Spellfire

"Treasure! Aye, treasure for all, and to spare!" Rathan's voice rolled heartily out over the newly daylit crater where many of the knights stooped and gathered treasure. "More even then ye can carry, Torm Greedyfingers!"

"Hah," came Torm's reply from beneath a pile of rubble. "Change your tone, faithful of Tymora?" The thief rose up in his dusty gray, and in his hands was a gleaming disc of polished electrum. Six handwidths across.

"For love of the Lady!" Rathan gasped delightedly. "Good Torm, may I h-"

"'Good Torm,' now, is it?" the thief answered mockingly. "Good Torm Greedyfingers, perhaps?"

"Shut your yapping maw, Good Torm Greedyfingers," Merith said from behind him. "Or else some good dale farmer will mistake thee for a nimble shrew and marry you."

"Some nimble dale shrew did marry you," Torm told him in return, "and look whaaa-!" His words ended in the roar of a crock full of gold coins being dumped over his head.

Narm watched in amazement as the air suddenly filled with small pieces of treasure, as it was pitched about from knight to knight with enthusiasm. "They're like children!" he exclaimed at last in astonishment.

"Sir Evoker," Jhessail said to him with a gentle smile, "they are children."

"But they are the famous Knights of Myth Drannor!" Narm protested mildly, matching her smile.

"We are all in the hands of children," she answered. "Who else would ride into danger with enthusiasm and swing swords against fearsome enemies far from home and saner pursuits?"

"And yet you are a knight," Narm pointed out. The lady mage spread empty hands.

"Did I say I was not a child?" she answered mildly. "Dear me." She rose in a shifting of skirts and threw a set of knuckle-claws of wrought brass set with small carbuncles hard and accurately at Torm's back. She favored Narm with an impish grin as she sat down demurely and turned to check Shandril. Behind them both, Elminster chuckled, as Torm let out a roar of pain and spun about, seeking his foe.

Amid the tumult, Narm's lady lay motionless, eyes still closed, breathing shallowly. She looked peaceful and young and very beautiful, and Narm's heart ached anew. "Will she-?" he asked helplessly. Jhessail patted his arm.

"It's in the hands of the gods," she said simply. "We will do all we can." Elminster nodded and took the pipe out of his mouth. Coils of greenish smoke and small sparks continued to drift from its bowl.

"She held and handled more power than I have ever seen come out of a balhiir," the old sage said. "More, I think, than this creature had in it." Jhessail and Narm both turned to stare at him in surprise.

"What, then?" Jhessail asked, but Elminster shook her question aside with his head.

"Too soon," he told them both. "Too soon for aught but idle chatter… and idle chatter will help no one and could well upset our young friend."

Narm fixed eyes upon him and said, "With all respect, Lord Elminster, I am upset already. What do you fear?"

But Elminster was lost in chuckles. "I fear most, boy, being called 'Lord Elminster' Now grip thy temper and thy grief and master them. There are good reasons not to talk on this now. If it makes ye feel better, I am amazed and awed at what thy Shandril has done."

"Oh?" Narm urged him on, trying to speak calmly.

"Aye. The most common way to destroy a balhiir requires at least three mages, and at best, five or more. They must hold the balhiir between them by force of art, opposing their telekinesis to offset its wild movements and struggles. They then tear it apart, each absorbing what he or she can of it. It is a spectacular process to watch-and," he added dryly, "it kills a lot of mages."

"Yet you sent Shandril alone up against the thing?" Narm protested, his frustration changing suddenly to rage. Elminster's gently sad gaze stilled his tongue against further, more bitter comments.

"I had not five mages," the sage said simply. "We still faced a dracolich and could not turn away from that even if we wanted, lest we and all our friends perish. If ye had tried to stand as one of those mages, Narm, ye would be dead now. Hold thy peace, I bid thee, for thy lady's sake. High words will not help her now."

"Are you always right?" Narm asked, but his tone was weary, not angry. "Is the good and true way always so clear before you?"

Jhessail shook her head warningly, but Elminster was chuckling again.

"Ah, slay me, but thy tongue is as sharp and as busy as Torm's!" The mage sucked upon his pipe once and turned within the smoky haze it produced to regard Narm gravely. "In tavern-tales the hero is always high and shining and his foes dark and dastardly," Elminster said with a smile. "It would be simpler if life were like that, each one knowing if he were good or evil, and what each should do and could expect to achieve before his part in the Great Play ends. But think on how boring it would be to the gods-everyone a known force, events and deeds preordained or at the least easily predictable-and so things are not so.

