Crown of Fire

Seven At the Sign of the Wanton Wyvern

Manshoon looked up, unsmiling. Fzoul and two silent upperpriests stood across from him, and two beholders floated overhead. In the air between them all, in an inner chamber in the High Hall of Zhentil Keep, hung a naked man.

It was Simron, late of the Eastern Stonelands Company of the Zhentilar, and he was very naked—much of his skin was missing.

Blood flew as Manshoon’s invisible spell-claws tore at the veteran warrior’s flesh. He screamed hoarsely, the red rain from him being caught below in a huge bowl, for later use in dark, cruel magic. The Zhentarim did not like to waste the talents of their members.

“You do still have strength enough to scream,” Manshoon said calmly. “Good, Simron—that means you’ve still strength to speak, too. Tell us more of what happened when the maid unleashed her spellfire.”

Simron groaned. Manshoon frowned, and unseen claws raked deep, red furrows across the backs of the old warrior’s calves. Simron’s legs jerked helplessly, and gore spattered the beholders overhead. They did not seem to mind.

“I—I—Lord Manshoon, mercy!” Simron said thickly, coughing crimson between his words.

“Mercy must be bought, soldier,” Manshoon said mildly, “and you’ve still not told me what I want to know. Now, sh—” There was a commotion at the guarded door of the chamber, and Manshoon turned in some annoyance to see its cause.

A mageling Manshoon had always thought of as more ambitious than sensible stood among the guards, face lit with excitement. “Lord Manshoon!”

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep made a sign, and the guards drew back to let the young wizard rush into the chamber. Silently, Manshoon gestured to the mage to speak—and he did, words tumbling over each other in haste.

“In Sembia, Lord—we’ve been attacked. Ah, wizards of the Brotherhood, Lord, seeking spellfire as you asked us to … they were set upon by some Harpers, and killers sent by the Cult of the Dragon. We won both battles, but Arluth is dead, and Chsalbreian, and—”

Manshoon held up his hand, and the mageling fell silent. “Our thanks for your diligence, Sundarth. We are pleased. Leave us now; our favor goes with you.”

Stammering thanks and farewell, the young mageling bowed himself out.

When he was gone, Manshoon looked up at the bleeding, moaning man hanging in midair, and he sighed loudly.

“Too many foes are after spellfire for me to just sit back and wait for blundering, ambitious underlings to bring it to us,” the High Lord of Zhentil Keep announced. “I’ll have to become directly involved in the hunt for this Shandril.”

The beholders, hovering watchfully overhead, said nothing. Manshoon looked across the chamber to meet the eyes of the High Priest of the Black Altar.

Fzoul shrugged and said, “That’s the way of wizards. For my part and my counsel, hold back for now, and watch to see if the claws we’ve sent out catch anything.”

Manshoon rolled his eyes. “I grow no younger,” he said carefully. “What use is spellfire—or the triumph of our Brotherhood over all—to me, if I’m toothless, blind, and failing in my dotage before we gain either?”

Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “You may not live to find any of these things if you move openly now. I hope you’ve not forgotten that your open participation in this hunt is sure to bring out Elminster of Shadowdale—to say nothing of the Simbul, Khelben Arunsun, and others—against you. Azoun has already doubled his patrols in eastern Cormyr and is killing our warriors as fast as he finds them.”

Manshoon shrugged. “If I feared danger or opposition, I would never have come to hold the title I do now, nor to stand in this place.”

A rumbling voice broke in on his words then, from overhead. It sounded amused. “How will you succeed, Lord Manshoon, where others have failed? Finding magic that will stand against spellfire will take time you have too little of, and much luck—or both.”

Manshoon shrugged again, giving the eye tyrants overhead a thin smile. “The Brotherhood is often guilty of a fault dear to our natures: in trying to outdo each other, we try to be too clever. A far simpler approach than the schemes we’ve pursued so far will probably be all that is needed—brute force.”

Fzoul raised an eyebrow and gestured for Manshoon to continue.

The High Lord of Zhentil Keep turned expressionless eyes on them all and said, “Club the wench into submission with an army of zombies controlled by underlings using items of power. Bury her under undead, no matter how many she destroys—and bring her down. My magic is strong enough to take care of any Harper or Cult meddling in such a battle.”

