Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “We’ve not told you all yet, Gorstag,” Narm said quietly. “We’ve joined the Harpers, and we go to Silverymoon to the High Lady Alustriel, for refuge and training!”

  “To Silverymoon!” Gorstag gasped. “That’s a fair jaunt for two so young, without a warband escort! If I were but twenty winters younger! Still, it’d be a perilous thing. Stay with caravans for protection! Two alone can’t survive the wilderlands west of Cormyr, no matter how much Art they command.”

  “We’ll have to,” Shandril told him in a grim, determined voice. “But we will take your advice and stay with caravans … and if you don’t mind, we will sleep tomorrow through. Foes or no foes, I can’t stay awake much longer.”

  “Come,” Lureene said, “to bed, lass! In your old place in the attic. Gorstag and I’ll sleep there too, by the head of the stair, the other side of the curtain. I’m not leaving you alone while you’re here.”

  “Aye.” Shandril pushed against the table to rise.

  In the dark passage that led to the kitchen, cold eyes regarded the four folk in the taproom for one last instant ere turning to flee into the dark.

  So the wench had returned, had she? Certain ears would give much to hear speedily of this.…

  “Gorstag?” Lureene asked sleepily. “Happy, love? Put that axe down at hand here, and come to bed.”

  “Aye,” Gorstag replied. “There’s something I must find first.” He ducked into the darkest corner of the attic, at the end beyond the stairs, and dragged aside a chest bigger than he was. Then he reached to the base of a roof beam, and part of it came away in his hands. He took something from a small, heavy coffer protruding from the length of wood, and then replaced everything.

  Bearing whatever he’d unpacked, the innkeeper came back across the broad boards of the attic floor to the curtain. “Narm? Shandril?”

  “Aye, we’re both awake. Come in,” Narm replied, from where they lay.

  Gorstag did so, lowering something by its chain to Narm. “Does your very touch drain items of Art, Shan, or only when you will it so?”

  “Only when I call up spellfire,” Shandril told him, peering at the pendant. “What is it?”

  “ ’Tis an amulet that hampers detection and location of its wearer. Keep it, lass, and wear it when you sleep. Only try to take it off when you must use spellfire, or you’ll drain it. Wear it now, and you may win a day of uninterrupted rest tomorrow. I only wish I had one for each of you—but the necromancer whose neck I cut it from wore only one.”

  Narm chuckled. “You should’ve looked for his brother.”

  “Someone else’d slain him already,” Gorstag replied with a grin. “It seems he liked to torment everyone with summoned beasts. Someone finally grew tired of such claws and fangs, went to his tower with a club, threw stones at the windows until he appeared—and then bashed his brains out. The someone was eight years old.”

  “A good start on life,” Narm agreed with a yawn, and put the amulet about Shandril’s neck. “This has no ill effects?”

  “Nay, ’tis not one of those. Good night to you both, now. You’ve found the chamber pot? Aye, ’tis the one you remember, Shandril. Peace under the eyes of the gods, all.” Gorstag ducked back through the curtain.

  Lureene grinned at him, indicating the empty bed and the great axe on the floor beside it. “Now close the bedroom door, love, so the gooblies can’t come in and get us.”

  Gorstag looked at the trapdoor. “Oh, aye.” He closed it, dragging a linen chest over it. “There. Now—to sleep, at last, or ’twill be dawn before I’ve even lain down!”

  Clothes flew in all directions, and Lureene was rolled into a bear hug and kissed with delicacy. She chuckled and patted his arm.

  “Good night to you, my lord,” she said softly, and rolled over. She had barely settled herself before she heard him begin to breathe the deep, steady draws of slumber. Once an adventurer, always.… She fell asleep before she finished the maxim.

  When Narm awoke, sun streamed through the small, round windows, and the curtain had been drawn back. Lureene sat on a cushion beside them, mending a pile of torn linens. She looked at Narm and smiled. “Fair morn. Hungry?”

  “Eh? N-n-no … but I could be.” Narm sat up.

  Shandril lay peacefully asleep, the amulet gleaming on her breast and Narm’s discarded robe clutched in her hands. Narm smiled and tugged at it. A small frown appeared on Shandril’s face. She held to it and raised one hand in an imperious, hurling gesture. Narm flinched back, but no spellfire came.

