Crown of Fire

Twenty Crown of Fire

Shandril, behind her companions, raised her hands, and spellfire poured out. A bright net of spellflame suddenly surrounded the party. The arrows striking it burst into white pulses of light, hissing, and were gone.

“Come!” she cried, and strode to the door of Wizards’ Watch Tower, keeping the bright net of flames behind them all. The Zhentilar soldiers around the edges of the courtyard did not follow, their faces fearful.

From where he stood near the door, Fzoul watched her come, and he knew his own moment of fear. The maid’s spellfire seemed stronger than ever. Her eyes blazed like two small stars, and her feet left flaming footprints in the spell-guarded stone. He dragged his glance up from that astonishing sight and managed to greet her with a polite smile on his face.

“Welcome, Shandril Shessair. I’ve been waiting for you. Fzoul Chembryl, at your service.”

Fzoul willed the playing card in his right hand to melt into its true shape: a wand. It fired. He was still smiling as its radiant bolts leapt out to strike Belarla, Oelaerone, Tessaril—and Narm.

Shandril snarled at him wordlessly, and her spellfire roared out to form another defensive net. She glanced behind her to see if her companions were within her shield of flames. Narm was crumpling to his knees, face twisted in pain, and Tessaril was staggering as she tried to hold a swaying Belarla upright.

Shandril also saw Zhentilar guards in black leather as they stepped out from behind tapestries to block the doorway behind her. Beyond them, the archers whose arrows had greeted their arrival were closing in across Spell Court, bows in their hands.

Anger rose and coiled like spellfire within her. “You’re good at trapping things, Zhentarim,” she spat angrily, “but let’s see if you’re any better than Manshoon at holding them.” She drew back her hand and hurled a blazing ball of spellfire at Fzoul.

He stood watching calmly as it roared toward him, spitting flames. Then it seemed to swerve sideways, smashing into—a great, shining wheel of translucent force that appeared behind Fzoul. Spellfire splashed furiously along its edge, glowed, and was absorbed.

Fzoul bowed mockingly. “I’m sorry for any humiliation this might cause you, Shandril—but I fear I must ask you to kneel and cast away any weapons you may be carrying. Or die, of course.”

Elthaulin strode angrily into the nave of the Black Altar, his soft shoes slipping on the polished marble underfoot.

“Neaveil! Oprion!” he called, his voice echoing irreverently in the lofty darkness. Startled heads turned, but he paid them no heed. If Fzoul was going to interrupt devout rituals, Elthaulin could trample on a few meaningless traditions.

“Yes, Master of Doom?” Oprion was at his side swiftly, as always.

Elthaulin smiled approvingly at him. “Assemble all temple troops here, and any underpriests you deem more loyal to me than to Fzoul.”

Oprion’s eyes widened. “What has befallen?”

“Fzoul’s facing the wench with spellfire in the citadel—right now! He may well perish, or be left so weak we can seize power once and for all. Assemble everyone you can! Haste, for the love of Bane! All of you!”

Priests scrambled away at his bidding. Unseen, one dodged out an archway and took a hidden way to the street. There his features changed, melting into those of a powerful and well-known wizard. Sarhthor was an old hand at quickly and quietly slipping away.

“Kneel before you?” Shandril flung the incredulous question like a weapon at the high priest as she leapt toward him, tugging out her dagger.

Fzoul gestured with one hand.

Shandril heard bows twang. She screamed as a shaft took her in the shoulder with numbing force, spinning her around. A second shaft that would have found her breast missed as she fell, humming over her straight into the throat of a Zhentilar warrior blocking the doorway—just as the bloody point of Mirt’s sword burst through the man’s black leather tunic.

Grunting with the effort, Mirt snatched up the guard’s body and staggered forward, using it as a shield.

Fzoul shouted orders. Arrows whipped and whirred around the room. The guard’s body was rapidly transfixed with shafts that leapt, hissing, into the limp flesh as Mirt slowly advanced.