Manshoon strolled across the room and then turned to look up at the floating body of the Zhentilar. “Then we take the girl someplace secure,” he continued, “and let the lich lord drain her—or use magic to bind her wits and will ere she recovers, then study her at leisure.” He snapped his fingers. “Whatever plans we pursue, a watch must be kept on Elminster from this moment on to ensure he doesn’t show up to rescue her or ruin attempts to take her.”

He gestured, and a guard at the door went out, returning in a few breaths with a wizard just old enough to master his awe and fear. After a quick glance at the hovering beholders, the young mage kept his eyes on the floor or on Manshoon.

“Heldiir,” Manshoon said in a cold, smooth voice, “you are to take twenty of your fellow mages, now, and keep a continuous spellwatch over Shadowdale. Monitor all magic wielded there, keep track of the doings of Elminster—and report any major castings or movements on his part to me immediately, whatever the hour. Go, speedily, and do this.”

“I-I will,” Heldiir managed to croak, then hurried out.

Manshoon looked up in time to see the beholders drifting back toward the arched windows through which they had first entered the room.

“Your plan has some merit,” one said.

“We shall watch—and see,” the other added in a deep, neutral rumble, as both eye tyrants drifted from view.

Fzoul Chembryl glided to a door, spread his hands, and said simply, “The risk is yours.” Then he was gone.

Manshoon watched the door close behind the priest, smiled without humor, and looked up at the silent, dripping soldier.

“Mercy, Simron?” he asked mildly. “Mercy is for the dead.” He made a small gesture with one hand, and there was a dull, splintering crack from the body overhead.

Its head jerked, and then dangled limply at an angle, tongue protruding. Manshoon strode toward his own door and did not look back as the floating corpse slowly drifted down toward the bowl of blackening blood.

“Watch sharp, now,” Mirt warned as they peered into the last gleams of fading sunset over the Storm Horns, far off on the horizon. “There’s sure to be at least one snake hereabouts who seeks Shandril and spellfire.”

“Is there? By the ever-observant gods, your perception is keen. You surprise me,” Delg muttered sarcastically, keeping a hand over his axe blade to shield it from reflecting any of the sun’s failing glow. It was growing dark fast here in the trees, evening descending quickly on the rolling farmlands ahead.

“What, again?” Mirt replied teasingly. “What an exciting life ye must lead.”

Delg raised an eloquent eyebrow but thought it wiser to make no reply. Somewhere near at hand, Shandril sighed, and in mimicry of one of the haughty Sembian ladies who used to stop at the Moon for a night, she murmured, “Really, milord. Must you?” She smiled as Narm’s comforting arm closed around her shoulders.

Mirt uttered a satisfied sound, came to a halt, and pointed. “That fence line, there? That’s the eastern paddock of the Wyvern. Come. My belly tells me it’s past time for some hot roast dinner.”

“Master, we obey,” Narm said in gentle mockery. Mirt sighed heavily, rolled his eyes, and waved at them all to follow him. The stout old merchant pushed past a tangle of wild raspberry canes, creating angry crackling and tearing noises. He waded through the canes toward the road, slipped on a muddy patch of bank—and fell with a heavy splash into the ditch.

For a long, breathless moment, silence descended. Shandril smothered giggles, not very successfully. Delg cut his own way through the canes with a few deft swings of his axe, and then launched himself into an exaggerated pratfall down the bank, coming to rest so that one boot just crashed down into the edge of the water with a splash. The spray drenched Mirt’s face, which had just arisen from the muddy waters wearing a dark expression.

“Unusual maneuver,” the dwarf remarked cheerfully, “but I can see its virtues now, O Great Warrior. It’ll certainly lull any waiting foes into false overconfidence and allow us to make a grand entrance while they’re still rolling about on the ground, laughing helplessly.”

One muddy paw lashed out from the water, enfolded the dwarf’s boot in a loving grip, and pulled. Delg’s mirth was cut suddenly and damply short, leaving only bubbles to mark its passing.

“I hope you don’t expect us to join you,” said Shandril carefully, reaching a hand down to him. Mirt waved it away, spitting muddy water considerately off to one side.

