Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  Rathan urged his large bay forward and took the hands of Narm and Shandril. “Tymora ride with ye and watch over ye. Think of us when downcast or cold—for happy memories can warm and hearten.”

  Torm stared at his friend. “Such bardic soft and high glory. You’ve not been drinking, have you?”

  “Get on with ye, snaketongue, to the nearest mud and fall into it,” Rathan told him kindly, “and mind thy mouth drinks deep.”

  “Peace, both of you,” Jhessail chided. “Narm and Shandril should be well away before highsun, if they’re to make Essembra even two nights hence!” She turned to the young couple. “Stay on the road. The Elven Court’s not the safest place in Faerûn.”

  “Let not fear or pity stay your hand, either,” Florin said gravely. “If you’re menaced on the road, let fly with spellfire before hands are upon you. Too close a swinging sword can’t be stopped by spell or spellfire.”

  “Oh, aye … one last thing,” Elminster said. “This illusion will make ye look older, and a trifle different save to each other’s eyes. ’Twill wear off in a day or so, or ye can end it anytime, each of ye affecting only thyself, by uttering the word ‘gultho’—nay, repeat it not now, lumpheads, or ye’ll ruin the magic. Let me see.…” He drew back his sleeves, sat back on his placid donkey, and worked magic upon Narm and Shandril.

  The Knights drew their horses around in a respectful circle. When it was done, they edged closer for careful, critical looks.

  Narm and Shandril failed to see the slightest difference in each other’s appearance, but it was clear they looked different to the eyes of others.

  “Go now,” Elminster said gently, “or ye’ll be seen. We shall ride north toward Hillsfar with illusions of ye for a time to confuse any who seek ye, but those who pursue ye are not weak-minded. Go now, swiftly. Our love and regard go with ye.” His clear blue eyes met theirs fondly as they turned their horses and with a wave, spurred away.

  Looking back as they thundered south along the road, tears stinging their eyes, Narm and Shandril saw the Knights sitting their saddles, watching. Florin raised to his lips something that flashed silver in the sun. They rode over the first rise and lost sight of the Knights, but the clear notes of his war horn rang out in farewell. He was playing the Salute to Victorious Warriors. At the inn, Shandril had heard bards perform it to crown their performances and leave everyone awed, but never had she dreamed it might be played for her!

  “Will we ever see them again?” Narm asked softly, as they slowed.

  “Yes,” Shandril answered, with eyes and voice of steel, “we shall. Whatever stands in the way.” She brushed hair out of her eyes. “Now, we must look after ourselves. If I must slay with spellfire every jack and lass so eager to take it, so be it. If all Faerûn expects ‘Lady Spellfire,’ I shall be Lady Spellfire.”

  Narm nodded, face somber.

  Shandril spread her hands. “I’m afraid I can’t laugh at devils and dracoliches and mages and men with swords the way Torm does. They just make me angry and afraid. So I’ll strike back. I hope you won’t be hurt … but I fear much battle lies ahead.”

  “I hope you won’t be hurt, my lady,” Narm answered, as they rode on. “You’re the one they’ll be after.”

  “I know,” Shandril said softly. “But ’tis I who’ll have spellfire ready when they find me.”

  The road was lightly traveled that day. Narm and Shandril saw no one else heading south, and only a few merchants bound north, who rode ready-armed but nodded and passed without incident or ill looks.

  Great old trees of the Elven Court rose on both sides of the road. Between them and the road itself, a forest of stumps rose from the ditch like the gray fingers of buried giants; the remnants of saplings cut by travelers as staves and litter poles and firewood. Narm watched these narrowly as they rode, half-expecting brigands to rise from them.

  No such attack came. The hours and rolling hills passed. They rode mostly in silence until the sun glimmered low and the trees laid dark shadows across the road.

  “We should find a place to sleep, love,” Narm said at last.

  Shandril nodded. “Yes, and soon … we’re almost at the Vale. A cursed place. Let’s stop here—at that height, ahead—and hope none find us.”

  When they reined to a halt, and Narm swung down, the aches in his thighs made him groan and stagger. “Tymora watch over us!” His horse swung its head around to see what was the matter. He patted it reassuringly as he looked around and listened.

