Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Wait,” Shan had said. “Come after me only when you’ve stood so long that you grow cold—and if you wait that long, come carefully, ready for war.”

  Narm shifted nervously. Was he cold enough?

  There was noise within. The door Shandril had entered by was flung wide. Out strode a burly, craggy-faced man with gray-white hair and eyes wet with tears. He stretched out a strong arm to Narm. “Well met, and welcome to my inn! I’m Gorstag. You’re Shandril’s Narm?”

  Narm squarely met his gaze and swallowed. “Yes. I was here almost two months back, with the mage Marimmar. Shandril’s told me of you, sir; I’m at your service.”

  Gorstag chuckled. “Well, you can serve by leading one horse round to the stables with me!” He set off with a horse and three mules in tow.

  Narm followed into a warm, strong-smelling barn, where a sleepy boy on night watch unhooded a lantern and fetched water, brushes, and feed. In companionable silence, they set to work.

  “You know the Art?” Gorstag asked gruffly as they bent to the same bucket.

  Narm nodded. “I was trained in Shadowdale. Shan and I’ve come straight from there”—he drew in a deep breath—“where we were wed under Tymora!”

  Gorstag’s head snapped up. He turned, a looming shape against the light.

  Narm felt suddenly shy under this old man’s stern, clear eyes. He said no more, brushing Warrior, who nickered appreciatively. Pivoting from the horse’s flank back to the bucket, Narm found his gaze caught and held by Gorstag’s stare. Stepping back, Narm still said nothing.

  After what seemed an eternity, Gorstag stalked over to the first of the three mules. “Tell me how you met Shandril Shessair.”

  Narm studied the innkeeper’s broad shoulders. “I saw her first here, and … liked what I saw, though we never spoke. The next morn, I left with my master, and we made our way to Myth Drannor.”

  Gorstag’s arms stopped their rhythmic brushing, and then, in silence, resumed.

  “We met with devils, and my master Marimmar was slain. I was rescued from the same fate by the Knights of Myth Drannor, who patrol there. Later I returned to that ruined city and saw Shandril from afar. She was the captive of a cruel witch-mage, the Shadowsil. I tried to free her, calling on the Knights for aid. We ended up in a dracolich’s lair, a cavern that collapsed during a mighty battle of Art. Shandril and I were trapped together. We thought we’d never get out, so …” Narm paused in embarrassment, studying the mule. “We came to care for each other. I love her. So I asked her to marry me.”

  Gorstag nodded and chuckled. “Aye. ’Twas the same for me.” He made a clucking noise, and the stable boy instantly reappeared. Gorstag nodded at the beasts and told him, “See to them all … the very best of everything, as if a fine lord and lady rode them!” He waved to Narm to follow him out, and then turned back to the boy. “Because they do.”

  As they walked through the misty, moonlit night, Gorstag said, “My house is yours, but you seem in much haste. How long can you stay?”

  Narm hesitated. “We must leave on the morrow, sir. Many have tried to slay us—Shandril—these past few days, and will try again. We dare not tarry. Elminster told us to be sure to call on you, and Shandril insisted, too, but there’s danger to us in stopping, and we want not to bring it upon you.”

  The innkeeper’s brow furrowed. “Can you say more? I’d rest easier, Narm—and call me Gorstag, mark you!—if I knew where and why the little girl I reared is riding, who’d do her ill … and why.”

  “I’ve not the right to answer you, Gorstag,” Narm replied. “Only my lady should speak on this. I can say that those who pursue us follow different causes, but are powerful in Art. Therein lies your peril—and Shandril’s secret.”

  They went inside to find Lureene regarding them with a warning finger to her lips. She knelt by a chair before the fire. Narm raced forward. Behind him, Gorstag smiled at that.

  “She sleeps,” Lureene said as Narm bent anxiously near.

  Shandril moved her head and murmured something. They all came close to listen.

  “Narm,” she said. “Narm, we’re here. We’re home. Wait here.… Wake Gorstag.… Come carefully, ready for war.…”

  Narm kissed her cheek, and in her sleep she raised a hand to pat his head. Then, suddenly, she was upset. “She went for you,” Shandril cried faintly. “She went for you, and there was not time! I had to burn her!”

  “Shan, Shan!” Narm said urgently, shaking her. “It’s all right … we’re safe.”

