Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

Elminster still sat unmoving, his eyes on the fire.

  Wordlessly Lhaeo reached over the wizard, slid a scrap of parchment out from under the jam jar, laid it before him, and turned to see to food. Perhaps four breaths later, he heard the Old Mage’s voice behind him, and smiled to himself.

  “ ‘Spellfire will rise, and a sword of power, to cleave shadow and evil and master Art!’ ” Elminster read it as though it was a curious bard’s rhyme or a bad attempt at a joke. “ ‘Master Art’? What did Alaundo mean by that? She’s to become a mage? She’s not the slightest aptitude for it—and I’m not completely new to teaching Art, ye know!”

  “I’ve found Alaundo’s sayings make perfect sense after they’ve happened,” Lhaeo said, “but help precious little beforehand!”

  “Ahhh, stir the stew!” Elminster grunted. “I’m going out for a pipe!” The door banged behind him. Lhaeo grinned.

  The stairs creaked as Storm came down them barefoot, silver hair shining in the firelight.

  “Leave the stew,” she said softly to Lhaeo. “It’s probably been thrashed into soup by now, between the both of you.”

  Lhaeo smiled and put strong arms around her. “Let’s go back upstairs, before he returns for a flame to light his pipe. Haste, now!”

  The bed creaked as they sat on it, a scant instant before the door below banged open.

  Outside again, Elminster puffed, peered at the Twisted Tower through aromatic smoke, chuckled, and hummed his favorite of the tunes Storm had composed. One didn’t survive so many winters without noticing a thing or two.

  They rode south that day on a road busy with wagons rumbling north out of Sembia. Hawk-eyed outriders and shrewd merchants looked them over, and the scrutiny made Narm and Shandril uncomfortable.

  Torm had acquired a mustache from somewhere about his person, and brown powder of the sort used as cosmetics in the Inner Sea lands. He rubbed it skillfully about his eyes, jaw, and cheekbones until his face seemed subtly different. Riding in silence for the most part—a mercy on his companions—he affected a soft, growling voice when he did speak, and kept to the rear.

  Looking back, Narm could see the glistening whites of Torm’s eyes darting in the shadowy gloom of a cap that hid his face. The mage gathered that Torm was too well known hereabouts to ride openly.

  Rathan paid such cautions no mind. He rode easily before Shandril, speaking of the kindnesses and spectacular cruelties of the Great Lady Tymora, and occasionally pointing out a far-off landmark or the approaching colors of a merchant house or Company of the Inner Sea lands. He addressed her as Lady Nelchave, and occasionally compared things to “your hold, Roaringcrest.”

  Shandril answered in vague murmurs, trying to sound bored. In fact, she was enjoying riding in the comfortable security of Rathan and Torm, with a guided tour of the countryside.

  Torm and Rathan preferred to lunch in the saddle without halting. Shandril found it fascinating to watch them fill nosebags with skins of water and lean forward to hang them carefully about the necks of their mounts and mules, after first letting each animal taste and smell the contents. They deftly passed bread, cheese, and small chased-metal flasks of wine about. Torm even produced four large, iced sugar rolls, probably pilfered from a passing cart. Shandril wondered if he had endless pockets, like Longfingers the Magician in the bards’ tales.

  A light rain squall came out of the west in the afternoon and lashed them briefly as it passed overhead. Torm nearly lost his mustache, but regained his high, sly spirits. He danced about on his dripping horse, firing jests, rolling his eyes, and mimicking the absent Knights.

  The day passed, and the road fell steadily away. In high eventide, they came to Blackfeather Bridge, where the road between the Standing Stone and Sembia crossed the river Ashaba. There Sembia maintained a small guard post of bored, hardened men armed with crossbows and pikes and bearing the Raven and Silver banner of Sembia.

  The guards looked long and coldly at the four travelers. A cleric of Tempus and a silent man in maroon robes stood off to one side and watched steadily. Narm’s throat went dry, but he tried to keep his face impassive. Dragon Cult and Zhentarim agents could be anywhere—and everywhere. Narm was certain Rathan was recognized, but nothing was said, and no one barred their way.

  Two hills later, as the sun sank, Narm could see no pursuit. Still, his uneasiness persisted, and he wasn’t surprised when at sunset Rathan led them wordlessly westward off the road, continuing until it grew too dim to ride safely.

