Crown of Fire ss-2

by Ed Greenwood

  Mirt snatched up a discarded sword and hefted it to throw. As he moved, the skull turned to confront him, fire flashing where its eyes should have been. With a chill, Mirt recognized the same leaping flames in its empty sockets that he saw in Shandril's eyes when she was angry. Spellfire lived in this undead thing.

  The skull laughed hollowly as it drifted slowly into the room. the twin, coiling flames of its gaze bent on hint. "I'm getting much too old for all this," Mirt grunted sourly, squinting up at the glowing skull.

  On the road below, a weak and dazed Tessaril fought her way slowly to hands and knees. Pain raged inside her, and from somewhere nearby, she heard a frightened, querying mew. With weary detachment, she looked down at herself and saw the cause of her tressyni's alarm: smoke was rising in lazy curls front her body. Biting her lip, the Lord of Eveningstar caught her breath, struggled to a sitting position, and frowned in concentration to gather her wits for another spell. As she fought to make the intricate gestures, she heard and saw the battle above.

  "All right!" Mirt growled, waving both blades. "Come on, then! Let's be at it!" A voice from his memory female, and mocking, but he was damned if he could recall just who, at this tense moment-echoed in his head:

  Heroes can't choose which fights they will win. That is why all of them die in the end.

  The light within the skull flickered. The air was suddenly full of the bright, deadly pulses of flame the Old Wolf had seen many triages hurl down the years-the bolts that cannot miss.

  So this damned dead thing could work spells. Thanks be to the gods! Mirt held that sour thought as he steeled himself against the pain he knew would come, and threw his borrowed sword at the skull as hard as he could.

  The bolts struck him, lancing into his body with shuddering pain. As always, their energy made his limbs tremble violently. The Old Wolf set his teeth, staggering back under the force of the attack, and blinked back tears to see what happened to his hurled blade. It missed, whirling away harmlessly into the night as the skull rose smoothly up out of its path.

  Mirt snarled, plucked up a stool from the wreckage nearby, and hurled it at the skull, lurching into an ungainly charge in its wake. His eerie foe bobbed again, and the stool hurtled harmlessly past it and shattered against a wall. The skull's hollow laughter rang out around the old, wheezing merchant.

  Then the skull spat something at him that glowed with tiny, sparkling motes of light. Panting in his haste, Mirt dived aside and rolled on the floor-but not fast enough: some of the spittle struck his arm and shoulder.

  Aaargh-acid! Gods, but it burned! Roaring in pain, the Old Wolf twisted on the floor and clutched his shoulder. It felt like slow-moving fire was crawling along his flesh: Mirt whimpered at the pain and writhed helplessly.

  Unseen, the skull soared past him, heading for the stairs. The grand stair climbed from the entry hall to a gallery on the floor above, where many statues stood. Among them were warriors of Cormyr, a mermaid rampant upon a wave, and a sleeping dragon. As the skull floated amid these, a dagger suddenly spun at it, striking chips from the curved bone of its jaw- before glancing off.

  The lich lord turned menacingly and saw a servantwoman on tire landing, her face white with fear. She was frantically trying to raise a sword that was far too heavy for her.

  A tongue of flame slid out of one of the skull's eye sockets, and the woman moaned in fear. She swung the sword weakly at the flames, shrank back, and cried, "Tempus aid me!"

  Iliph Thraun laughed aloud and struck at the woman with its whip of flames. She screamed, waving the sword ineffectually as the fire raged around her. The lich lord lashed the woman with flames until she crumpled and fell, hair smoldering. Then it flew on into the upper levels of Tessarits Tower.

  At the top of the next flight of stairs, Narm and Shandril sat together on a bench, weapons in hand, uncertain of what to do as crashes and cries came up to them from below. At first, they didn't see the silently floating skull drifting up the darkened stairs. Then Narm scrambled up with a startled curse and hurled a hasty swarm of bright bolts at it.

  Shandril stared at the skull. "What is it?" she asked of the world at large as Narm's missiles hit home. Bright pulses struck bone and burst and flared around the skull, but it seemed to ignore them. It opened its mouth and spat spellfire at Shandril.

  Narm leapt between Shandril and the reaching spellflames, shuddering as spellfire struck him and swirled around his shoulder. The young mage staggered, but the skull rose quickly to direct its stream of flames over him-and into Shandril's breast.