  “Yes … safe,” Shandril replied, awake now and looking up at him. “Safe at last.” She kissed his hand. Her gaze turned to Gorstag, who stood looking gravely down at her. “I am sorry. I’d no wish to be a trial to you; I should’ve told you where I’d gone. I was a fool.”

  Gorstag smiled. “We all play at being fools, betimes. You’re back safe, and naught else matters.”

  Shandril thanked him with her eyes. “We can’t stay, I fear. We’re fleeing far too many to vanquish or avoid if we stand here. We must ride on in the morning.”

  “So Narm said—and said ’twas for you to tell us why. Wilt do so, lass?”

  Shandril said, “Have you ever heard of spellfire?”

  Gorstag nodded sadly. “Your mother had it. I rode with her. Oh, lass … oh, Shandril! Beware the cult!”

  Narm said ruefully, “If you mean the Cult of the Dragon, we’ve fought them too many times already.”

  Gorstag’s eyebrows shot up. “Aye, I do.” He’d been about to say more, but froze when he saw Shandril gaping at him, flame flickering in her eyes.

  Fighting for calm, she asked in a voice that was almost steady, “Please, Gorstag, who were my parents?”

  “Elminster told you not?” Gorstag asked, gaping. “Your mother was my dearest companion-at-arms. We adventured together, long ago. Dammasae the incantatrix; if she’d a surname, I never knew it. She was born in the Sword Coast lands, but would never talk of herself.”

  “Are you my father?” Shandril asked softly.

  Gorstag chuckled. “No, lass. No, though we were the best of friends, Damma and I, and often held each other by the campfire. Your father was Garthond—Garthond Shessair—a powerful mage by the time he died. I never knew where he was born, but in his youth, he was apprenticed to the wizard Jhavanter of Highmoon.”

  “A moment, if you will,” Lureene said gently. “This grows confusing. Pour ale, Gor, and tell your tale a-proper. If you ask question upon question, Shan, it grows as tangled as a box of old twine.”

  Shandril nodded. “You’ve told me the two things I wanted most to know. Unfold the rest as you see best, and I’ll try not to break in.” She waved her hands in sudden anguish. “By the gods, why didn’t you tell me all of this before? Years I’ve wondered and worried and dreamed. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Easy, lass.” Gorstag grew solemn. “There were good reasons. Folk sought you even then and asked me where you came from. I never wanted to tell you a lie, girl, not since I first brought you here. Oh, you had wise eyes from the first; I couldn’t say false to you. I knew these same prying folk asked you and the other girls questions when I wasn’t about. If you knew the truth, they’d have tricked it out of you. So I said nothing and let the rumors of my fathering you pass unchallenged and waited for you to be old enough to tell.” He looked down at his hands. “Sorry I am that you had to run away to find yourself, and freedom. The fault was mine, not to have seen your need sooner and made you happier.”

  “No, Gorstag,” Shandril said. “As the gods bear witness, I’ve had nothing but good from you, and I blame you not. But tell me of my parents, please! I’ve waited so long.…”

  “Aye. Here’s the backbone of the tale. Jhavanter and your father Garthond fought the Cult of the Dragon in Sembia and hereabouts, several times. On the eastern flanks of the Thunder Peaks, Jhavanter held an old tower that he called the Tower Tranquil. Garthond dwelt there with Jhavanter, and then alone after cult wizards destroyed his ma
ster. Garthond went on with his Art—and went on fighting the cult.”

  Gorstag gestured with his tankard and started to pace. “At every turn, he’d work against them, destroying any he could catch unprotected. He grew in power, though the cult tried to slay him every tenday or so. One day he rescued the incantatrix Dammasae from them—they had her drugged, bound, and gagged in a wagon, on the way to their stronghold.”

  Gorstag strode about the taproom, his voice low but his eyes bright. “Dammasae had adventured with me and others before and become known for a talent she had—a power that she wanted to develop by practice and experiment. She could absorb spells and hold their force as raw energy within her. She could use that force to heal and to harm—as blasts of flame that seared flesh, stone, even spells … so it was called spellfire. The cult snatched her to learn the secrets of spellfire, or at least compel her to use hers for their own schemes. No doubt they seek you now for the same reasons.”

