Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  Torm held the cord tight as he lowered Malark to the ground. “Well met,” the thief said cheerfully. He drew his dagger in one fluid motion and beckoned Rathan with a jerk of his head. “His purse, quickly, before he’s fully dead … these damned mages all have spells to trigger mischief at their deaths.”

  Rathan bent to work. “Ho, Shandril—thy lad’s all right!”

  Shandril stared at the boulder, sunk deep into the grass, and shuddered.

  “Nothing but a rag and a few coppers,” Rathan reported.

  “His boots,” Torm directed, still holding the cord tight. Malark’s face was so twisted, dark, and terrible Shandril looked away.

  “Is he—dead?” she asked weakly.

  “Nearly. I’ll cut his throat in a moment.… Then, Lady, ’twould be best to burn the body completely, or some Cult bastard will raise him to tail you!” Torm turned professional eyes on the boots. “Try that heel.”

  “Hah!” Rathan said in satisfaction, holding up six platinum pieces. “Hollow, indeed!”

  “Hmmph,” Torm said, wrinkling his nose. “No magic? Scarce worth all this trouble. Have off his robe, Rathan, and we’ll cut his throat and be done with it.”

  “His robe?”

  “Aye, his robe. Where he conceals the components for his spells, a few extra coins, and the gods know what else. Come on, my arms grow weary!”

  “They do? Pretend they’re around a wench, and ye’ll have no trouble,” Rathan told him gruffly, tugging off the mage’s robe. He stepped back, surveying the wizard’s body as Torm laid it down with both ends of the cord in one fist and a long, wicked dagger in the other.

  Torm grinned at Shandril. “Not unimportant, are ye? Malark, one of the rulers of the Cult of the Dragon, and an archmage. Watch out, now: There’re lots of other rats like this one in Sembia, and one in Deepingdale, too.…”

  “Yes,” Shandril replied, her voice a whisper as sharp as a sword. “Korvan.”

  Rathan nodded. “Aye, that’s the name! Ye’ve been warned, then? Good. Well, ye’re doing fine thus far!”

  “Fine,” Shandril said bitterly, watching Torm free the cord and slash with cruel speed. Her gaze fell on Narm, who still lay silent in the grass. “Oh, yes. Fine indeed.”

  Rathan sighed and went to her. “Look, little one, Faerûn can be a cruel place. Men like this have to be slain—or they’ll kill thee. Nor is there any shame in defeat at his hands—this one could’ve slain any of us Knights in an open fight.” He enfolded her in a bear hug. “Ye wouldn’t be thirsty, perhaps?”

  Shandril’s shoulders shook helplessly, her tears overwhelmed by laughter. She laughed a long time and a little wildly, but Rathan held her tight. When at last she was done, she raised bright eyes. “Are you finished, Torm? I think I’d like to wield a little spellfire.”

  Torm nodded and stepped back. Shandril raised a hand and lashed the body with flames, pouring out her anger. Oily smoke arose almost immediately, and the horses snorted and hurried off in all directions.

  Torm and Rathan let out despairing cries and ran after them.

  Narm rolled over, groaned, and asked faintly, “Shan? Wha—why’d you do that? Am I not to kiss you?”

  “They could be dead by now!” Sharantyr said angrily. “I ride patrol for a few days and return to find you’ve put your toes to the behinds of the nicest young people I’ve met! One struggles with half-trained Art, and the other bears spellfire every mage in the Realms would slay her to gain or destroy, and both are mad enough to seek adventure—only days married, too! Where’s your kindness, Knights of Myth Drannor? Where is your sense?”

  “Easy, Shar,” Florin said gently. “They joined the Harpers and wanted to walk their own road. Would you want to be caged?”

  “Caged? Does a mother turn out her infant because it’s reached twenty nights? Alone, you sent them!” The furious ranger turned on Elminster. “What say you, Old One? Can they best even a handful of brigands? Brigands attacking by surprise in the night? Speak truth!”

  “I’ve never done aught else, when it mattered. As to the fight ye speak of, I think ye’d be surprised!” Elminster drew out his pipe. “Besides, they’re not alone, not by now. Torm and Rathan rode after them.”

