Crown of Fire

Fourteen Skull Unlaid Forbear Thee

“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 leather jacket. “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 farmers, 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 Mystra’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 slashed 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. Spellfire 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 ….

A tongue of darker force curled out from the skull, reaching for her. Shandril watched it come, knowing that it would drain her of spellfire again if it reached her. She snarled and pounded the skull with her spellflames.

The bony jaw moved, and the skull spoke. “Why do you tolerate these fools, child? How do you endure the stupidity of Those Who Harp? They waste their power helping others—craven weaklings, all. As are you, little one, for aiding them and consorting with such dross.”

“And you, skull,” Shandril replied in a voice of cold, biting iron, “are too selfish to find any joy in aiding others, or in what good might befall them. If you think kindness and love are marks of weakness, you are the stupid one.”

She strode forward. “I am tired of pain—and of what you have done to my friends. You want my spellfire so much—well then: Take it! Take it all!”

And she leaned forward to embrace the dark tentacle of flame that was straining to reach her. Spellfire rolled out of her—but this time, she did not fight it. Instead, she forced the energy out of her in waves, hurling it through the linkage at the ever-brighter skull that bobbed against the wall.

A holocaust swirled around the skull, white and bright. The thing of bone shook, teeth chattering, and then a keening, rising wail escaped it: “NnnnooooooOOO!” The wail ended abruptly in a burst of flame.

Shandril felt the brief, stinging rain of powdered bone on her cheeks—and then the room fell silent.

In the sudden quiet, both women heard the Old Mage groan.

In an inner chamber of the temple, Fzoul Chembryl reeled back from a font of water that still flashed and bubbled, and he howled in pain.

The lich lord was gone—destroyed while it was linked to him. Fzoul clutched his head and shrieked. An upperpriest rushed in.

“Master?” he asked hesitantly. Fzoul was crouched against the wall, whimpering.

At the sound of his voice, the Master of the Black Altar turned his head and looked up. He stared at the upperpriest but did not see him—and small wonder: smoke was curling up from his eyes in two thin, gray plumes ….

“Old Mage,” Storm whispered, “are you—all right?”

“Of course I’m not all right,” Elminster replied as the bard rushed toward him. He tried to rise, and then reeled back, fires rising from his body. “Stay back!” he ordered Storm weakly, waving a hand. “There’s still enough spellfire in me to kill ye!”

The Old Mage groaned, then raised his head, cleared his throat, and said testily, “Must I do everything, look ye? Can no one else save the Realms this time?” He seemed to be speaking not to the two women, but to someone else. Though no one answered him, Elminster nodded as though satisfied.

He thumped a flagstone with his fist and tried to rise. Halfway upright, he grunted, stiffened, and sank back down. Flames tumbled out of his mouth in a little, rolling puff. He fell back full length on the blackened flagstones, fires flickering here and there along his body. Then there was a sudden whirlwind of blue-white flame where the Old Mage lay—and he vanished, leaving the bare floor behind.

Shandril made a small, startled sound in her throat. The two women stared at the empty place where Elminster had been, and then at each other. Storm shook her head.

“Gods … to see the Old Mage so hurt; does your power challenge the gods, Shan?”

Shandril turned to her and began to cry. “No, Storm. No. If it did, I’d still have my Narm!”

Narm lay sprawled on the floor, face gray, hands spread in a last, futile effort to help her.

Shandril looked at him once and then buried herself in Storm’s embrace. It was all over; Narm dead, Delg gone, her dreams shattered, Manshoon’s slaying only a passing satisfaction, this place and her newfound friends here destroyed, even Elminster laid low … how could the gods be so cruel?

Shandril was sobbing bitterly against Storm’s chest when priests in the robes of Lathander burst up the stairs into the room, led by a soot-smudged Tessaril and a pair of Purple Dragon guards with frightened, grim faces and drawn swords.