  “That,” Shandril agreed, “or my destruction. But please, Gorstag, say on!” To know her life at last! She almost sobbed with eagerness, and Narm put his arms around her.

  Gorstag took down his axe and lowered himself into a chair facing hers, laying his great weapon on a table beside him. Then he turned his chair to better see the front door. Narm and Lureene glanced at it as if howling cult wizards might burst through in the next instant … but the night was silent. Beyond the windows, moon-dappled mist drifted.

  “Well,” the innkeeper continued, “Garthond rescued Dammasae and protected her … and worked magic with her … and they came to love each other. They traveled much and pledged their troth before the altar of Mystra in Baldur’s Gate.”

  He peered into the depths of his tankard, found it empty, and set it aside. “Here I speak of guesswork—my own, Elminster’s, and of some others. We believe a cult mage, one Erimmator—none know where his bones lie—cursed Garthond in an earlier battle-of-Art. The curse bound a strange creature called a ‘balhiir’ from another plane of existence”—Shandril gasped, and Narm nodded grimly—“in symbiosis with Garthond. Perhaps ’twas a cult experiment to learn the powers of the offspring of a spellfire-hurling incantatrix and a mage ‘ridden’ by a balhiir.”

  Narm nodded. “I fear so … but what happened after they were wed?”

  “Why, the usual thing betwixt man and maid,” Gorstag said gruffly. “In Elturel they dwelt quietly. In due time a girl, one Shandril Shessair, was born. They returned not to the Tower Tranquil and the dales, where the cult waited in strength and the danger to their babe was great, until she was old enough to travel. Eight months, that wait was!”

  Gorstag shifted in his chair, eyes distant, seeing things long ago. “They rode with me. East, overland … and the cult was waiting for us, indeed. Somehow—by Art, likely—they knew, and saw through our disguises. They attacked us on the road west of Cormyr, at the Bridge of Fallen Men.”

  Gorstag shook his head and added quietly, “Garthond was thrown down and utterly destroyed, but he won victory for his wife and daughter, and for me. He did not die cheaply. He took nine mages down to darkness with him, and three swordsmen.”

  He stirred, and turned his head to look at his onetime kitchen maid. His eyes shone in the gloom. “He was something splendid to see that day, Shan. I’ve not seen a mage work Art so well and so long, from that day to this, nor ever expect to again. He shone before he fell!” The old warrior’s eyes were wet as he stared at memories.

  “Dammasae and I were wounded—I the worse, but she could bear hurt less well. She carried less meat to lose and twice the grief and worry—for she feared most, Shan, for you. When the cultists fled or were slain, we rode swiftly to High Horn for healing. Dammasae had some doctoring there, but she needed more: the hands and wisdom of Syluné. We did not reach Shadowdale in time.”

  Gorstag made a little sound in his throat that might have been a sob, but his grim voice was steady and quiet. “Your mother’s buried west of Shadowdale, on a little knoll on the north side of the road—the one west of Toad Knoll. A spot holy to Mystra; she appeared there to a Magister once, long ago.” Gorstag looked at the flagstones. “I could not save her,” he whispered, old anguish raw in his voice.

  Shandril leaned toward him, hands reaching out to comfort.

  “But I could save you,” the warrior added, setting his jaw. “And I did that.” He caught up his axe and hefted it, as if he’d hew down the gods themselves if they came through his front door.

  “I took you on my back and went through the woods from Shadowdale south to Deepingdale. ’Twas in my mind to leave you with elves I knew and try to get into the Tower Tranquil to get something of Garthond’s Art and writings for you, but elves I met told me the cult had plundered the tower. They blasted its cellars, making great caverns to be the lair of a dracolich—Rauglothgor the Proud—whose hoard had outgrown his own lair.”

  Gorstag sighed. “So I counted on being unknown to the cult—few who had seen me ride with Dammasae and Garthond lived to tell the tale—and came openly to Deepingdale. I used some gems I’d amassed to buy a rundown inn and retire.”

  He waved a hand at the taproom and growled, “I was getting too old for rough nights on cold ground, anyway. Few of my companions-at-arms were still alive and hale, and an old warrior who joins a band of young blades is asking for a dagger in the ribs.” He shook his head. “I brought you up as a servant, Shan, because I dared not attract attention. Folk talk if an old retired warrior lives alone with a beautiful girl-child. I had to hide your lineage—and, as long as I could, your last name—for I knew the cult would come if they guessed.”