“Nay, nay, lass—if ye gave me yer hand, ye’d end up in the wet here beside me, instead o’ getting me out of it. Nay, me an’ the intrepid Delg here’ll just wallow about for a bit, and then join ye on the far bank. If ye don’t feel up to leaping the ditch, any of ye, just step on my shoulder—here—and find yer way across … blast it!”

Shandril did giggle then, but made use of his offer. Full darkness had fallen by the time they all reached the road beyond. Mirt and Delg dripped their way to the front and rear of the band, respectively, and both set off in grim silence for their goal.

The farms and woodlots of Cormyr stretched out before them in the gloom, and stars winked overhead. Selûne had not yet risen, and the four travelers went over the hill under the cloak of night.

Before them, at the bottom of the slope, two bright pole-lamps flickered on the right-hand side of the road. The lamps flanked a stout gate that led off the road into a high-fenced yard. Up out of the dark shadows of this enclosure rose several large, dark buildings. The nearest one was a rambling place; they could see part of it by the light of another, dimmer lamp on a post near the door.

From a leaning spar that jutted above the closed gate, a rusty shield hung down on a chain. On the shield, the words “Strike to enter” were painted. Under this sign slumped the body of someone filthy, dressed in a very tattered collection of rags, and sitting up against one of the gateposts.

In heavy silence, Mirt went alertly forward, his sword drawn. The figure did not move. As they drew nearer, they heard faint snoring. Nonetheless, Mirt warily faced the fat, unmoving, ragtag figure, and he rapped the shield-gong with the pommel of his raised, ready sword.

The snores broke off abruptly, just as a small wooden window squealed open in the gate above. A face looked out at them. “Travelers?” came a gravelly, not unfriendly voice.

“Aye,” Mirt replied. “Two men, one women, and a he-dwarf, on foot. We’re armed but come in peace, and prepared to pay well for a warm meal and a good bed—if they’re as good at the Wyvern as I remember.”

“Well met!” The voice was less wary. “Welcome to The Wanton Wyvern, then. I’ll open the gate.” The window closed, and they heard the hollow sounds of wooden bars and props being shifted. Then the gate groaned inward.

The man standing inside looked tall and battered, and so did the stout wooden staff in his hand. They’d scarce got a look at him before he leapt out, past Mirt—who turned automatically to keep his drawn sword facing the man—and raised his staff threateningly over the ragtag, awakened sleeper.

“Be off, you! Move, Baergasra! I’ve told you before—away from the gate!” The staff thumped the tattered derelict solidly in the shoulder, and the tall man used it to shove and roll his bedraggled, gruntingly protesting target away from their path.

“Please come in,” he puffed over his shoulder. He raised the staff again as the bundle of rags moaned and tumbled hastily out of reach. “This old leper is always hanging about here—but we’ve never let her inside the gate. The Wyvern is clean, I assure you.”

Mirt merely nodded and strode into the inn yard. The others followed.

The tall man came after them, closing the gate hurriedly. “Please go within,” he said. “There, under the lamp. We’ve plenty of room tonight, and there’s food hot and ready.”

“Good, good. My thanks,” Mirt called, and waved at Delg to lead the rest in. As Shandril followed, she noticed Mirt’s sword was still drawn, and his eyes darted around alertly, peering into the shadows.

Their rooms were simple but warm and clean, clustered together at one end of a low-ceilinged gallery. Broad stairs led down from the center of that passage to a landing overlooking the main taproom of the inn, and from there descended again to a lobby just within the front doors.

The Wanton Wyvern was old and dusty and dark, paneled in fine woods and hung with torn and faded, once-fine tapestries. “Battle spoils,” Mirt identified them briefly as they passed; Delg nodded agreement. Everyone noticed the crossbows hanging ready behind the front desk of the Wyvern.

The place was warm and friendly, however, with perhaps a dozen other guests—two warriors, a rosy-robed priest of Lathander with two servants, and the rest merchants—already drinking and joking in the taproom. The staff was easygoing and attentive; a serving lass whose girth matched Mirt’s own showed them to a table against one wall, near the crackling hearth-fire.