Storm, in her burnt leathers, knelt with arms around the sobbing wielder of spellfire. She nodded at Tessaril in recognition and then said quietly, “There is nothing you can do here, now; all of you save Lord Tessaril, please leave us.”

Tessaril gestured silently to her soldiers in confirmation of these orders, and the men obediently filed back down the stairs. Their shocked expressions told Storm what the room around her must look like to those who hadn’t seen the battle.

When they were gone, Storm reached out to pat Tessaril’s shoulder in thanks and said quietly, “Shandril, there is something we must do.”

The Lord of Eveningstar looked down, unsmiling. She shuddered and reached out her hands.

Storm shook Shandril until she looked up through her bitter tears. The bard stared into her eyes and said, “There’s a chance we can save your Narm. Only a chance. We need your aid.”

Shandril nodded numbly, and the two women took hold of her hands and formed a kneeling ring around Narm’s body. They laid their free hands on her husband’s chest.

Then Storm looked up and said gravely, “We need your power, little one—slowly and steadily at first. Then give us more, carefully, and we shall see if your spellfire matches the fabled fire of old.”

White-faced and trembling, Shandril nodded. Tears of fire rained from her cheeks as the spellfire slowly curled down her arms.

As they knelt together over Narm, his body began to glow.

“The collective performance of the Brotherhood thus far has been a source of some amusement,” Xarlraun said, its deep voice cutting across the chamber, “but hardly effective.”

The beholder floated above the human Zhentarim gathered in the room. Deep in its shadow, Fzoul replied, “Aye. Manshoon is dead.”

“For how long, this time?”

“Forever, we believe.” Fzoul blinked his newly healed eyes, but was unable to keep a smile entirely from his face. “He may find it difficult to come back from death without any bodies to possess.”

“He had six or seven waiting.”

“Aye.” Fzoul bowed. “Unfortunately for our esteemed high lord, ‘had’ is the correct word.”

“I see,” the beholder said softly, drifting away. “The price of spellfire grows high indeed.”

Fzoul nodded. “I’ve ordered Sarhthor to call our magelings back from pursuing spellfire. Brotherhood trading concerns have been neglected, and immediate steps should be taken. Certain trade officials in Melvaunt, Ordulin, and Priapurl, for example, have lived too long.”

“Undoubtedly,” said the beholder. It sounded amused. “Is the hunt for spellfire over then?”

“Rather than becoming an attractive addition to our power, spellfire could well become the doom of the entire Brotherhood. It would certainly have done so, the way Manshoon was going about it. Its capture became his private obsession.”

Fzoul paused and looked around the chamber—at the upperpriests and Sarhthor, at the head of the surviving senior mages. His mouth tightened as he recalled Manshoon’s traitor agent, Ghaubhan Szaurr. He wondered briefly if the wizards had discovered his own agents among their ranks.

“Nonetheless, spellfire is too important to ignore. At the very least, we must destroy its source—how much longer can one young girl have such luck, after all?—or prevent our rivals in Mulmaster, Thay, Calimshan, and the Cult of the Dragon from seizing it. With or without us, the hunt for spellfire will continue.”

Fzoul turned and pointed at a certain mage as if coming to a sudden decision. Let them all think him as headstrong and arbitrary as Manshoon; it would lead to traitors revealing themselves before their plans were ready. The wizard Beliarge was too ambitious by far—and capable, too. It would be best to eliminate him now.

“You are our next chance, Beliarge. This Shandril is weaker now than she has ever been—and word has come to me that Elminster and the Harpers are no longer guarding her. All you need overcome is the Lord of Eveningstar, a woman who thinks herself something of a wizard. I’m sure you can prevail against the likes of her.”

Sarhthor stirred, but said nothing. Beliarge bowed and smiled.

With cold pride, the High Priest of the Black Altar looked around the chamber. At last the Brotherhood was under his command. It would be best not to make the same mistakes Manshoon’s arrogance had led him into. He gave them all a cold smile and asked, “Is there counsel anyone here would like to add? Ideas, disputes, or other business? I would like everyone to speak freely, without fear of reprisal—for we are truly a Brotherhood, not a tyranny.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Sarhthor spoke. “There is one thing more: a report from one who survived the failed attempt for spellfire in the Stonelands.”