  “This seems as good a place as any,” Rathan said gruffly, waiting for Torm’s nod. “Ready watch tonight. If ye must go off to relieve thyself, Shan, go not alone!”

  Torm began stringing a webwork of black silk cords in an arc around the campsite.

  The Knights seemed to share Narm’s foreboding. Narm and Torm had barely drifted off, long after an exhausted Shandril, when there came the thud of someone tripping amid the silk cords.

  Rathan whirled, hefting his mace from his knees, and let out a warning bellow that must have echoed clear across the Dragonreach.

  The attacker rose with a stream of soft curses, sword drawn—and others came behind him.

  Narm rolled upright with frightened speed.

  Torm was up and away into the night like a vengeful shadow.

  “Defend thy lady, lad!” Rathan roared over one shoulder as his mace struck aside attacking steel. Two foes faced him, with a third rushing up. The first of them fell.

  In a stumbling rush, Narm reached and stood over Shandril, who was rolling over drowsily.

  More men with blades came out of the night.

  Another attacker fell, and Narm saw the glint of steel as Torm leaped onward to deal death again.

  Someone rushed right at Narm, steel gleaming in the moonlight. The man wore dark leathers and waved a hooked saber, an unlovely smile growing on his face.

  Coolly Narm cast magic missiles at the man’s eyes, and then drew his dagger and braced himself. Glowing pulses of magic swooped and struck. The man gasped, stared at nothing, staggered, and went to his knees. Narm set his teeth and leaned over to finish the job. Blood wet his fingers, and he felt sick as he looked around for new dangers.

  A second man sprinted out of the night, teeth clenched and blade high. Narm ducked aside as he’d seen Torm do and stabbed at his assailant. The blade gashed a wrist. The man cursed, stumbled, and fell on his side—and Narm pounced. Into the throat—gods, it was so hideously easy. Narm swept that thought away and peered around for other perils.

  There were none. Torm dispatched another foe from behind—the man stiffened and groaned.

  Rathan was chatting jovially to those he slew. “Do’ye not realize what moral pain—nay, spiritual agony—striking thee down causes me? Hast no consideration for my feelings?” The heavy mace fell with a crash. “More than this, aye, ye—uhh!—grrh!—wound me. Instead, of challenging me in—ahhhh—the bright light of day, before men of worth to bear witness, with a stated—hah!—grievance, ye seek to do dishonor on my poor holy bones in the dark of the night! At a time when all good and—ahhh!—lucky men are abed, with better—unghh!—things to do than cracking skulls! Don’t ye agree—ahh!—now?” Rathan’s last opponent fell, twitching, jaw shattered.

  Torm looked up. “The horses like this little. We’d best move them, and us, in case others lurk. Narm, is your lady awake?”

  Shandril answered, “Yes.” She shuddered involuntarily at the sight of his bloody dagger. “Must you enjoy it so much?”

  Torm looked at her. “I don’t enjoy it at all,” he said quietly. “But I prefer it to getting a knife in the ribs!” He bent and wiped his blade on something that Shandril mercifully couldn’t see, but he did not sheathe it. “Shall we ride?”

  “Walk, pigeon-brain!” Rathan rumbled, “and lead the horses. Who knows what we’d stumble into if we rode? See to these, will ye? I want none alive to tell our names and route, and this mace is not so sure as a blade.”

  “At once, Exalted One,” To
rm said with sarcastic sweetness. “Mind you don’t forget any of our baggage. I’ll just see if our late friends were carrying anything of value.”

  Rathan nodded. “Mind more don’t come upon ye while ye’re slavering and giggling over gold!”

  In quiet haste, they gathered their gear and led their mounts and mules into the night. Narm and Shandril followed Rathan west, pace by careful pace, over rolling ground.

  Torm caught up. “I saw no one else following, but listen sharp, everyone!”

  “It seems I’ll be doing that the rest of my life,” Shandril whispered bitterly.

  Torm put his head close to hers. The faint light of Selûne caught his teeth as he grinned. “You might even get used to it—who knows?”

  “Who, indeed,” she replied crisply.

  “Not much farther now,” Rathan said soothingly from ahead. Loose stones clacked underfoot, and then he added in quiet satisfaction, “Here—this’ll do!”

  Shandril fell into sleep as if it were a great black pit … and she never stopped falling.