  Sharantyr snorted. “Sent the sharpest lances, didn’t you?” She paced, hair swirling, and drew a deep breath. “Well enough. They’re not unprotected.” She folded her arms and leaned back beside the hearth. “Gods spit on my luck. I wanted to say farewell, not just ride away and never see them again.”

  “They’ll be all right, Shar,” Storm said gently, “and they’ll be back.”

  “Sharantyr raises a good point,” Lanseril said from his chair. “The wisdom of sending them alone, with only a rescue force hurrying along behind, can be questioned.” He raised thoughtful eyes to Mourngrym and Elminster. “I take it you considered their slipping away, while we rode a distraction to Hillsfar, a good risk?”

  Elminster nodded. “It had to be. Think on that, Sharantyr, and be not so angry, lass.”

  “They passed the Vale without loss or upset,” Merith put in. “I heard from one of the People watching the road.”

  Sharantyr nodded. “And since then?”

  Illistyl spoke up. “I scryed Torm and Rathan yestereve. They were cutting across country southeast of Mistledale, and had met with no one then. I’ll try them again tonight.”

  “Soon?”

  “Aye … you can watch, if you like. You too, Jhess, if you have no greater game afoot.” She looked meaningfully at Merith, who grinned. “We might need your spells if there’s danger or alarm.”

  Jhessail chuckled. “ ’Tis a good thing none but the gods look over your shoulders to see all we—and Narm and Shandril, gods smile on them—get up to! ’Twould make a long, confusing ballad!”

  Elminster scowled. “Life’s seldom as clear-cut, smooth, and easily ended as a ballad.” He put his pipe in his mouth with an air of finality. The fire crackled and flared in the hearth. The Old Mage stared into the flames and muttered, “She’s so young to wield spellfire.”

  “He lies within,” the acolyte said, hastening back from the door.

  Sememmon thanked him curtly. “Open it.”

  The acolyte stood in silence—and then glided reluctantly forward and swung wide the heavy oak-and-bronze door.

  Sememmon motioned him through. The acolyte nodded and entered, face impassive. The wizard followed, through thick stone walls, into a vast chamber that glowed an eerie blue.

  This was the center of the Black Altar, the Inner Chamber of Solitude, where one was said to be closest to the god. The High Imperceptor’s forces had not penetrated this far, though Sememmon felt much satisfaction at the extensive damage. Bane’s priests would be awhile recovering their cocky strength.

  Perhaps never, Sememmon thought, if certain misfortunes befall them now … while weak and disorganized.

  He came fully into the chamber, and such thoughts ceased.

  Vast and dark above him hung a beholder, its great central eye gazing down in wise, dark malice.

  The acolyte darted back behind Sememmon, the door clanged, and a heavy bar crashed into place.

  Sememmon was imprisoned, and this eye tyrant was not Manxam. Sememmon cursed inwardly as he approached, his cloak concealing nervous fingers on the hilt of a useless dagger.

  The floor of the chamber was polished black marble. In the center of that vast, cold expanse rose a black throne—a throne the High Imperceptor hadn’t sat at the foot of for many a long year. It was gigantic—a seat for a giant. The seat of a god. It was occupied.

  Red silk splashed across the black stone. Fzoul Chembryl lay asleep on a bed across the seat of the god’s throne, recovering after the frantic healing efforts of underpriests. A rope ladder allowed them to ascend to the spot.

  Sememmon approached, uncomfortably aware that the beholder was moving with him, floating directly overhead, its great unblinking eye staring down. At long last the beholders were making their o
wn bid for mastery over the Zhentarim.

  A deep, rumbling voice from overhead said, “You’ve come to discover death, Sememmon the Proud—and you’ve found not Fzoul’s death, but your own!”

  Sememmon broke into a run.

  The dark body above him sank lower. In a breath, the eye tyrant would be close enough to turn him to stone, charm him into obedience, or perhaps simply pursue him about the chamber like a trapped rat, wounding him repeatedly. In the end it would use the eye that destroyed … and there’d not even be dust left of Sememmon.

  He ran as he had never run before, diving frantically around the edge of the throne, where its great central eye that foiled all magic could not see. He began casting an incendiary cloud. He hadn’t the right spells for a fight this grave.…

  Buy time and cover, he thought. Use a dimension door to teleport above it, and then paralyzation—or, no, magic missiles now! Or … ah, gods spit upon it all!