Fzoul raised an eyebrow. “I did not know anyone had survived.”

Sarhthor nodded and gestured, dismissing a spell. The features of a mage standing behind him flowed and shifted—and Fzoul found himself looking at a woman who must have been stunningly beautiful before she became so burned and disheveled. Now she looked like a victim of a leprous infection that had eaten cruelly at her. Bristles of short hair adorned one side of that ruined head and locks hung long and silky down the other. Someone in the room hissed in revulsion.

“Who are you?” Fzoul asked briskly. Frightened eyes met his for a moment.

“Tespril, Lord. I’m—I was apprenticed to Gathlarue.”

Fzoul nodded. Gathlarue the Wonder Wizard, he’d heard that one called, who thought women should rule the Brotherhood but was so feeble-witted that she thought she could conceal her gender from her fellow Zhentarim. She’d led the attack at Irondrake Rock, hadn’t she?

“Greetings, Tespril,” he said coldly. “Tell us what befell at Irondrake Rock.”

She raised startled eyes for a moment—did the high priest know everything?—and began. “My mistress, accompanied by myself and her other apprentice, Mairara, was in Marsember on Brotherhood business, with ten and six Zhentilar as escort. We received orders to hunt Shandril Shessair after she entered Cormyr, and chased her through the Hullack Forest. She reached Irondrake Rock in the Stonelands before we caught up with her. It seemed to be her destination; I don’t know why.”

Fzoul raised his eyebrows but silently waited for her to continue.

Tespril stared at him uncertainly, then said, “My mistress decided the confined area Shandril and her companions had reached offered an excellent chance to defeat them.”

“How many companions had she?” an upperpriest asked sharply.

Tespril turned tired eyes on him. “Three,” she said. “The young mage who is her mate—he has no power to speak of—a dwarf, and a man named Mirt, whom we believe to be the same Mirt widely believed to be a Lord of Waterdeep.”

Fzoul’s eyes gleamed. Here was a chance for a fat ransom—or better, an agent in the City of Splendors under the magical control of the Brotherhood. He asked calmly, “Did they speak of meeting anyone?”

Tespril spread her hands. “Not that I heard. Dusk fell while they were still exploring the area, and my mistress decided to attack.”

“You failed,” Fzoul said flatly. “Why?”

“My mistress believed that the gargoyles she commanded—by means of rings she’d crafted—could defeat Shandril and her companions. Only Mirt, we believed, carried an enspelled weapon.” Tespril shook her head, remembering the horrors of the fight. “I—I fled after my mistress was slain. I think we killed the dwarf, and the Brotherhood should know that Gathlarue’s forcewall spell seemed to thwart the spellfire for a time. I saw most of the warriors killed; I doubt any of the Brotherhood survived but me.”

“How did you escape?” Sarhthor asked coldly. “You don’t have the power to use a teleport spell.”

Tespril looked at the floor. “I—I used one of the Brotherhood’s teleport rings.”

“Only Gathlarue among you was given such a device,” Fzoul said softly.

Tespril nodded. “I … stole it from her, before the fight. I was sure we’d lose.” Her gaze fell to the floor.

Fzoul turned away. “The Brotherhood thanks you for your foresight and your report. Sarhthor, you know what to do.”

Sarhthor nodded, face expressionless, and turned, waggling only one finger. Tespril made a short strangling sound in her throat before her body hit the floor.

“This meeting is ended,” Fzoul said smoothly. “I thank you for your attendance and your efforts thus far. Diligence in the service of the Brotherhood is always”—he paused to give everyone time to look down at Tespril’s sprawled body—“justly rewarded.”

“It worked!” Shandril said through delighted tears, embracing Storm. Narm’s chest rose and fell again steadily. “Gods thank you! Was this your idea?”