  Lady Spellfire awoke with the smell of frying boar in her nostrils. Narm had just kissed her. Shandril murmured her contentment and embraced him sleepily. He smelled good.

  Nearby, a merry voice said, “Works like a charm. Can I try it? Shandril, will you go back to sleep for a moment?”

  Shandril sighed. “Torm, do you never stop?”

  “Not until I’m dead, good lady. Irritating I may be, but I’m never dull.”

  “Aye,” Rathan rumbled. “Thou art many things, dullard, but never dull.”

  “Fair morning to you both.” Shandril laughed.

  “Well met, Lady,” the priest answered. “Thy dawnfry awaits … simple fare, but enough to ride on. We were not bothered again in the night, but ye’d best watch sharp today. ’Twill not be long before those bodies are found.”

  Narm looked at the grassy hills. “Where exactly are we?”

  “In the hills west of Featherdale,” Rathan supplied. “Turn about; see ye that gray shadow, like smoke on the horizon? Arch Wood. Between here and there lies an old, broad valley with no river anymore: Tasseldale. I’d not go down into it. Though ’tis a pleasant place with many fine shops and friendly folk, ’tis also full of folk to avoid. Keep to the heights along its northern edge. There, ye’ll meet with no more than a shepherd or two and perhaps a Mairshar patrol. Tell them—they police the dale and always ride twelve strong—that ye’re from Highmoon, Shandril, going home, with this mage ye met in Hillsfar. Call thyself ‘Gothal,’ or something, Narm. Stick to the truth about Gorstag and the inn, and ye’ll fare better. Give no information to any others until ye meet with the elves of Deepingdale!”

  “Elves?” Shandril asked, astonished.

  “Aye, elves. Know ye nothing of Deepingdale, where ye grew up?” Rathan’s voice was incredulous.

  “No,” Shandril told him, “only the inn. I saw half-elves when I left with the company, but no elves!”

  “I see. Know ye that the present lord of Highmoon is the half-elf hero Theremen Ulath, so don’t say the wrong thing.” The burly priest rose and pulled on his helm. “Now eat. The day grows old!”

  They ate, and all too soon all was done. Rathan sighed and said heavily, “Well, the time has come. We must leave!”

  He turned on his heel to look southwest. “One day’s ride should take ye to the western end of Tasseldale, in the Dun Hills. That’s one camp. Keep watch—sleeping together’s for indoors. Peace, Torm, no jests now! Another day’s careful ride west—just keep Arch Wood to the left of ye, whatever else ye come upon—will bring ye to Deepingdale. Ye can press on after dark once ye’ve found the road, and make the Rising Moon before morn. All right?”

  They nodded, their hearts full.

  “Good then,” Rathan went on in gruff haste, “and no weepin’, now.” He held out a wineskin to Narm. “For thy saddle!” He fumbled at the large pouch at his hip, brought out a disc of shining silver on a fine chain, and hung it about Shandril’s neck, kissing her on the forehead. “Tymora’s good luck go with ye.”

  Torm stepped forward. “Take this and bear it most carefully—’tis dangerous.” He held out a cheap, gaudy medallion of brass, set askew with glued cut-glass stones on a brass chain of mottled hue that did not match the medallion. He put it around Narm’s neck.

  “What is it?” Narm asked, wonder and wariness in his voice.

  “Look at it,” Torm replied, “but take care how you touch it.”

  Narm looked. About his neck was no cheap medallion, but a fine, twist-link gold chain. Upon it hung two small, golden globes, with a larger one between.

  “This is magical,” Torm warned. “Keep it clear of spellfire or any fiery Art, or it may slay you. You—and only you—can twist off a globe and hurl it. When it strikes, it bursts like a mage’s fireball; mind you’re not too close. The larger globe is of greater power than the others. They work without need of spell or commands. Keep these safe; you’ll need them, probably sooner than you think.” He patted Narm’s elbow awkwardly. “Fare you both well.”

  The Knights mounted, saluted with bared blades, tossed two small flasks of water to Narm and Shandril, wheeled their mounts, and galloped away. Hooves thundered briefly on earth, and faded. They were gone.

  Narm and Shandril looked at each other, eyes bright. “We really are alone now, love,” Narm said softly. “We’ve only each other.”

  “Yes, and that will do!” She kissed him, spun away, and leaped into her saddle. “Come on! The sun waits not, and we must ride!”

  Narm grinned at her and ran to his own saddle. “Spitfire!”