"We are here to amuse and entertain the gods, who walk among us. They watch and enjoy and sometimes even thrust a hand or quiet words into daily life, just to see the result. From this comes miracles, disasters, religious strife, and much else we could do without."

Narm met his eyes for the space of a breath and then nodded soberly. "You do think and care, then. I had feared you swaggered about serenely blasting with your art all who opposed you."

"That's just what he does do." Torm's voice broke in as he approached, arms full of gold. "Wizards! Wherever one sees battle in this world, there's some fool of a dweomercraefter jabbering and waving his hands. Honest swordswingers fall doomed-slain by a man who would be too craven to stand an instant against them, could they but reach him! Less art about would please me well! Then the brave and strong would rule, not sneaking old graybeards and reckless young fools who play for sport with the forces that give light and life to us all!"

"Aye" said Elminster with a smile. "But rule what? A battlefield covered shoulder-deep with the rotting dead, the survivors dying of hunger and disease. There would be none left to help the sick, or to harvest, or sow seeds. It is a grand king, indeed, who rules a graveyard." He drew on his pipe. "Besides, 'tis no good complaining about what is and cannot be changed. Art we have. Make the best of it."

"Oh, I intend to," Torm replied with a wolfish grin.

"Are you finished, Torm?" Jhessail asked sweetly. "Or have you something else upon your tongue that needs spewing forth?"

"Yes," replied the thief, irrepressibly. "Look you, old-"

"Enough talk!" Florin snapped from behind them. "Heads around, all! A dragon comes!"

"They sssee usss, little one!" the great voice boomed back at her. "Why ssso amazed?"

From the dracolich's back, Symgharyl Maruel gazed upon the blasted mountaintop in shock. The keep! she thought wildly at Aghazstamn. Gone! The whole peak has been shattered and thrown down! We must turn away! We cannot face power enough to do that! She shook her head in disbelief, but the vast crater below remained, as the dracolich wheeled about it.

"Flee? Nay!" its voice roared at her, and the great neck arched around, nearly tumbling the Shadowsil off. She clung to the bony fin before her grimly and shouted aloud, "But the entire top of the mountain is gone! We cannot prevail against-"

"Ssseee to your wandsss, little coward! I fly free, to fight and ssslay after all these yearsss! And you want me to turn tail and abandon the gold and thisss challenge? Think again, weaver of weak art!" Aghazstamn roared and wheeled wide, climbing so as to turn and dive.

As the wind ripped around her ears, Maruel drew forth a wand and held it firmly across her breast. Peering down, she could see one in armor, an elf, and others below. There was no sign of Rauglothgor. Perhaps the old terror had destroyed himself somehow and wrought all this devastation. This handful of dare-alls looked incapable of such destruction.

Well, what did it matter? Slay, and wonder later. Aghazstamn had already turned and was plummeting down, ever faster, the wind beginning to whistle past her ears. The Shadowsil bent low and narrowed her eyes to slits so as not to be blinded. Carefully she aimed at the hastily scattering warriors below, and said clearly, " Maerzae! " And fire blossomed from the wand in a tiny ball that spun away, trailing sparks, to burst with a roar in orange-red flames below.

One man was hurled into the air, blazing, and fell among the rocks. Others were thrown too, but she could not see their fates. Already she was aiming again coolly at those below. Such battles were never as tales had them; mages trading spells formally, one after the other. He who struck first and hardest usually prevailed.

The wind whistled around her as Aghazstamn roared in triumph as it plummeted out of the sky, wings drawn up and bent back over its vast scaled bulk. From its maw, lightning spat in a long, blue-white bolt that crackled to the ground. A tiny figure jerked and staggered, outlined briefly in the blue-white fire. The Shadowsil unleashed her second fireball at two in robes who still stood on the right.

It blossomed into flames before it reached them, however, spreading out against some sort of invisible wall. Symgharyl Maruel hissed in anger as the dracolich beneath her swept down. Fast, indeed, by Mystra! Still, they couldn't strike back at her without sacrificing that wall…

With a roar and a clap of its mighty wings, Aghazstamn levelled off just short of the tumbled rock where its victims scrambled and shouted. It swooped low, reaching with long cruel claws for two who stood with swords raised like tiny needles against it.