Shandril looked around, taking in the colors and lights and warmth for a while, letting the talk and the strong smells of wood smoke and cooking wash over her. She heard Mirt rumble something about this being one of those inns you could feel at home in, and Delg growling something in reply, about too much wood and not enough honest solid stone, but at least they didn’t give dwarves funny looks … and suddenly, even before the promised dinner came, Shandril felt something hard touch her forehead, hard and unmoving and restful ….

Thy lady, lad,” Mirt said, reaching over to poke Narm. “She’s out dreamstalking already …. Nay, nay, don’t wake her. Just keep her hair out of the soup when it comes ….”

Unmoving, Shandril lay face forward on the table, her hair spread out around her in a swirl of ash-blond tresses. Narm’s gentle hands gathered it back to her shoulders, combing out the worst tangles. Shandril slept on, shoulders rising and falling faintly.

She was running barefoot through night-dark woods, flames of spellfire racing up and down her bare body like a beacon. Where her feet came down, flames leapt up and left a fiery trail. Behind her, she could hear wolves running, wolves and men … men with dark cloaks and cruel eyes. They rode skeletal dragons that laughed hollowly, even after she blasted them. There were more of them, more and more, and the spellfire in her hands was fading away and failing …. They came nearer, the men laughing now along with the bony dragons … near, nearer … Dark hands shifted suddenly, fingers lengthening horribly into reaching, writhing black tentacles ….

“No! No, you won’t take me!” Shandril screamed, lashing out with her hands. She was somewhere warm and bright, sitting—at a table at the inn. With her friends. Shandril blinked and stared about wildly, breathing hard.

“Easy, Shan, easy,” Narm said, holding her. “It was only a dream.”

Shandril nodded—but her gaze had settled on a hard-faced man approaching their table. He looked like a warrior, and he strode slowly at the head of four others of similar cut Mirt turned in his seat to face these strangers, but did not rise.

Delg leaned across the table and hissed, “No spellfire unless you have to, Shan. Let us handle this, aye?”

Shandril had no time to reply. The newcomer’s voice was already raised in anger. “You’re the ones who stole my little girl! Thieves! Slavers! You won’t get away this time! Innkeeper! Bring your crossbows!” He waved a hand and stepped aside. The warriors behind him, all armed, started menacingly forward.

Mirt rose ponderously from his chair to meet the foremost man, who held a naked scimitar ready.

“You’re first, fat one,” the man sneered, drawing up his blade for a slash.

Mirt ducked suddenly beneath its bright edge and slammed into the man’s midriff. The man flew backward, crashing into another brigand in a confusion of clattering blades, hard knees, and helplessly flailing hands. Mirt continued his lunge, grabbed the belt of yet another man, and flung him sideways into the man who’d first accused them. “The landing!” he bellowed as he fell amid a growing hubbub.

Narm and Delg were already looking up. Two more warriors were hurrying down the stairs to the landing, cocked crossbows in their hands. Delg’s axe flashed across the room, whirling as it flew. Men shouted in fear, and the tables all around emptied in haste. The axe sailed true, and the next moment one of the archers was slumped on the stairs, whimpering and clutching at the red ruin of his shoulder, where the bright dwarven axe was buried deeply amid the spreading blood.

Narm stood up coolly, shielding Shandril with his body, and raised his hands to cast a spell. Before he could, Delg slapped his leg. Narm looked down—and the dwarf thrust a small, loaded hand-crossbow into his hands. Narm stared at it for a moment, and then took it, aimed it carefully, holding it in both hands, and fired. An arrow thrummed into the floor as the bow from which it had come crashed over the railing. Its owner clutched at Narm’s quarrel in his throat, made strangling noises, and followed his weaponry to the floor below.

Without pause, Delg snatched a handful of quarrels from his belt, thrust them into Narm’s hands, and scrambled up onto the table, drawing a long knife from his boot.

Men shouted out in the lobby, and the thunder of running feet answered the call. Blades had been drawn all over the taproom. Some sort of alarm gong rang behind the bar, and there was a momentary lull in its wake—so everyone heard the grisly cracking sound as Mirt calmly broke a man’s neck. The attacker’s body slumped to the floor like a heavy sack of coal as the old merchant’s hairy hands released him. Wheezing, Mirt snatched up a chair and met the charge of the last swordsman, sweeping aside the slashing blade.