  “Water, down there,” he said after a moment, pointing.

  Shandril swung down into his arms. “Good, then,” she said lightly, kissing his nose as he set her down. “You fetch some while I tie the horses, O mighty mage.”

  Narm growled in the manner of Rathan and unhooked the nosebags from their saddles.

  Somewhere nearby a wolf howled. Overhead, as daylight faded and moonlight began, a black falcon came silently to a branch above Shandril and perched there, watching.

  They awoke in each other’s arms on the hard bed of their canvas tent laid on mossy ground. Birds called in the brightening morning, but it was still damp and misty among the trees. A beautiful place, but somehow … unwelcoming.

  Sitting up, Narm thought he glimpsed through the tent flap elven eyes far off in the tree gloom, regarding him steadily. When he blinked, they were gone. Hmm. The elven kingdom might have gone from these woods, but the hand of man hadn’t tamed what was left behind—yet.

  Narm felt more comfortable once his hand was on the hilt of his drawn dagger, beneath the cloak that covered their shoulders and throats. He turned to Shandril, who smiled through tousled hair, sleepy and vulnerable.

  “Good morn, my lady,” he greeted softly, rolling over to draw her close.

  “And to you, my love. ’Tis nice to be alone for once, without strangers attacking and guards watching over us always, and Elminster fussing about … I love you, Narm.”

  “I love you, too,” Narm said quietly. “How lucky I’ve been to see you in the inn and then be parted—only to find you deep in ruined Myth Drannor. I would have come back to the Rising Moon someday when I was free of Marimmar, only to find you long gone!”

  “Aye,” Shandril whispered against his chest. “Long gone and probably dead. Oh, Narm …”

  They lay in each other’s arms for a long time, warm and safe, unwilling to rise and end this feeling of peace.

  From the road, a dull thudding of hooves came up through the trees, followed by the creak of harness leather.

  Shandril sighed and rolled free of Narm. “I suppose we must get up.” Long hair tangled about her shoulders as she rose to her knees, pulling the cloak about her against the chill. “If we stop in Essembra only to buy feed for us and the horses and hasten on, eating as we ride, we could camp on the southern edge of the forest this night. I want to be away west of the Thunder Peaks before the Cult of the Dragon and Zhentil Keep and anyone else know we’ve left the Knights. Come, now—you can kiss me more later!”

  Narm nodded a bit mournfully and glanced out the tent flap. Mist drifted through the trees, and the horses patiently chewed leaves. Narm scrambled up to dress. Every step made him wince; his thighs were raw from yesterday’s ride.

  Tugging on his belt, he emerged, and then stopped abruptly to listen. He could have sworn he’d heard a chuckle, but there was no one to be seen. All was quiet from the road, too.

  He shrugged and went to the horses, glancing back often at his lady. He never saw the black falcon winging low among the trees, heading east for the long flight home.

  In falcon shape, the Simbul chuckled and shook her head.

  They were good folk … children, still, but not for much longer.

  She had other concerns, too long neglected, to see to now. Perhaps they’d be killed—but then again, it was entirely possible they’d do the killing, no matter who of Faerûn quarreled with them.

  Farewell, you two. Fare you very well.

  The lonely queen of Agla
rond flicked raven-black wings and rose into a brightening sky.

  They made good time across the Vale of Lost Voices, a strangely still valley of huge, dark, soaring trees. It was sacred to the elves. Men whispered that something unseen and terrible guarded it … something that destroyed axe-wielders and great mages alike, and left no trace. The elves of Cormanthyr had buried their fallen among these trees—and folk who dared to dig for treasure interred with them vanished in the mists and were not seen again.

  Narm and Shandril and travelers who passed them said not a word while crossing the Vale. It was choked with the largest trees they had ever seen, some as big around as Elminster’s tower. In the gloom under their lofty leaves, where boughs met high above the road, the light was eerily blue. In the forest distances, mists coiled slowly, and faint glowing lights drifted and danced. No one strayed from the road while traversing the Vale.

  They left it at last, Shandril shivering in relief as they crested the steep rise of its southern edge.

  “The Lost Dale, they call it in Cormyr,” Narm said in a low voice. “Forever lost to men.”