Long paces in front of him, alone on the forehall floor, Shandril yanked the shaft from her shoulder and writhed in agony, trying to master enough will to use spellfire to heal herself. Radiance leaked out between her fingers as she clutched her shoulder and groaned, thrashing back and forth on the tiles. Each time spellfire pulsed, some of it drifted away from her like glowing threads of smoke, drawn inexorably into the slowly turning wheel of the spell engine.

“Cease firing! No more shafts!” Fzoul snapped, and strode toward Shandril, a javelin raised in one hand.

Narm rose from his knees and, through clenched teeth, hissed the words of a spell. Lightning flashed and flickered around the room, and Zhentilar archers groaned as they fell. Behind the charred and toppled bodies, the blue-white bolts crackled along the walls and into the spell engine. Most of the Zhents lay still; others were moaning and moving feebly; perhaps six still stood, and few of them held bows.

Trembling uncontrollably, Narm fell, lifeless, onto his face.

Fzoul’s angry counterspell lashed past him and out the open doors, striking harmless smoke and sparks from the flagstones of Spell Court. Snarling in disgust, the high priest hefted his javelin and strode down the long forehall to slay Shandril.

Face twisted in pain, Shandril Shessair slithered on the tiles, crawling back toward the door, trying to get away from the strange glowing wheel that was drawing spellfire from her. It was turning slightly faster now, its pull slightly stronger, a wheel that spun for her death.

Through a haze of pain, Shandril saw Sarhthor standing in the doorway, face unreadable. Crumpled on the floor in front of him was Oelaerone, curled around the black arrow that had felled her.

From the floor beside Belarla’s senseless form, Tessaril yelled, “Old Wolf, your dagger!”

“Of course,” Mirt rumbled, dumping the body he’d been using as a shield atop a Zhent clawing at him from the floor. Coolly he ran the buried warrior through with his saber, turned, and held his own dagger up. Obliging his will, it glowed.

Fzoul stopped and flung another spell. It flashed at the Old Wolf, trailing streams of magical radiance as the spell engine’s draining tugged at it. The weakened spell reached Mirt’s dagger—and was absorbed into it. The Old Wolf gave the high priest a triumphant smile. Then he tossed the dagger and, in the same motion, swung back with a snarl to smash aside the reaching blade of the next Zhentilar.

The dagger sparkled end-over-end through the air and into Tessaril’s sure grasp. The Lord of Eveningstar came up from the floor in a run, black skirts streaming, heading for Fzoul and the great wheel.

A Zhentilar shaft hummed from near the door and caught her in the back.

Tessaril gasped, staggered, and fell, twisting in agony. “Strike the wheel with this, Old Wolf,” she gasped, holding up the glowing dagger in a hand that trembled, “or we’re all doomed!”

Mirt growled at the Zhentilar he was fencing with, and then reached over their singing blades to punch the man in the throat. Catching the strangling warrior’s neck, he shoved the man aside, into the path of an arrow meant for him. As the corpse spun away, Mirt lumbered across the tiled floor like a angry bear. Arrows flew. Fzoul ducked one, only paces away from Shandril, and went hastily to his knees, bellowing, “No more arrows!”

Mirt fell onto his knees and skidded the last few feet to Tessaril’s side. He yanked a steel vial from his belt and forced it to her lips—spilling most of it down her chin as an arrow tore into him and he jerked involuntarily.

Roaring in pain, he snatched the glowing dagger from the floor, staggered to his feet, coming almost face-to-face with Fzoul—and hurled the trusty little blade over the high priest’s shoulder. Dagger and wheel touched.

The flash and roar struck eyes and ears like a solid blow.

Wizards’ Watch Tower rocked. The blast hurled dust and fragments of riven furniture and chipped walls the length of the forehall. In the gale, helplessly tumbling Zhents shrieked in fear, arrows and bows splintering around them as they came tumbling across the floor. Mirt was flung back into a decorative suit of armor that stood against one wall of the forehall, and together they tumbled ingloriously to the tiles.

Shandril’s body burst into bright radiance as the spell engine’s energy flooded into her. An arrow in her shoulder glowed, melted, and was gone. She shuddered, still racked with pain—and Fzoul was upon her, snarling, javelin descending.

The air flickered suddenly, and Sarhthor was there between them, a dagger in hand.