  Raging, Sememmon finished his spell weaving. He sprinted along the back of the throne, nearly tripping over the ring of a trapdoor he’d have needed the brawn of five acolytes to lift. Reaching the corner, Sememmon gasped and steadied himself. To hurl magic missiles, he must see his target—and if he could see the beholder, its eyes could see him. He tensed himself to take a rapid peek, and—

  There was a flash and a roar, and the floor heaved, throwing Sememmon to his knees.

  Up, get up!

  Reddish spots danced before his eyes. He couldn’t tell up from down.

  “Well met, Sememmon,” said a dry, coldly familiar voice.

  Sememmon looked up into the calm gazes of Sarhthor and Manshoon. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep was robed in his usual black and dark blue, and he looked amused. “You can get up now. It’s gone.” He flexed his fingers, from which tiny wisps of smoke curled.

  Swallowing, Sememmon found his voice. “You’ve returned! Lord, we’ve missed you, indeed—”

  “Aye. No doubt. I’ve watched you—and seen the, ah, troubles with Fzoul. Slay him not. He’s needed.”

  They strode briskly together across the marble floor to the doorway Sememmon had entered by. The door lay in blasted, twisted shards of metal.

  “Sarhthor,” Manshoon explained briefly.

  The three mages went out through strangely deserted halls and sought the starlit night. Wordlessly they walked out of the Black Altar, past dim piles that had already begun to stink—the bodies of those fallen in the strife between Fzoul and the High Imperceptor—and proceeded straight to Sememmon’s abode. The two dark-robed mages left Sememmon there.

  “Cheer up,” Manshoon told him. “You’ll have your chance to fight the others for all this”—he shrugged and looked around at the dark spires all about—“someday. I can’t live forever.” With that he turned on his heel and was gone down the cobbled street into the night, Sarhthor at his heels.

  Sememmon stared after them in the faint light, fear like cold iron in his mouth. When would Manshoon feel a certain Sememmon had lived long enough?

  Bereft of cheer, he muttered the pass phrase, made a certain gesture, and passed within. Unnoticed, the little eyeball that Manshoon had sent to spy floated in with him, too.

  “We just happened to be riding this way,” Rathan said gruffly. “ ’Tis an open road, is it not?”

  “No,” Shandril said with a crooked smile. “You came after us to protect us. Did you not trust Tymora to look after us?”

  The burly priest grinned. “Of course Tymora watches over ye. Am I not an instrument of Tymora’s will?”

  “Is that why you moved a sleeping man and left all the fighting and dirty work to me?” Torm said. “Not a copper’s worth in his robe, too.”

  “ ‘Dirty work,’ is it? Who took off his boots?”

  “I thank you both,” Narm said, “despite your feeble attempts at humor. Again my lady and I owe you our lives. And our horses, too, it seems. Your spell even took away my headache.”

  Rathan grinned. “If ye want it back, I can lend thee Torm.…”

  Torm gave him a sour look.

  Shandril giggled. “I don’t think that’ll be quite necessary, Rathan. I have a man to drive me beyond endurance.”

  Narm looked hurt until Shandril winked.

  Torm was delighted. “Leave Narm with Rathan, to learn to ride and fight and worship, and I’ll ride with you! I’m witty, agile, clean, quick, and experienced. I know lots of jokes, and I’m an excellent cook, so long as you’re partial to meat, tomatoes, cheese, and noodles all cooked together. I’m fully conversant with the laws of six kingdoms and many independent cities, and I’m an excellent gambler.” He batted his eyelashes at her. “What d’you say? Hmmm?”

  Shandril gave him a look that could have melted glass. She asked Rathan, “Is there nothing you can do about him?”

  “Oh, aye,” Rathan agreed. “Ye can give him first watch, so we can all get some sleep. Narm and I’ll sleep on either side, close against ye, so ye won’t have to worry about him getting cold and wanting to, ahem, snuggle up!”

  “Ah hah,” Shandril agreed dubiously, rolling her eyes—but flopped down onto her bed without hesitation.

  Rathan grunted and lowered himself slowly to a lying position, rolling his cloak up as a pillow. He lay on the grass fully clad, without bedding or blanket, grasping his mace. He nodded as if satisfied, and soon was snoring. His boots twitched now and then.