  Shandril gasped in surprise. It was spellfire! Then her face hardened, and her eyes and hands began to flame. "Yes! Yesss "' the skull hissed, as she hurled the conflagration back at it. Narm lifted a face tight with pain to peer at the skull, and he gasped-it was feeding on the spellfire Shan was using on it.

  Shandril hurled streams of spellfire at the thing. It chuckled, teeth clattering hollowly. She set her jaw and wove the blaze into a bright net of flames, cutting the air with so many arcs of fire that the skull could not avoid them.

  The skull plunged into the fiery net and spun there among the strongest flames. Where spellfire touched it, the burning fury darkened and died. The residue slid weirdly into the fissures and gaps in the bones-all except the eye sockets and gaping mouth, which poured an ever-increasing stream of spellfire back at her.

  Spellflames engulfed the girl, raging and roaring. Shandril shuddered under the attack-every inch of her seemed to be trembling uncontrollably-and then struggled to advance against the skull's stream of spellfire. Her eyes were narrowed to slits, her face contorted with pain.

  "Shan! Nooo!" Narm screamed, but she seemed not to hear. He gulped, took two running steps, and leapt, reaching for the skull. His hands slid over smooth hardness and into the eye sockets. There they found burning, excruciating pain. Narm threw back his head and howled, as roaring blackness rushed up to claim him. Despairing, wreathed in the skull's fire-Shandril's stolen spellfire, Narm fell screaming into that onrushing darkness.

  Shandril stared its Narm toppled heavily to the floor, body blazing. His screams ceased abruptly as his limbs flopped loosely on the stone. Then he lay very still.

  Silence fell. The skull's attack had ceased even as Shandril's did. In horror, she stared down at her husband. The skull glided slowly forward to hang over her. It leered down, glowing, opened its mouth in echoing mirth-and then fell suddenly quiet, hanging motionless, its flames flickering and fading.

  In a dark room deep in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, Sarhthor, mage of the Zhentarim, sat at a black table and stared at a tiny skull that hovered above it. The skull was carved from human bone-from a bone of one Iliph Thraun, lord among liches. Small radiances swirled around it, chasing each other in little currents and eddies as Sarhthor bent his will against the far-off lich lord.

  Sweat ran down his face, and his hands trembled as he stared fixedly at the carved skull. Wrestling with the cold will of Iliph Thraun across a great and echoing distance, Sarhthor reached deep and found strength he hadn't known was there- and held the lich lord from attacking Shandril.

  Weeping, Shandril hurled herself on Narm, as she had done long ago in Thunder Gap. Dragonfire had ravaged him then-but this was spellfire. Lips to lips, flesh to flesh, she embraced him frantically, pouring healing spellfire into him.

  Above them, the skull quivered, and its eyes flashed flame. Then it shook again, more feebly, and hung motionless.

  The door opened suddenly without a knock, and Fzoul Chembryl, High Priest of the Black Altar of Bane, strode in. "What are you doing?" he asked coldly.

  The miniature skull sank down to land softly on the table, and a weary Sarhthor looked up at him. "Lord Manshoon left this means to compel the lich lord with Art, and gave me orders to use it in his absence to prevent the lichnee from passing out of our control," he explained.

  The wizard shook his head and wiped sweat out of his eyes. "I'm not the mage he is-and perhaps I lack some de
tail or secret to make this work, too; I can't seem to contact Iliph Thraun properly. The lich is there, all right-but it seems almost as though something greater stands against us, fighting me."

  "Elminster?" Fzoul snapped, wondering who else could be interfering with the skull in Manshoon's absence. "Nay, nay; something greater. Bane, perhaps." Sarhthor said that with a straight face but inner pleasure; the priests of the Black Altar never like to be reminded of their rebellion against church authority-and how the Dark One himself might feel about it.

  "Our Lord?" Fzoul's voice was harsh. He tried to scoff, bit it didn't sound convincing. The two men stared coldly at each other for a breath or two.

  Then Sarhthor shrugged, and waved at the miniature skull lying motionless on the tabletop. "Try for yourself. My skill is not great enough to know clearly who it is."

  Sarhthor took care to hide all signs of his inward smile as Fzoul silently but savagely spun around and stalked out.