Fzoul’s javelin plunged down—through the wizard’s body. He stiffened as it pierced him, drove his dagger weakly into the high priest’s neck, and gasped, “For Those Who Harp!”

Mirt stared at Sarhthor, open-mouthed. “A Harper? You?”

Fzoul lurched backward, gasping and tugging at the dagger in his neck.

Shandril pounced on him furiously. Spellfire blazed down her arms as she got both hands on the high priest’s throat. His flesh sizzled, and he screamed, eyes locked on hers. Shandril glared at him, flames rising from her eyes—and into his open mouth she spat a tongue of fire that went down to his vitals.

The high priest shuddered in her grip, clawing feebly at his weapons belt, and Shandril spat more fire. Fzoul’s head arched back. He made a horrible rattling sound as spellfire exploded within him. Ribs burst out through his robes, and flames rose from his shattered body as Shandril shook him, still angry, and then shoved him away.

The body of the high priest of the Black Altar crashed to the floor in flames. The raging fire that consumed him was very hungry. Oily smoke rose from the tangled bones.

Behind Shandril, Sarhthor staggered upright and gasped bloodily, “Sh-Shandril, listen. Touch my head …. Use my life … and raise a crown of fire—the most powerful spellfire …. Shatter towers …. Take beholders …. Hurry!”

As his words trailed away, the Zhentarim wizard convulsed around the javelin, falling to his knees.

“Do it!” Tessaril groaned from the floor. “He speaks truth!”

Astonished, Shandril reached out and touched the wizard’s head. They knelt together on the tiles. Sarhthor’s eyes, red with pain but bright with a fierce will, stared steadily into hers. Shandril felt the wizard urge his fading life-energy into her. It flowed through her fingers with an uneven tingling, and red-hued spellfire crawled slowly out of her, enveloping them both in a flickering aura.

The spellfire grew stronger. It brightened to blinding whiteness as the wizard’s eyes darkened. He fell back, dead, mouth open and contorted. Shandril looked down at him sadly, then rose from her knees.

Roaring spellflames curled to form a crown around her head as she turned, white-lipped and terrible. Her eyes were two leaping flames. Spellfire surged out from her in beams that stabbed at the Zhentilar warriors all around the room. Men screamed as they died, but she did not seem to hear.

When no foes remained in the chamber, Shandril walked out into the Spell Court. Many of the Zhents had already fled, hearing and seeing the holocaust within the tower. Those brave or stupid few who had stayed at their posts realized their mistake immediately. Shandril’s crown of spellfire lashed out again. A web of fiery rays leapt around the courtyard, felling the warriors there. The power roared out of her—and wherever she looked, men died.

In moments, Spell Court was cleared except for smoldering corpses. Shandril turned toward the nearest wall, her eyes blazing, and blasted the first doorway she found. Inside was a hallway filled with burnt bodies—wizards who’d been watching through slits in the door, no doubt. With roaring spellflames, Shandril sheared a way through the corpse pile and stepped into the hall beyond. The heads of many an evil wizard peered out of doors and then hastily vanished. There were shrieks of fear.

Shandril smiled and sent killing spellfire after them. Faerûn would be a better place without the Zhentarim. She strode on, sending flames swirling around the walls of every room she came to.

Ahead of her, a door slammed. Shandril sneered at it and let fly. The door and the man hiding behind it were immediately wreathed in spellflames. They turned to outlines of ash and fell—first the door, crumbling away like a torn curtain, and then the outline of the terrified man behind it.

Shandril shivered at what she’d done—and then remembered Delg, and the men of the Company of the Bright Spear who’d fallen before him. Laid low by wizards’ spells. Deliberately she walked on, hurling balls of roiling spellfire into rooms right and left.

She came to the end of the hall; stone stairs ascended in a dark spiral, and she went up. The crown of fire still raged around her head and lit the way.

Dark armor gleamed in the light of her flames. A desperate Zhentilar suddenly leaned down from around the curve of the stairs, swinging a heavy morningstar. Spell-light twinkled and pulsed along its length; Shandril threw her hands upward and embraced the spiked end as it came. The weapon smashed her against the wall. She crashed hard into the stone. Breath hissed out of her in plumes of flame, but still she clung to the weapon. The soldier above tried to tug the morningstar free, but Shandril smiled grimly at him and held on.