  Torm winked at Narm and reached out to pinch the priest. His fingers were still inches away when Rathan opened one eye. “Ye can forget pinching, stroking, and tickling honest folk—or even we who sleep in the arms of the gods. Just see that the fire stays high.”

  Narm fell asleep chuckling.

  Morning sunlight broke over the rolling hills and fields of Battledale and northern Sembia—and found Rathan Thentraver warming water for tea over the dying fire.

  He looked around at his sleeping companions, got to his feet with a grunt of effort, and clambered up the bank to look about. The land was bare of all but grass, rolling and empty. Nodding, Rathan tucked his mace under his arm and sat down.

  He cleared his thoughts of all but Tymora, as he tried to do every morning. Opening his heart, he prayed that the two young folk—aye, Torm, too, bebother him—would see only Tymora’s bright face until they had reached Silverymoon and befriended Alustriel.

  Everyone needs at least one safe journey—and these two more than most, because of spellfire.

  Looking across the twisted blankets to Shandril’s sleeping face, Rathan thought about her weeping spellfire and lashing out with it and tearing open her tunic to pour it faster on a foe. He’d not want to carry such power, not for all the gold in the Realms.…

  He sighed. If they’d ridden a bit slower, that snake of a mage might have had her yestereve. So close—a matter of breaths. How to nursemaid a lass who could blast apart mountaintops? They’d be running into trouble soon enough, these two, and they’d need someone.

  Rathan sighed again. Ah, well, some things ye must leave to Tymora. He got up and began to make tea. Soon they’d be wanting morningfeast, too.

  He looked at the sleepers, and a smile touched his lips. Why wake them? The younglings needed a good, long sleep when they were guarded and could relax. Let ’em sleep. He peered south toward the river Ashaba, but it was too far away to see.

  We’ll ride with them until they’re up at dawn tomorrow, and then turn back, Rathan thought. If Elminster is half the archmage he pretends to be, surely he can hold Shadowdale together that long.

  Scratching under his armor, Rathan opened the pack that held the food. Another day, another dragon slain.

  “Will ye never be done scratching and scribbling?” Elminster demanded. “Ye’re not writing an epic, ye know!”

  Lhaeo turned calm eyes on him. “Stir the stew, Lord Mighty Mage.”

  Elminster snorted, shifted his unlit pipe from hand to mouth, and began to stir.

  “You miss them, don’t you?” the scribe asked softly.

/>   The Old Mage stared angrily at Lhaeo’s back. “Aye.” He set the ladle down and sat on the squat section of tree that served as a seat nigh the kitchen table. “ ’Tisn’t every day one sees spellfire destroy one’s spells as if they were smoke—or see the high-and-mighty Manshoon put to flight by a young girl.”

  “A thief, she said she was—or at least, she joined the Company of the Bright Spear as a thief.”

  Elminster snorted again. “Thief? She’s as much a thief as ye are. If we had a few more thieves like her, the Realms’d be so safe we’d not need locks! Which reminds me … locks, and locked-away books, that is: Candlekeep. Alaundo. What did old Alaundo say about spellfire? We must be getting close to that prophecy, so ’tis no doubt Shandril he’s talking about!”

  Lhaeo smiled. “As it happens, I looked up Alaundo the last night Narm and Shandril spent here. Under the jam jar on the uppermost scrap, I’ve copied the relevant saying. If a certain ‘war among wizards’ has already begun in Faerûn, ’tis next to be fulfilled.”

  Elminster fixed Lhaeo with a hard glance, but the scribe went serenely on with his writing. “What’re ye doing?” Elminster demanded. “There ye sit, scribbling, while the stew thickens and burns. What is it?”

  “Stir the stew, will you?” Lhaeo asked innocently. Before the Old Mage’s fury could erupt, he replied, “I’m noting down the limits of Shandril’s power, as observed by you and the Knights. The information may prove useful,” he added very quietly, “if she must ever be stopped.”

  Elminster slowly nodded, looking very old. “Aye, aye, ye’ve the right of it, as usual. But not that little girl. Not Shandril. Why, she’s but a little wisp, all laughter and kindness and bright eyes—”

  “Aye. As Lansharra once was,” Lhaeo told the piece of parchment before him.

  Elminster sat like a statue, and there was silence for a long time.

  Lhaeo finished his work, blew on the page, and got up.