  The lich lord hissed suddenly, and its eyes lit with flame. Freed of the restraint from afar, it sank down to bite into Shandril's shoulder as she lay atop her husband. The spellfire that blazed from her pulsed and flickered as the skull began to drain her, hauling energy out of her reluctant body slowly at first, and then with greater speed.

  A grim and blackened Thrulgar burst into the room then, at the head of a handful of white-faced but grimly loyal Evenor farmers. They clutched pikes and pitchforks, and sleepiness battled horror in their eyes as they stared at flying skull.

  By then, the lich lord was strong enough to rise from Shandril and lash out with rays of stolen spellfire. The sudden flames hurled the men to blazing and broken deaths against the walls of the room.

  Weeping amid the dying shouts and screams. Shandril lay sprawled atop Narm, feeling spellfire flowing steadily out of her. Twisting feebly, she tried to gather her will but could not stop the flow. The skull was draining her with frightening speed. A bright path of radiance, spellfire being sucked out of her forever, now linked her with the grisly thing as it floated low overhead, chuckling. Shandril struggled to pull free by willing a sudden surge of spellfire into the bone thing. It hissed at her in anger but the steady flow of its draining continued, and the fire within her was fading fast.

  Narm lay lifeless beneath her. Shandril stared up at the grinning skull, and cold fear crawled along her spine. The only way to stop this skull slaughtering everyone in this town-in Cormyr, and even in Faerun-was to cut off its supply of spellfire.

  And the only way to do that was to end her own life. Shuddering, Shandril crawled toward a dagger, fallen beside Thrulgar' s hand. The lich's spellfire suddenly flailed her as the skull realized her intent. It wanted all she had; she must not die yet. Tears nearly blinding her, Shandril gripped the weapon and slowly, determinedly, brought it to herself. Would dying hurt much? She swallowed, shut her eyes against sudden tears, and pressed the keen, cold edge against her throat…

  The roar of spellfire that rose around her now was deafening. numbing; it shook her like a leaf… Could she complete the task? Angry spellfire thundered around her. Tears sizzled on her cheeks as the white heat dried them. She felt a sudden, chilling jab at her shoulder: the skull had set its teeth in her again. In the storm of flames, Shandril struggled on, trying to die…

  Fourteen

  Skull Unlaid Forbear Thee

  When death comes unlooked for, it finds a way into the strongest fortress. It does no good to set extra guards al the gates.

  Asargrym of Baldur's Gate, A Merchant Master's Life, Year of the Blue Flame

  "Ah, now we come to it, lass; 'tis time."

  "Time for what?" Storm Silverhand had been drifting off pleasantly to that place of dreams where gods whispered to mortals. Elminster had finished his tale, and the stars still glimmered watchfully overhead.

  "For ye to guard me — remember, ye came on this ride to guard me?"

  Storm rolled over and smiled sleepily at him. "I still can't imagine what I can protect you against that you can't guard against better yourself."

  Elminster patted her bare shoulder affectionately and said, "Stand guard over my body while I go dreamweaving."

  "Dreamweaving? You?"

  "I know no better way of putting ideas into the minds of sleeping folk to sway them into doing certain things without clumsy coercion or betraying my hand in it."

  Storm nodded, stretched, and got up, shrugging on her leatherjacket. "I knew it was too soon to take off my boots," she said sweetly, stepping back into them with a sigh.

  Elminster waved a hand. "Ye won't need them-who's to see thy bare feet, out here in the night?"

  Storm smiled. "The ones who'll be attacking, of course."

  Elminster shook his head at that, and smiled. "Ah, ye al-"

  Then he broke off, swayed, and turned to her, his face suddenly grim. "I must attend to things, it seems," he said, snatching up his staff.

  "Shandril?" Storm asked, her long sword already in her hands.

  Elminster shook his head. "Narm. When I trained him, I linked to him-and I've just felt him die."

  Storm's face paled. "Old Mage," she said quickly, "may I?"

  Elminster inclined his head. "Of course." The mists took them.

  They were in a room of stone, strewn with fallen farm splintered and tumbled furniture, and small plumes of smoke and dying flames. Elminster seemed to know where they were. He was staring not at Narm's sprawled body, but at who lay atop him: Shandril Shessair.