The magic of the enspelled weapon surged into her; the metal in her hands glowed white, melted, and ran through her fingers.

Cloaked in rising spellflames, she melted the sword that the terrified Zhentilar now swung at her—and then blasted into his helm, leaving it empty, blackened metal. The headless body fell limply to the stairs and rolled past her. She climbed on, hurling fire in all directions.

Fresh shrieking told her she’d come to another floor full of wizards. Futile spells lashed out, clawing at her in vain attempts to take her life; arrows of magic sizzled into nothingness as they leapt at her; balls of acid hissed into ash; and illusions of snarling dragons and diving beholders lunged at her, thrown by those who had nothing else to fight with. She blasted their upraised, spell-casting hands, the doors they tried to hide behind, and the floor they stood on, sparing none of them.

One overconfident Zhent flung open a door and flashed a sinister smile. Dark beams leapt at Shandril from his leveled wand. The spellfire Shandril unleashed swept away beams, wand, wizard, and all, smashing a hole in the side of the building. Flames rolled out of the fortress in a boiling ball. The torn and smoking contents of the room fell from the scattering flames and rained down on Spell Court.

Zhentilar warriors had been flooding into the courtyard, frightened officers snarling orders and lashing those who lagged. In awed unison, they stared up at the rolling flames.

Something black and burning fell from the midst of the scattering fire and landed at one warrior’s feet. It was a shriveled human hand, smoke rising from the exposed bones of its fingertips. The Zhentarim ring that had adorned one finger was only a melted star of metal now. The Zhentilar warrior looked up at the jagged hole in the side of the fortress, shivered, turned, and started to run.

An officer snarled an order, but the arrow that should have taken the fleeing soldier’s life was never fired. The archer, too, turned and ran—and then another, and another, until the square was emptying—shouting, fleeing men spilling out into the streets.

An explosion rocked a nearby spire of the citadel. It slowly cracked and fell, to shatter on the stones of the courtyard. Nearby, an old and crumbling balcony was jarred loose by the impact and broke off. Screaming priests tumbled into Spell Court with it.

Inside the citadel, Shandril climbed on. A group of desperate wizards took a stand on the stairs, using spells to hurl stone blocks down on her. As Shandril smashed the first few blocks to hot, flying sand, an avalanche of stones thundered down the stairs and swept her away.

Wizards cheered. Shandril cascaded helplessly down the stairs, fetching up against the wall after tumbling a floor or two. Blood ran from her mouth and from a gash on her forehead; her face and arms were dark red with bruises. Finding her feet among the tumbling stones, she snarled and held up her hands. Spellfire blazed; her blood turned to flame, and her cuts sizzled, glowed, and were gone. Then she waved both hands angrily, and a column of spellfire roared up the spiral stair.

In its smoking wake Shandril climbed again, on steps that cracked and groaned with heat. Teeth crunched underfoot as she reached the place where the wizards had been; the only other trace left of them were ashes, spattered thickly on the walls. Shandril saw the outline of an outflung hand, a dark bulk that must have been a spread-eagled body, and a large area of black, oily ashes where many hands and bodies had thudded into the wall together. The smell of cooked human flesh was strong in her nostrils.

She shook her head and climbed on, emerging in a high hallway that led to the next tower of the fortress. She followed it to a high-vaulted room where beholders floated down out of the darkness to hurl futile magic against her. Shandril sent them spinning in flames. They one by one shattered against the walls of their chamber and fell, eyestalks writhing feebly. From there she followed the stink of burning flesh down a passage—and found herself again in Spell Court.

Frightened citizens of the fortress-city were staring in awe at the devastation there. So many of the cruel men who’d lorded it over them lay dead and broken, so suddenly laid low. Carrion birds were already wheeling watchfully in the sky high above.

Shandril surveyed the death she had wrought, then pointed at a few men who were going through the clothing of the sprawled Zhentilar archers.