All the while, Narm’s trembling hands fumbled at reloading the unfamiliar weapon. He wished he knew some better battle spells and cursed himself for not having enough magical strength to protect his lady. The bolt slipped once again from its groove. Narm cursed and looked up in frustration. Over his shoulder, he glimpsed the man who’d accused them all, drawing back his hand and snarling. A dagger glittered in it, a dagger meant for Shandril. Narm roared a warning.

Shandril twisted desperately sideways in her seat to get below the table. The knife came down, leaping through the air at her with frightening speed, twinkling as it came. A straining body leapt to intercept it in midair over the table, shielding her for a crucial instant before crashing heavily down amid the scattered remains of their dinner.

Narm landed with a ragged gasp and lay still.

Shandril stared at him in horror. Fear and anger coiled in her throat with the rising spellfire. Trembling with rage, she stood to lash out at the man—but the warrior no longer stood there.

Delg had leapt from the table where he had been fighting and struck the man squarely in the face—knife first and with all the dwarf’s bearded and booted weight behind it. The man was falling with Delg still wrapped around his head, both of them covered in blood that did not belong to the dwarf.

Off to one side, Mirt had just broken his chair over the disarmed swordsman, who was falling now in a strangely boneless, flopping way to the floor.

There was no foe left to smite. Shandril stood there, hands smoldering, facing a frightened innkeeper and two red-faced but rapidly paling cooks with cleavers and crossbows in their hands. Other patrons stood farther back, swords and daggers and eating-forks held outs, fear on their faces. Silence came again to the taproom of The Wanton Wyvern.

“No, lass,” Mirt rapped out at her, pointing to where Narm lay on the table. The bloody dagger stood out of the young mage’s side, just below his left shoulder. “Delg, take his feet, will ye? We’ve no time to lose!”

Delg got up, dripping his victim’s gore and panting. “Anyone else hurt?”

Not pausing to answer, Mirt raised his voice in a bellow addressed to everyone in the taproom. “All of ye—stand aside! I’ve no quarrel with any of ye, but any who bar our way will end as these did, by Tempus! And any who raise blade against us will answer for it to King Azoun!”

In the shocked silence that followed, the frightened onlookers silently parted to make way for them, and Mirt hurried them out to the doors.

“Delg, scout!” he barked, and the dwarf lowered Narm’s legs to the ground and hurried past them into the night outside. “Shandril,” the stout merchant added, holding Narm by the shoulders, “take his feet, gently—but haste matters more than handling, now …. Good, good … hurry, now ….”

Delg was waving them on. They hurried out into the night and across the dark and muddy inn yard. Narm’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing raggedly, breath rasping and wet.

“Where are we going?” Narm asked. Mirt’s shaggy, lionlike head was looking this way and that. “To the gate,” he roared and trotted on. In a few jolting seconds they were there, and the old merchant thrust Narm into Delg’s arms.

“Hold him,” he panted, “and don’t let him fall.” And he whirled away from the staggering dwarf to attack the props and bars of the gate like an angry bear, snatching and grunting and clawing.

Wooden spars bounced and crashed aside, and before they’d stopped bouncing, he had the gate open. Out into the road he stumbled, looking this way and that.

“Baergasra? There ye are! Quickly, we’ve need of thy healing.” Mirt said in a voice halfway between a snarl and a sob. A breath later, the old derelict in tattered rags appeared out of the night, running hard. An astonished Shandril realized she was watching a healthy and fast-moving woman, not a drunken cripple. Mirt waved her in through the open gate and came after, straight to Narm.

“Delg?” Mirt snapped. “All safe?”

“Looks clear,” the dwarf replied grimly as he shifted Narm’s limp body across his shoulders. Shandril had been holding her man’s head tenderly, but she let go in haste as Mirt plucked him from Delg’s shoulders and laid him against the base of the high fence. Then the Old Wolf snatched out his dagger.