“No,” the bard replied very softly. “It was Syluné’s.”

Shandril’s eyes widened. “That long ago you spoke of me?”

“No,” Storm said. “Syluné does not live as she did before, but her spirit is sometimes with me.” She smiled slowly. “Harpers have secrets upon secrets—do you think it was an accident you were married on the site of her home?”

Tessaril bent and kissed Shandril. Her eyes were very sad. “It would be best, child, if you got pregnant again as soon as possible.”

“Again?” Then the blood drained from Shandril’s face, and she whispered, “What’s happened to my baby?”

“The skull’s draining,” Storm said gently, “was too much for the life inside you. Iliph Thraun killed your unborn child.”

Shandril stared at her in horror. “Gods aid me.” Her words were so faint that they could scarcely be heard. Wordlessly, the women embraced her. They stood pressed together for a long time, but Shandril did not cry. For now, at least, she had no tears left.

At last, Shandril sank back and looked down at Narm, who lay breathing quietly, his face no longer gray. She sighed, and her lip trembled. She bit it, and then stood up, lifting her chin.

“Well,” Shandril said, “at least I have my Narm again.” She looked around at the cracked, blackened walls, and added, “And another score to settle with those of Zhentil Keep.”

The air in front of her flickered, and suddenly a man in dark robes stood there, rings gleaming on his hands. He bowed and smiled at them. “A nice cue, that. Thank you. Beliarge of the Zhentarim, at your service,” he said.

Storm’s eyes blazed. She shoved Shandril away, and dived for her sword. Beliarge watched her with a mirthless smile, as his fingers moved in the intricate gestures of a spell.

Tessaril stepped forward suddenly and caught hold of Shandril. Turning the startled maid around, she hissed a word. A floating, shimmering, upright oval of light appeared in the air in front of Shandril—and she felt Tessaril’s hands at her back, shoving her through it.

Abruptly the stone-lined chamber disappeared, and she was somewhere else. Somewhere grand and dark, where she’d never been before.

In Tessaril’s Tower, Storm whirled up from the floor, long sword in hand.

The Lord of Eveningstar had raised her hands to cast a spell at the smiling intruder. Her face sharpened in anger.

The Zhentarim smiled politely at them both and crooked a finger. The spell he’d cast took effect—and both women froze, unable to move.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, ladies,” he said, bowing. “I hope you enjoy my little achievement; a more powerful holding spell than I think you’ll find anywhere else. If I didn’t have more pressing concerns, I’d tarry and get to know you both better—but my business is with Shandril Shessair, and since your gate helped her leave so abruptly before my spell was done …”

He stepped forward and twisted the sword from Storm’s grasp. Choosing a place where her leathers were burned away, he idly drew a scarlet line across her belly with the keen tip of the blade.

Storm’s eyes glittered at him in helpless anger. “The spell won’t let you go free, no matter what I do, you see?” Beliarge said pleasantly, holding up the blade in front of the bard’s nose so she could see her own blood glistening on it.

“I could carve my name in you both with a dagger, and take quite a lot of time and trouble over it, too, without your being able to move, or even make a sound. Were I a cruel man, I could toss you down the stairs—or even out a window—and you’d land all rigid. It shatters bones like glass, I’m told.” He sighed theatrically. “Spellfire, however, is more important even than this, so I must leave you. Perhaps we’ll have an opportunity to spend some time—truly enjoyable, leisure time—together, in the future.”

With cruel fingers, he pried open Tessaril’s mouth and put the bloody tip of the blade between her teeth. Supporting the naked steel lightly on his fingers, the wizard yanked Storm into place at the other end of the blade. A moment later, the hilt was deep in her own mouth, the quillons just in front of her lips.

With a satisfied smile, the Zhentarim mage stepped back and surveyed the two helpless women and the blade suspended between them. He waved them a cheery farewell, favored them with one last cruel grin … and stepped through the gate.