  Shandril looked at him. “They say in the dales that every elf of the Elven Court would have to be dead before one tree of the Vale could be safely cut.”

  “But I heard from more than one trader that all the elves are gone now.”

  Shandril shook her head. “No. I saw one in the woods as we came down to Storm Silverhand’s pool. She waved to Storm and slipped away.” She peered back into the dark Vale, and then into the smaller, sun-dappled trees around them now.

  “That’s far from here,” Narm protested.

  “Think you so?” asked Shandril very softly. “Look there, then.”

  Narm followed her gaze. Ahead, on the mighty branch of a shadowtop that towered above the road, a motionless figure in mottled green-gray stood. It was an elf, leaning easily on a bow that must have been a head taller than Narm. He watched them expressionlessly. His eyes were blue and gold-flecked flames, proud and serene.

  Shandril bowed her head to him, smiled, and spread empty hands. A little uncertainly, Narm did the same. A slow nod was their only answer.

  The horses carried them past. Neither Narm or Shandril looked back. It was some time before she murmured, “A moon elf, like Merith.”

  “A possible enemy, unlike Merith,” Narm said grimly. “We must watch our every step.” He peered ahead. “The trees thin. We must be nearing Essembra. I can see fields.”

  Out of those fields, a caravan rumbled toward them: a dozen wagons pulled by oxen and surrounded by hard-eyed outriders with crossbows at their saddles. The wagons bore no merchant banner and passed without incident.

  Well behind the caravan rode a family on heavily laden draft horses, leading strings of pack mules. They were led by a single excited youth whose halberd dipped and swung alarmingly as he rode to challenge them. “Way, there! Way, if you be not foes! Declare yourselves!”

  Narm stared at him in silence.

  The halberd lowered menacingly. “Declare yourselves, or defend yourselves!”

  “Ride on in peace,” Narm replied, “or I’ll turn your halberd into a viper to bite the hand that holds it!”

  The boy recoiled, his horse dancing uncertainly as its rider tried to draw his blade wrong-handed. “If you be a mage,” he said shrilly, backing away as Narm and Shandril rode steadily on, “give your name, or face swift death!”

  Beyond, Narm saw hand crossbows raised ready, and calm, wary eyes above them. He dared not hesitate.

  Narm drew himself up in his saddle. “I am Marimmar the Magnificent, Mage Most Mighty. I and my apprentice here would pass you in peace—but offer us death, and it shall be yours!”

  Beside him, Shandril burst into muffled giggles. With an effort, Narm kept his composure as the boy cast him a frightened look—and hastened by. Narm nodded pleasantly and stared straight ahead as he passed the family and their mule train, almost managing to hide a smile that kept creeping onto one side of his face.

  “Sarhthor?” Sememmon peered into the crystal ball. Its magic was always difficult to focus at first. In its depths he saw an expressionless, elegantly bearded face.

  Sarhthor looked back fearlessly, and effortlessly forced the link between them into clarity.

  Sememmon tried to hide his irritation at the other mage’s easy mastery of Art.

  “Well met,” Sarhthor purred. “I’ve searched the dale; Elminster and the Knights have just returned, riding south from Voonlar. The girl with spellfire and her consort mageling are no longer in Shadowdale, so far as I can determine.”

  “Not in Shadowdale?”

  “Not. They may be here in hiding, but I doubt it. No Knight nor any Harper has gone anywhere out of the ordinary. The folk of the tower know only that ‘Lady Spellfire’ left two nights ago.”

  “Two nights?” Sememmon almost screamed. “They could be almost anywhere!”

  Precisely why I’m returning to you, as soon as possible, Sarhthor thought flatly, letting the crystal carry his mental message. “Who’s that with you?”

  “With me?” Sememmon frowned. “I’m alone!”

  “You are indeed—now. A moment ago, an eye floated above your left shoulder—the ocular construction of a wizard eye spell. A spy. Guard yourself, Sememmon.”

  Sememmon turned angrily from the crystal to stare wildly about the chamber. “Show yourself!” he thundered, casting a quick spell. Dweomers—the auras of familiar objects imbued with Art—glowed all around. The faint traceries of spells, too, shone in his field of revealed magic … but all were spells he knew about. There was no sign of any intruder.