By the glow from its blade, Shandril saw the stout, filthy beggar woman kneeling beside Narm. The knife stood out of Narm’s narrow chest, just forward of the armpit. Baergasra’s grimy fingers plucked the blade deftly out, and Mirt’s hand was there to press hard against the blood that followed. The woman waggled the bloody dagger so that its blade caught the light. She stared at it a moment, flung it aside, and spit after it.

Baergasra then laid her hands on Narm and murmured something. Her fingers glowed briefly. When the light died, she slowly sat back, sighed, and rested her hands on her thighs. With careful fingers, Mirt began to unlace and draw off Narm’s robes.

The beggar woman helped him. Shandril could hear her talking to the old merchant now. “It went deep, indeed, but it carries only sleep venom, not the usual Zhentarim killing blackslime. He’d have lived, but it’s good I was close by … so how are you, Old Wolf? It’s been awhile, it has ….”

Behind her, Shandril heard a sharply indrawn breath. She turned.

“Who let her in here?” demanded a furious voice. The tall, battered doorguard of the inn stood facing them, staff in hand. Barring his way with drawn knife, Delg squinted up at the man fearlessly.

“I did,” Shandril said hotly. “She can heal, and it was needed.”

The man strode forward and, with a sweep of his staff, thrust Delg aside into a helpless sprawl. “But she’s a leper! She’s—”

“—Always wanted to pay you back for belting me, Thomd,” said the woman in rags, rising with smooth, agile speed to thrust the reaching staff aside and embrace its wielder. They went over together with a splash into the mud, and the filthy lips met his sputtering ones firmly. Then the beggar woman rose atop him and laughed heartily.

“Ah, but it’s a good thing I’ve not got the wasting disease, Thomd, or you’d be sharing it now.” She rolled off the panting, frantic man in the mud and winked at Shandril with cool gray eyes. Pulling open the filthy lacings of her bodice for an instant, she revealed a tiny silver harp pendant nestling in the filthy folds of a gargantuan bosom.

Then she turned back to Mirt, shook her head resignedly, and said, “Well, now that you’ve let the world know I’m not as I seem, perhaps you’ll let me use your bath, Mirt, while I watch over the healing of your young man, here. Give me your cloak, Thomd.”

The struggling man in the mud looked at Delg’s dagger, inches from his nose, and with a helpless grunt unpinned the cloak and rolled out of it.

“Hand it here,” Baergasra said merrily, “and don’t mind the mud—I’m used to it, gods know.” Delicately she began to strip off rag after rag, dropping them all into the trampled mud at her feet.

“One more thing, Thomd,” she added, nudging the tall man with her foot as he slowly sat up, “burn these for me, will you? I never want to see any of them again.”

Delg and Thomd watched in identical amazement as the barrel-shaped woman stripped off rag after rag, and stood at last clad only in grime. Lots of grime and mud, caked thickly in places. She scratched some of those places, grinned at them both and held out an imperious hand for the cloak.

Delg bowed low and presented it to her as one would to a great lady. She swirled it about her shoulders and reached for the pin. Thomd handed it to Delg with a sigh, and Delg handed it on with a low whistle of appreciation.

The filthy woman stuck her tongue out at him as she pinned the cloak close about her, grinned again, and said to Thomd, “Did you see any leprous bits? Well?”

Thomd shook his head. “N-No,” he managed through his teeth. “But the smell …”

Baergasra sighed. “You know,” she said slowly, “one gets used to it?” She scratched again and said, “Well—get up, man, and get going! I want that bath.”

Mirt looked up from Narm. Shandril could see an ugly purple scar just forward of his armpit, but the skin was whole again, and the blood had stopped. He still slept, presumably from the venom.

Venom. The dagger. Shandril looked in the direction the Harper had thrown it, and saw its glint in the shadows. Carefully she picked it up and stuck it in her belt. You never know ….

“Ah, Thomd?” Mirt said. “If ye go in and fill the bath, I’ll bar the gate again. Delg, go in and tell them to calm down, hey? We’ll clean up, I give my promise ….If anyone gives ye trouble, mention my, er, close friendship with King Azoun. Shandril, as much as I hate to ask ye to do it, will ye guard us, until we’re in and settled?”

“Of course, Mirt. It’s a pleasure,” Shandril said happily, and meant it.