  “Shan,” he said quickly. “ ’Tis all right, love. Relax. Sleep.”

  Shandril’s hands fell back, and her face smoothed. Still deeply asleep, she murmured quite distinctly, “Don’t tell me to relax, you …” and trailed away into purrings and mutterings.

  Lureene suppressed a giggle into a sputter, and so did Narm.

  “Aye, we’ll let her sleep,” the mistress of the Rising Moon said kindly. “There’s a pot of stew on the hook over the taproom hearth—untouched by Korvan’s hands, mind. I’ve bread and wine here. Go on … I’ll watch her.”

  “Well, I—my thanks, Lureene. I’ll—” He looked about him.

  Lureene chuckled and spun around until her back was to him. “Sorry. Your clothes are over there on the chest, if you can live without that robe Shan’s so fond of.”

  “Urrr … thanks!” Narm scrambled out of the bed and dressed. Shandril slept peacefully on. Lureene gave him a friendly pat as he started downstairs. He was still smiling as he went past the kitchen—and came face to face with Korvan.

  The cook and the wizard came to a sudden stop perhaps a foot apart, and stared at each other. Korvan had a cleaver in one hand and a joint of meat in the other. Narm was barehanded.

  Silence stretched. Korvan lifted his lip in a sneer, but Narm stared calmly and silently straight into the cook’s eyes. Korvan raised the cleaver. Narm never moved, and never took his stare away from Korvan’s own.

  Suddenly Korvan cursed, backed away, and ducked into the kitchen.

  Narm promptly strode into the taproom, where he greeted Gorstag as though nothing had befallen in the passage.

  Elminster had been right. This Korvan wasn’t worth the effort. A nasty, mean-tempered, blustering man—all bluff, all bravado. Another Marimmar, in fact.

  Narm chuckled. He was still chuckling as he went back past the kitchen door. There was a crash of crockery from within, followed by a ringing clang—as if something metal had been violently hurled against a wall.

  21

  A SUNSET FOR SEVERAL

  Mind you do your dying right. Most of us get only one chance at it.

  Mintiper Moonsilver, bard

  Nine Stars Around a Silver Moon

  Year of the Highmantle

  Thiszult cursed at the sun. “Too late, by half! They’ll be out of the dale and into the wilderness before nightfall! How, by Mystra, Talos, and Sammaster, am I to find two children in miles of tangled wilderness?”

  “They’ll stay on the road, Lord,” one of the grim cult warriors told him.

  “So you think!” Thiszult snarled. “So Salvarad of the Purple thinks, too, but I cannot believe two who’ve destroyed the Shadowsil, an archmage of the Purple—not to mention two sacred dracoliches—can be quite so stupid! No, why would they run? Who in Faerûn has the power to match them? More likely, they’ll creep quietly about the wilderness, slaying whomever they come upon, while the rest of us search futilely, until we’re all slain. I must reach them before dark—before they leave the road.”

  “We cannot,” the warrior said simply. “The distance is too great. No power in the Realms could—”

  “No power?” Thiszult fairly screamed. “No power? Hah! That which I bear is power enough!” He reined in sharply and cast his eyes over the mounted warriors in leather. “Ride after us, all of you—to Deepingdale, and the Thunder Peaks! If you see my sigil—thus—on a rock or tree, know that we’ve turned off the road and follow likewise.”

>   “We?” asked the warrior.

  “Aye—Thiszult the Overly Demanding and you, since you doubt my power. Trust in it now, for it’s all that stands between you and spellfire! Now dismount—no, leave your armor behind.” He touched the gaping cult swordsman and spoke a word. Warrior and mage vanished in a silent instant.

  The other warriors stared. One of the riderless horses reared and neighed in terror, and the other snorted. Quick hands caught bridles.

  “Stupid beast,” a swordsman muttered. “Why’d it take fright?”

  “Because the smell of its rider is gone,” an older warrior told him sourly. “Gone—not moved away, but suddenly and utterly gone. ’Twould scare you, if you’d any wits. A stupid beast? It goes where you bid and knows not what waits, but you knowingly ride to do battle with two children who’ve destroyed dracoliches.… So tell me now: Just who is the stupid one?”