  Shandril raised her eyebrows and obediently spat fire in a long rolling plume that winked out just in front of him. The horses snorted in alarm. “Ah yes, spitfire indeed—but also thy lady.” She tossed her hair from her eyes, lifted her chin, and commanded, “Now—let us away!”

  Away west they sped, leaving trampled grass and happy memories.

  Stars shone clear and cold outside the upper room of Elminster’s tower, but he saw them not. He gazed into a twinkling sphere of crystal on the table before him, and therein saw a red-carpeted chamber hung with tapestries of red and silver and gold, lit by a fine, roaring fire. A lady in a tattered black gown sat at a table and looked back at him.

  “Well met, wizard, and welcome,” she said, with the faintest of smiles.

  “Well met, Lady Queen and mage. Thank ye for allowing this intrusion.”

  “Few enough call on me, Old Mage, and fewer still without intent to harm or hamper. I thank you.”

  Elminster inclined his head politely. “I’ve further thanks for thee this night, Lady. Thank ye for protecting Narm and Shandril these past few days. I’m most grateful!”

  The Simbul gave him a rare smile. “My pleasure, again.”

  There followed a silence ere Elminster asked carefully, “Why did ye aid them, when the maid’s such a threat to thy magic, and therefore the survival of Aglarond—and ye?”

  “I know the prophecy of Alaundo and what it may mean—and care not. I like Shandril.” The Simbul looked momentarily away, and then back at the Old Mage. “I’ve a question for you, Elminster. Answer not if you’d rather not. Is Shandril the child of Garthond Shessair and the incantatrix Dammasae?”

  “I’m not certain, Lady, but ’tis very likely.”

  An eyebrow lifted. “Not certain? Did you not hide the girl and shelter her as she grew?”

  Elminster shook his head very slowly. “Nay. Not I.”

  “Who, then?”

  “ ’Twas the warrior Gorstag, of Highmoon.”

  The Simbul nodded. “So much, I’ve also come to suspect. Thank you for trusting to answer me openly. I promise you, Old Mage, I’ll not betray your trust. Shandril’s safe from my power—unless the passing years change her as they did Lansharra, and she becomes too great a danger to leave unopposed.”

  “That’s my present burden,” Elminster said heavily. “Such a fall must not happ
en again.”

  “What, if I may ask without giving offense, will you do differently this time?” The Simbul watching closely, eyes very dark.

  “Leave her be,” Elminster replied grimly. “She’ll choose her own path in the end, and that choice may be clearer and happier—if not easier—if I sit not upon her every act, and bestow advice on her every thought.” Elminster met the Simbul’s gaze. “The Harpers can protect her nearly as well as this old wizard, unless I lock her in my tower … and I couldn’t do that, even had I so cruel a heart.”

  The Simbul nodded. “That’s the right road to ride. ’Tis good I needn’t force you to take that route.”

  Elminster smiled sadly. “Good, indeed, for such an attempt would likely destroy ye.”

  The Simbul regarded him soberly. “I know.” Impulsively she leaned forward and whispered, “I’ve never doubted or belittled your power, Elminster. You take a sly and self-effacing way, playing the befuddled old fool—even as I take beast-shape to prowl and hide. But I’ve seen what your Art has wrought. If ever I stand against it, I expect to fall.”

  “I did not disturb ye this night to threaten ye.”

  “I know,” the Simbul murmured, rising. “Will you allow me to teleport to you now?”

  “Of course, Lady,” Elminster replied, “but why?”

  The Simbul let fall her tattered gown. Beneath it was a webwork of thin black silk strands reaching from her throat to cuffs at her wrists and a broad cummerbund. It was a garment that covered little.

  Many small, twinkling gems winked out only to shine more brilliantly when the Simbul reappeared beside Elminster. Unsmiling, she stood amid the dark clutter of his books and papers and spread her hands almost timidly, offering herself.

  Elminster gaped for some very long moments before he deliberately composed himself and smiled. “But Lady, I’ve seen countless winters,” Elminster said gently. “Am I not too old for this?”

  She stopped his lips with slim white fingers. “Those years will give us something to talk about, wizard and Witch-Queen,” she said. She was slim and very light in his lap, and she leaned forward in a smooth, soft embrace. “I would tell you something,” she whispered, as Elminster’s arms went gently around her. “My name, my true name, is—”