  He waved his axe as if it weighed nothing. “That fight at the bridge—they could’ve slain us all by Art from afar without so high a cost, if all they’d wanted was us dead. No, they wanted you, girl, you or your mother.” He clenched his fist and told the roof beams fiercely, “And I let them have neither! ’Twas the greatest feat I ever managed, down all those years of acting and watching my tongue and yet trying to see you brought up proper.”

  “They’ve kept nosing, all these years, the cult and others. I suspected your Marimmar, Narm, of being one more spying mage—who knows, now? Some were fairly sure, but had no taste for fighting rivals to death for you unless you truly were the prize, so they only watched to see if you’d show some of your mother’s powers. I dreaded the day you would. If ’twere too public a show, I might not have time to get you to the elves or the Harpers or Elminster.”

  The innkeeper shook his head. “I was wary of the Old Mage, too—for ’tis great wizards who fear and want spellfire most. Even if I’d time to run, I might not have the time to get Lureene and the others away. The cult might well burn this house to the ground and slay all within, if they found us gone. Some days I was like a skulking miser, seeking plundering foes under every stone and behind every tree—and in the face of every guest!”

  Chuckling, he said, “Now you’re wed, and I’m to be wed. You went to find yourself because I would not tell you who you were. You’ve come back, with all my enemies and more on your trail, and you wield spellfire—and I’m too old to defend you!”

  “Gorstag,” Narm told him firmly, “you have defended her. All the time she needed it, you kept her safe. Now all the Knights of Myth Drannor must scramble to defend her! She drove off Manshoon of Zhentil Keep and wounded him perhaps unto death! My Shandril needs friends, food, the occasional warm bed, and a guard while she sleeps. But if others give her those, ’tis not she who needs defending!”

  Shandril laughed ruefully. “There you hear love talking. I need you more than ever, now. Didn’t you see how lonely the Simbul was, Narm? I’d not be as she is, alone with her terrible power, unable to trust anyone enough to relax among friends and let down her defenses.”

  “The Simbul?” Lureene gasped. “The Witch-Queen of Aglarond?” Gorstag, too, looked awed.

  “Yes,” Shandril said simply. “She gave me her blessing. I wish I could’ve known her better. Sh
e’s so lonely that it hurts to see her. She has only pride and great Art to carry her on!”

  In a far place, in a small stone tower beneath the Old Skull, the Simbul sat up in the bed where Elminster lay snoring. “How true, young Shandril,” she said, tears in her eyes. “How right you were. But no more!”

  Elminster came awake, and his hand touched her bare back. “Lady?”

  “Worry not, Old Mage,” she said gently, turning with eyes full. “I’m but listening to Shandril speak of me.”

  “The lass? You’re linked to her?”

  “Nay, I’d not pry so. A magic I worked long ago lets me hear when someone speaks my name—and what they say after, for three breaths. Shandril’s speaking of me now, and my loneliness, and how she wished to know me better as a friend. A sweet maid; I wish her well.”

  “I, too. She’s at ease and unhurt, judge ye?”

  “Aye, as much as one can judge.” The Simbul regarded him impishly. “But you, Lord! You are most surely at ease and unhurt. Shall we see to changing your sloth into something more … interesting?”

  “Aaargh,” Elminster replied eloquently, as she tickled him. “Have ye no dignity, woman?”

  “Nay—only pride, and great Art, I’m told,” the Simbul said, her skin gleaming silver in the moonlight.

  “I’ll show ye ‘great Art’!” Elminster said gruffly, reaching for her—an instant before he fell headfirst out of the bed in a wild tangle of covers.

  Downstairs, Lhaeo chuckled at the ensuing laughter, and began to warm another kettle. Either they’d forgotten him, or thought he’d gone deaf—or his master had ceased to care for the proprieties. About time, too.

  He began to sing softly, “Oh, For the Love of a Mage,” because he was confident Storm was busy far down the dale and would not hear how badly he sang.

  These are the sacrifices we make for love, he thought.

  Upstairs, there was laughter again.

  “It grows early, not late,” Gorstag said, as Shandril’s head nodded into her soup. “You should to bed, and then you both stay and sleep as long as your bodies need, before you set off on a journey fated to be long indeed, with no safe havens.”