  “Clever words,” was the bitter reply, made amid many rueful chuckles.

  Another veteran asked, “You think we ride on a hopeless task?”

  The answer was a nod. “Not hopeless, but I’ve seen many young and overclever mages—like the one who just left us—come to a crashing fall. This latest Grandly Rising Wizard has no more wisdom or power than the others.”

  “What if I tell Naergoth of the Purple your doubting words? What then?” snarled the warrior he’d rebuked.

  The old swordsman grinned. “Say such, if you will. ’Tis my guess you’ll be adding them to a report of Thiszult’s death. I’ve served the cult awhile; I know something of what I say.” His tone was mild, but his eyes were very, very cold.…

  The other warrior looked away first.

  They rode on in grim silence, seeing neither mages nor gouts of spellfire. For that, they were every bit as happy as the horses beneath them.

  A wild-eyed Shandril buckled and laced at the head of the stairs. “We must away,” she panted to Narm as Lureene helped her kick on boots. “Others come … I dreamed it … the cult, and others! Hurry and eat!”

  “But … but …” Deciding not to argue, Narm ate stew like a madman, wincing as he burned his lips on hot chunks of meat. On bare feet, he danced about Shandril.

  Lureene took one look at him and fell back onto the beds, hooting in laughter. “Forgive me,” she gasped.

  Shandril fastened her belt and started down the stairs.

  Narm halted her with a firm arm to the chest. He handed her the bowl of stew.

  After a moment of straining against him, she rolled her eyes and spooned it into her mouth. With a murmur of pain, she burnt one lip and sat hastily on the steps.

  “You two!” Lureene hooted. “I doubt I’ll ever again see a mage of power so discomfited! Whooo! Ah, but you look funny, gobbling like that.”

  “You should see me casting spells,” Narm said dryly. “When did she awake?”

  “Scarce had you gone down when Shan sat upright, straight awake, and called for you. Then she scrambled up all in haste, crying that she’d dreamed of foes fast on your trail.”

  Narm said ruefully, “She’s probably right.”

  “Did your Art have the desired effect?” Sharantyr asked.

  “Yes,” Jhessail responded, passing a hand over her eyes. “This dreamweaving’s wearisome; no wonder Elminster was so reluctant to teach me. Yet I think I scared Shandril enough to get her moving!” She sank back in her chair. “Ah, me … I’m ready for bed.”

  Sharantyr rose. “I’ll get Merith.”

  Jhessail shook her head. “Nay, nay … ’tis sleep I need, not cuddling … you’ve no idea, Shar: ’Tis like a black pit of oblivion. I’m so tired.…” With that, the lady mage of the Knights drifted into her pit and was gone.

  Sharantyr found a pillow for Jhessail’s head, drew off the mage’s boots, and wrapped her friend in a blanket. Then she drew her sword and sat down nearby, laying the bare blade ready across her knees. After all, it had been overlong since Manshoon had worked mischief in Shadowdale.

  In haste, they kissed Lureene farewell, thrust the empty bowl into her hands, and were downstairs and out through the taproom into the sunshine before they drew breath.

  In the inn yard, Gorstag stood with their mounts and mules harnessed. The packs lashed to the last two mules bulged suspiciously here and there. “Bread, sausage, cheese, hand casks of wine, pickled greens, a crate of grapes and figs, a coffer of salt, some torches …” Gorstag said briefly. “The gods watch over you.” He enveloped Shandril in a crushing hug and swung her up into her saddle. “Carry this,” he said, and pressed a bottle into her hands. “Goat’s milk … drink it before highsun tomorrow, or it’ll go bad.”

  He turned like a swordsman whirling from a kill in battle, shook Narm’s hand in a bruising grip, took him by both elbows, and lifted him into the saddle. He thrust a small, bright disc of silver into his hands. “A shield of Tymora, blessed by priests in Waterdeep long ago. May it bring you safe to Silverymoon.”

  He stood looking up at them. “You’re in haste, and I was never one for long gods-go-with-ye’s. So fare you well in life—I hope to see you again before I die, with you both as happy and hale as now. I wish you well, both of you!” He stretched up to kiss them both. “You’ve chosen well in each other.” Then he patted the rumps of their horses to start them on their way, and raised his fist in the farewell salute warriors give to honored champions.