  She lay curled on her side, unmoving. A human skull hovered over her, its teeth locked on her shoulder. The flesh there shrank as they watched, dwindling toward bare bones. There was a line of blood at Shandril's throat, and the knife that had made it lay fallen by her open hand.

  "By Mystara's bloody beauty!" Eyes blazing, Elminster was hurrying across the room.

  The skull rose from its feeding, fixed its gaze on him and opened its bony jaws to hurl spellfire. The angry blast of spellfire tore through the Old Mage; its flames leapt out of his back and scorched the wall beyond.

  Shocked, Storm saw him stagger, tremble, and then struggle on toward the skull. Elminster's body seemed to be alive with flames. He advanced slowly, fighting against the flowing spellfire like a man walking against a deep, fast stream. As he went, his staff blazed into life. Pulses of radiance raced along it to where the Old Mage's hands held it. When they reached his hands, he tossed the staff aside, grunting in pain. Storm thought he looked suddenly very old.

  Elminster reached the skull, took it firmly in hands that caught fire, and hurled it against a wall. There was a roar of spellfire. Sparks as big as a man's hand-bigger by far than the blackened, smoking, ruined extremities the Old Mage was now holding up, groaning in pain winked and leapt around the room. Smoke rose where they touched.

  Elminster's staff shattered with a noise like thunder, and the room was suddenly dark. A single, glowing light remained against the wall, growing slowly brighter.

  The skull was cracked but still hung together, spellfire swirling around it. Storm swallowed, and then set her teeth and leapt at it, bringing her blade down.

  The skull darted to one side. She pivoted and lashed out at it again. This time her blade just caught the edge of its jaw, and sent it tumbling end over end through the air.

  Desperately Storm ran after the skull, trying to hit it before it could spit spellfire at her.

  She failed. Flames roared out at her-and the bard flung herself frantically to the floor, landing hard on the cold flagstones. Then she was up, scant inches in front of the hungry blaze and dodging around the room, hacking at the darting, spinning skull as it spat swirling flames at her. She groaned, then screamed as spellfire burned her. Staggered, she slipped on a fallen sword and was burned again. The pain made her gasp, but she leapt over fallen townsfolk and fought on. She was burned again and again, the smell of her charred leathers growing ever stronger, Sweat ran down her limbs with the fury of her leaps and twists. She battled both the laughing skull
, which hung always out of reach, and the agony inside her, which grew all too powerful as time went on.

  Storm smelled her own cooked flesh as she raised a burned arm to drag her long sword around for yet another strike, trying to smash the skull in a corner. It ducked and weaved under her blade, and shot free-only to spin about and spit gouts of spellfire at her as she ran desperately along a wall. Fire was suddenly all around her again, and Storm rolled, scraping over an armored body she couldn't see. She fought to keep control of her stomach against the sickening pain of fresh burns. Though the pain made her weak, she kept up her attacks, trying to buy time for the radiance growing at her feet.

  Shandril, whose body was glowing ever brighter. Shandril's eyelids fluttered as Storm rolled past her, and spellfire rained down all around. The bard staggered to her feet and faced the lich lord once more, circling to keep it from seeing Shandril. Storm's heart soared as she dished the air and forced the skull to back hastily away. Behind them both, Shandril stirred.

  The bard could barely stand now. Spellfire roared past her ears, and she heard her hair sizzle. Storm stumbled, moaning in her agony, bracing herself against the fresh pain she knew would come tearing into her.

  But it did not come. Blinking, Storm stared at the skull-and saw Shandril's arm raised from the floor in front of her, gathering in all the spellfire that was meant to slay Storm. Shuddering in relief, the bard fell to her knees, leaning on her sword in exhaustion. Her silver hair swept down over her burned body, and she whimpered.

  Shandril looked at her once, and her eyes flamed. She rose, struggling against the stream of spellfire as Elminster had done, and snarled in sudden defiance. Spelifire roared out of her eyes, white-hot and destroying. The force of her blasts hurled the skull back against the farthest wall of the room and held it there. The skull tried to break free of the streaming flames, but could not. It tried to scrape along the wall, but she forced it into stillness. pinning it against the cracking and protesting stones with the continuous force of her blasting fire. She knew how to destroy it now-she hoped. When she'd willingly given it that surge of fire, it had been angry, and its draining hadn't quickened…