?”

  “I suspect,” Jhessail said innocently, “someone must have told them.” She chuckled at Narm’s hasty reappearance to find the door handle and pull it closed.

  A muffled complaint came from within. “It’s dark enough!”

  “Just like a cavern,” Jhessail said encouragingly. “You’ll get used to it … or you could light the lamp by the door. Just mind you quench it when you leave, or the place’ll be a smoke hole.” She turned to Shandril. “Have you two plans for the day?”

  Shandril shook her head. “No. Why do you ask?”

  Jhessail strolled thoughtfully to the mirror. “Well, ’tis usual to see the dale, and hunt or ride the countryside after highsun, with gaming and talk in the evening … but I’d like to advise a far less interesting alternative, if I may—Narm, the lamp—at least until after the testing.”

  “Say on.” Shandril opened the jakes door and thrust Narm’s robe within.

  “If you don’t mind,” Jhessail suggested, “Illistyl and I will bring your meals. Stay in this room until nightfall. Any of the Knights you desire will come to call, or you could spend the day together, just the two of you.…”

  The jakes door swung open, and Narm emerged, grinning. “No words against that from this mouth.”

  “Nor from mine,” Shandril agreed. “But why?”

  Jhessail studied
the rich rugs beneath her feet, and then raised solemn eyes. “Eight men tried to get into the tower last night, using magic. They were sent by the High Imperceptor of Bane, and they were after you, Shan, to capture you for your spellfire. All are dead now. They might well have succeeded but for Torm and Rathan, who were out on an extra patrol, and Sharantyr, who went for a walk to clear her head.”

  Shandril’s face had gone slowly white.

  Narm’s had grown more and more angry. “You mean that folk we don’t even know are going to be hunting Shandril the rest of her life? I won’t have it! I’ll—”

  “How’ll you stop them?” Jhessail asked quietly.

  Narm stared at her. “I … I’ll master Art enough to destroy them or drive them away!”

  Jhessail nodded. “Good. ’Tis about all you can do. Once they get the idea you’re powerful, as all know Elminster or the Simbul of Aglarond is, they’ll leave you alone—unless they’ve business with you or your tombstone. All who look upon you as weak and easy targets will fall away once you show Faerûn you’re not to be trifled with. But that time hasn’t come, so stay in this room today, will you?”

  Shandril smiled weakly, but gave a swift nod. After a long moment Narm nodded, too.

  “Good!” Jhessail said, and clapped once.

  The door opened wide, and a smiling Illistyl came in, bearing a dome-covered silver tray that steamed around its edges. With practiced ease, she hooked a toe under a certain carving on the side of the bed, pulling it out to reveal an unfolding pair of legs, and set the tray on the table thus created.