  As they turned out of the Rising Moon’s yard, Shandril burst into tears.

  Gorstag stood like a statue, his arm raised in salute. He stood so until they were out of sight.

  When Lureene came down, she found her man muttering prayers to Tymora and Mystra and Helm. She put her arms around him from behind and leaned against the might of his many-muscled back.

  He trembled as he left off praying and began to cry.

  It was dark in the meeting chamber of the Cult of the Dragon. A single oil lamp flickered on the table between the two men.

  “You really think this boy-mage can defeat Shandril, who’s destroyed our best and most powerful?” Dargoth of the Purple snarled.

  “No,” Naergoth Bladelord replied. “And so another of our bone dragons pursues her right now.”

  “Another dracolich? We haven’t many more Sacred Ones to lose!”

  “True,” Naergoth said, his gaze growing colder. “This one went of its own will. I compelled it not, nor asked it to go—but I did not forbid it, either. One does not forbid Shargrailar anything!”

  Dargoth looked at him, mouth dropping open. “For the love of lost Sammaster! Shargrailar the Dark flies? Gods preserve us!”

  “They’ll hardly start doing that after all this time,” Naergoth answered dryly, reaching to extinguish the lamp. Darkness descended.

  Suddenly they were in a place of fragrant vapors, pots, and knives. The cult swordsman snorted unnecessarily, “A kitchen!”

  At his words, the cook standing with his back to them whirled from his bloody cutting board, cleaver rising.

  Thiszult smiled coldly. “So pleased to see us, Korvan?”

  The sour-faced cook struggled to regain his composure; hatred, envy, fear, and exultation chased rapidly across his mean face. “Why, Thisz—”

  “Hush—no names! How long ago did the wench leave? And what’s our way out of here?”

  “Outside, t-to the back of the inn, yon door,” Korvan replied, with only a slight stammer. “Or, to the front: that door, turn right into the taproom, then left across it to the front door. She and the boy-mage left but ten breaths back. You’ll be able to catch them if you—”

  “Have horses. Where’re the stables?”

  “Around the side, that way. There’s a good strong black and a stouter but slower bay, and—”

  “The cult thanks you, Korvan. You’ll receive an appropriate reward in the fullness of time.” With a snap of his cloak, Thiszult strode into the passage, the warrior at his heels. The swordsman drew his broadsword.

  “Korvan,” Lureene whispered as she came out of the o
pen pantry, eyes dark with anger, “do you know those—those folk?”

  The cook stared at her, white-faced—and then raised his cleaver and went for her. Fury and determination twisted his face.

  Lureene cast a tin of flour at that snarling face and fled into the hall and the taproom beyond. It was empty. She ran across it, dodging between tables and burst out the front door.

  Before her, Gorstag stood with his hands locked on the forearms of the swordsman. They stood straining against each other, the warrior’s sword shaking as he forced it up to strike. Behind them, the dark-cloaked mage spurred out of the yard on their black gelding.

  Lureene ran as hard as she could, sobbing for breath.

  The front door of the Rising Moon banged open. Korvan emerged—her death.

  Lureene ran on, sliding desperately, knowing she had to warn Gorstag before Korvan’s cleaver could reach him.

  The two men were only ten paces away … six … three …

  Gorstag dropped to one knee and pulled hard on the swordsman’s wrist. The sword lunged harmlessly over and past him. Gorstag sprang up, his fist driving into the warrior’s throat.

  Throat, neck, and man crumpled without a sound.

  Gorstag whirled in time to catch Lureene about the shoulders and spin her to a halt. “Love?”

  Lureene pointed, frantically. “Korvan! He serves the cult! Look out!”

  The cook put on a last burst of speed, hacking at them.

  Gorstag pushed Lureene away to one side and leaped away to the other. The cleaver found only empty air between them.

  Korvan looked wildly at both targets—too late. Fingers of iron took him by the neck from behind. Staggering, the cook lashed out, only to have his cleaver-wrist deftly captured and twisted. Korvan let out a little cry and dropped his weapon from burning fingers.