“You,” she said. They looked up, blanched, and fell on their knees, crying for mercy. “I don’t want to kill you,” she said wearily. “I want your service.” She pointed into Wizards’ Watch Tower and said, “Inside that place, you’ll find three women, a young man, and an older, stouter man who are not clad as Zhentarim. You’ll also find the wizard Sarhthor; he’s dead. Bring all of them out to me, as carefully as you can—your lives depend on it.” She watched them scramble up eagerly. “Oh—and take nothing from their pockets.”

This was done, Mirt and company removed well away from the Tower. Then Shandril raised her hands—and blasted Wizards’ Watch Tower.

Her fire roared into the open doors of the forehall and burst out of a hundred windows. The tower shook. Cracks appeared here and there, widening with frightening speed as smoke spewed out of them. There were small green and pink explosions of flame in upper windows as the flames reached magic items there. And then the tower came apart.

The stone spire shifted, flung aside huge pieces of the upper floors, and hurled itself down into the courtyard below. The rolling sound was like angry thunder. Men in windows around the court stared open-mouthed at the tumbling stone. Most of them were too tired to scream. Others seemed to take some satisfaction in seeing the tower fall. The last of its walls toppled into ruin, and dust rose up as the tortured stones of the courtyard heaved one last time.

Shandril looked around the court, spellflames dancing in her hair, breast heaving. Another turret toppled. It shattered on impact and sent stones bouncing and rolling almost to her feet.

Once the dust settled, she stood back, satisfied—and then frowned. Wizards’ Watch Tower had been only one in a forest of gray fortress towers, most of which still stood. She raised her hands to bring the whole lot of them tumbling down … and then paused: a frightened dunwing was flying past her, calling to a mate it could not find.

Shandril watched it go, sighed, and shook her head. Life went on, towers rose and fell—and who noticed? What difference did it all make? She spread her hands and saw the spellfire rippling along her skin. What good was all this power to hurt and kill and compel? It was empty. Well, at least she could also heal.

Shandril turned to where her companions lay, and spellfire flared in her hands again. Narm’s body was still, his lips twisted in a snarl of agony. Shandril looked down at him, and the face of Delg came into her mind.

Her eyes blurred with sudden tears. She knelt and kissed those twisted lips gently, and felt them move under hers as spellfire slid slowly out of her. Carefully she held its flow in check, pressing herself against the body of her man, willing his hurts to fade away. Spellfire rushed through him, clearing away burns and clotted blood, scars and contaminated flesh. Narm groaned weakly, shifting under her, and Shandril shared her spellfire, letting it run into him in a pool of fiery force. Narm stiffened.

“Ohh!” he gasped. “Gods, but that burns!” His eyes flew open.

Shandril smiled down into his bruised face and kissed him, taking her spellfire back. Flames leaked around their lips as he smiled in grateful relief from the pain, then hugged her happily.

When Shandril broke free to breathe, Narm grinned up at her. “You’ve won! You did it!” he said.

Shandril crooked an eyebrow. “We did it,” she replied, almost disapprovingly. “Without you—and the others—I’d be so much meat on Fzoul’s floor right now.”

She sighed and glanced up. A Zhentilar who’d been cautiously approaching across the courtyard turned and fled. Shandril chuckled.

“Fzoul and most of the wizards here are dead—and I think I’m done with killing Zhents for a bit … unless they try to bother us again before we leave.” She stood up. “How do you feel?”

“Weak, but whole,” he said with a smile. He tried futilely to smooth down his hair with his fingers; it stood out straight from his scalp. “I’ve had enough of a taste of spellfire to know I never want such power,” he added. “How are you, Shan?”

Shandril smiled at him. “Never better, lord of my heart.” Spellfire danced in her eyes for a moment.

Narm shrank away with an involuntary shiver.

Sadness touched Shandril’s eyes as they stared at each other. Narm reached out to lay his hand firmly on her arm. “It’s not—I don’t fear you, my love; it’s just the fire—”

“I know,” she said softly. “You, at least, don’t think of me as a prize to be fought over, or a goddess of fire to be feared.”

Narm looked at the motionless forms lying nearby. “Neither do these Harpers, love,” he said.