  Sememmon turned back to the crystal ball, but it was dark. No one waited at the matching globe any longer. Sememmon cursed the shadows, but they did not answer.

  The sun sank low in the west as Shandril and Narm passed a skin of hot spiced tea between them. They rode contentedly, bellies full of warm roast phledge, the plump ground-partridge of the woods, smoky-tasting and delightful in a thick pea gravy. No one had seemed suspicious of them at the inn Florin had recommended.

  “How do you feel, Shan?” Narm asked, not meeting her eyes. “About the spellfire, I mean. Does it … change one?”

  A little startled, Shandril looked at him with something like pity. “Yes … but not in the larger sense. I’m still the Shandril you rescued from Rauglothgor.” She hesitated. “I’m still the Shandril you love.”

  There was a little silence as they regarded each other.

  Then the attack came.

  Shandril sensed something was wrong an instant before the boulder struck Narm’s shoulder and his head flew back. The jarring made her bite her lip. Narm whirled about, his arm striking her head solidly as he spun, toppled, and fell.

  Stunned, Shandril stared at the huge, mossy boulder as it sank slowly past her to hang in the air above Narm’s head.

  He lay crumpled, unmoving. The boulder was large and dark—and over it, behind the grassy bank, stood a man in robes. He grinned at her without humor, his eyes glittering black and deadly.

  Wild fear rose and choked her.

  19

  THE CRUSHING OF THE SOUL

  I have known the crushing of the soul that defeat brings, and the burning, sickening pain of deep wounds—and would not have it otherwise. Such dark things make the bright spots burn the brighter.

  Korin of Neverwinter

  Tales Told by the Warm Fireside

  Year of the Blazing Brand

  “Make no sound!” the man in robes warned. “Speak not. Cast no spells. Use no spellfire, Shandril Shessair—or I’ll let the rock fall on your husband’s head!” His eyes bored into hers. “Think not to trick me or take me unawares, for I’m no such a fool—and yon stone can hardly miss its mark!”

  Shandril sat in her saddle, cold fear trickling down her spine. She stared at this enemy mage, wondering who he was. How to win free? her mind screamed. How to win free?

  “I am Malark,” the man said wi
th cold pride, “of the Cult of the Dragon. I come for revenge, and I will have it!” His eyes flickered. “Get down off your horse slowly, and stay just where you land, or your husband will die.”

  Shandril did as he commanded, never taking her eyes off his.

  He watched her with the cold patience of a snake. “Lie down. Slowly. To your knees, and then upon your belly, arms stretched to the sides. Touch no weapon!”

  Shandril did so, heart sinking as she pressed her face into the dirt road.

  “Good. Spread your arms and legs—slowly. Do not try to rise.” His voice was nearer.

  Shandril obeyed, wondering how much she’d have to endure, and silently gathered spellfire.

  Malark walked around her, staying at a safe distance.

  Angry warmth filled Shandril’s chest and throat. She glared at a tuft of grass, and it began to smolder. She hooded her fire hastily and held herself ready. Tymora, aid me!

  “You’ve cost us much, Shandril Shessair. The Shadowsil, the sacred wyrm Rauglothgor, his lair, the fortified tower above it, all his treasure, the sacred wyrm Aghazstamn, many devout Followers—the worth of all these, you owe us. The price you will pay is your spellfire—and your life in service. Yours, and your husband’s. You will serve or die. Lie still!” The cold voice above Shandril began a spell.

  Gods aid me, Shandril thought. What will become of us? There are no Knights here to rescue us, now.…

  Malark’s cold chant ended in a sudden squeal and gurgle.

  Shandril, waiting to absorb his spell, rolled over in breathless haste. If that rock fell on Narm …

  But Narm was safely to one side, in the grip of a grinning Rathan Thentraver. The wizard Malark stood staring at her, his eyes very dark and very large. Torm grinned over his shoulder. In the thief’s hands were the ends of the waxed cord that had choked off Malark’s spell in midword. The wizard hung from the cord now, his face terrible, fingers clawing at his throat. As she watched in dawning horror, those fingers grew feeble, Malark’s eyes rolled up into his skull, and he sagged.