She turned to Narm and replied, “Yes, time to wake these dear friends—all but Sarhthor, I fear.” She stared at the wizard’s sharp features and impulsively bent and kissed his cheek. He did not stir. Sad and sober, Shandril turned to heal her other friends with a kiss ….

The last tingling of the spellfire left Mirt, and the gentle healing hands withdrew. The Old Wolf growled and tried to struggle to his feet. The world swam, and his knees gave way. He fell back, too weak and dazed to rise yet ….

Tessaril sighed and fought her own weakness. Dragging herself upright, she leaned on her sword for support. “Come, Lord,” she said quietly, extending a hand. Mirt groaned again, and struggled to reach her slim fingers ….

“Mmm. That was a nice kiss,” Belarla said, stretching, as she lay on her back on the flagstones. Shandril watched the wrinkles of pain fading away from the Harper’s beautiful face and smiled down at her. Belarla smiled back.

“Yes, she’s much better than most of our clients,” a still groggy Oelaerone commented from nearby. She sat idly turning something in her fingers: a few scorched feathers clinging to a blackened wooden shaft—all that was left of the arrow that had nearly claimed her life. “But then—they’re men … and what do men know of kissing?”

Belarla rolled up to one elbow. She stiffened and put a warning hand on Shandril’s arm. “Speaking of men,” she murmured, pointing.

Shandril looked up quickly and saw men with grim faces—priests in the black robes of Bane—coming into the courtyard. The Holy of Bane were more than a score strong, and some of them held glowing staves and maces. A tall man at their head raised his staff, pointed at Shandril and her companions, and shouted, “For the glory of Bane, slay them!”

“Slay them!” thundered thirty throats as one, and the priests loyal to Elthaulin, the New Voice of Bane, followed him forward.

With a dark look in her eyes, Shandril rose from the Harpers. Spellfire swirled around her hands and ran swiftly along her hair—and then she sent it lashing out. Elthaulin blazed up in front of her like a dry torch.

Healing took far more spellfire than smiting, Shandril realized wearily. Must I go on killing forever? “Halt, men of Bane!” she cried. “Let me be, and I’ll leave you alive. Or strike at me—and taste this!”

Shandril let flames roar up into the sky and forced a savage smile onto her weary lips. The priests’ charge ended. They screamed and pushed at each other in a mad retreat Shandril followed, grimly determined to make the city safe by nightfall.

No, they’d not soon forget Shandril Shessair in this city.

By the time Shandril returned to Spell Court, the sun was setting over the Citadel of the Raven. In the gloaming, she saw winking spell lights beside the cluster of her friends. The lights faded, and a single figure stood where they’d been—the Bard of Shadowdale. Shandril ran joyously to meet Storm, who had begun conversing with Mirt and the others.

As Shandril approached, Storm turned and called out warmly, “I wondered when you’d grow tired of devastating the place.”

They hugged each other. “Belarla and Oelaerone send you their heartfelt thanks and their congratulations,” Storm said. “Mirt tells me they had to get back to their house, before the customers started to come calling—and before you got them into another fight they might not walk away from.”

Shandril had started to laugh, but she fell silent at those last words. She looked past the bard at the body of Sarhthor of the Zhentarim lying still on the flagstones. Shivering, she clutched Storm’s strong, reassuring body harder and quietly told the bard what the wizard had done before he died.

Storm drew back in surprise, staring alternately at Shandril and Sarhthor. “I don’t recognize him,” she said, “but I don’t know all the Harpers in Faerûn, after all.” Her face darkened. “Come; let’s be gone from here before Manshoon regains control.”

“Manshoon?”

Storm smiled ruefully. “Manshoon is always less dead than he appears. Elminster’s slain him more than once before—quite thoroughly—only to have to do it again a winter later. Manshoon has his secrets.” She smiled more broadly and dropped something into Shandril’s hand. “And now you do, too.”

Shandril looked down. In her hand was a small silver harp on a chain. She touched it in wonder. Its tiny strings stirred in a mournful, somehow proud tune.

“If you both don’t mind,” Storm added softly, “Mirt wants to give Delg’s badge to Narm. You’re both Harpers now.”