Symgharyl Maruel felt the jolt as the dracolich struck and then clapped its wings to rise in haste from the rocks where sharp steel slashed and thrust at it. The mage looked back over her shoulder in time to lock eyes with the druid who had been lying wounded in the cave earlier. His hands and lips were moving, coolly calling a spell down upon her.

Before she could do anything, Aghazstamn was turning away and rising. The Shadowsil slid the wand back into its sheath as they rose and turned to look back, tossing her hair out of her eyes. Steady, I pray you, Great One, she thought through her ring. I would cast a spell and need a breath or two of stable flight from you. A thunderous snort was her reply, but Aghazstamn spread its vast wings spread out a level glide and the roaring winds lessened.

Symgharyl Maruel rose up as far as she dared and turned to face the knights. Below, the two swordsmen still stood; the tall one in armor and the elf. Bodies lay sprawled among the rocks, but the two mages in robes still stood beyond. Well, they might escape, but all of their comrades would perish. Carefully Symgharyl Maruel cast a meteor swarm down upon them all.

Done, she told the dracolich in satisfaction as she sat down and watched eight balls of flame roll forth. Aghazstamn hissed acknowledgement, and the great wings began to beat again. The sudden heat and rolling, roaring sound warned Symgharyl to reach for her wand.

Involuntarily she turned to see, just as the air exploded in flames. Somehow those below had turned her great spell against her. Only one mistake…

"See to Rathan," said Elminster. "And Torm, too. Here! Hurry!" From under his robes he drew two metal vials and thrust them into Jhessail's hands.

"But, master," she protested. "The dragon! Wha-"

"I can yet speak spells," the old mage told her with some severity. "Now go." His eyes remained on the blackened body of the wyrm that had begun to fall from above, trailing flames. Odd, that a single such spell could slay so quickly. Dragons usually died slowly and noisily, with much-unless this was no dragon, but-

"Another dracolich!" the old mage said aloud. Narm turned anxious eyes upon him.

"What now?" the young apprentice asked. Elminster turned a hawkish eye upon him.

"Go and help Jhessail," he commanded. "There is nothing ye can safely do here." His eyes were on the dracolich again, the great wings rolling it over and over as it fell. On its back he could see The Shadowsil, struggling weakly. He almost lifted his hands to pluck her away with telekinesis, but she bore a wand ready in one hand. Even as he considered it, he knew it would be too late to save her. The sage watched expressionlessly as Aghazstamn crashed to earth.

The dracolich's body struck head and neck first, with a horrible splintering sound. It rolled forward onto one shoulder, and over until the great back crashed to the ground. It rolled, once, spilling the slim figure of The Shadowsil from its back, and halted in a smoking heap against a broken rock where Shandril's blasting had ended.

"Get her!" Lanseril shouted from behind him. Before Elminster could speak Florin and Merith had leaped past him, blades flashing. The elf's armor was torn and twisted crazily at one shoulder where a dragon claw had earlier caught it. Had not Merith jumped desperately upward into its closing grip to strike with his blade, the body below the armor would have been torn apart as well.

Elminster knew they could not hear him. He hissed words hastily, exerted his will, then vanished.

Florin could see The Shadowsil, struggling feebly on one elbow to roll herself over. The wand was still in her hand. She was snarling through the long hair. He raised his sword as he ran, in desperate haste. He did not hold with slaying women, but this foe could be the death of them all, were he not fast enough. Merith crashed along behind him, slipping and staggering among the scattered rocks and treasure.

Suddenly Elminster was before them, barring their path. "Stay back!" he commanded. "No more butchery is necessary." Wildly waving their swords, they skidded to a halt only feet from the old mage. They cast quick glances back to ensure that this was not some illusion of their enemy's. "Put the steel away," the old mage said wearily and went to his knees beside Symgharyl Maruel. "The time for all that is past." As he spoke, she collapsed on her face with a groan, the wand clattering away on the rocks.

Gently he took the broken body under the shoulders and turned it until The Shadowsil lay face-up in his lap. Florin and Merith watched in astonishment, the elf's blade still wavering uneasily in his hand.

Florin drew off his gauntlets as he squatted, facing Elminster across the body of the foe who had sought to slay them all but a breath or two ago. "Elminster," he asked gravely, "what are you about?"

Symgharyl Maruel opened her eyes at the sound of Florin's voice and stared dully up at them, as one who has traveled a very long way. She spat blood weakly, and her eyes found Elminster. "Master," she hissed, blood bubbling horribly in her throat. "I-hurt." The last word was almost a sob. "Little flower," Elminster whispered gently as she drew a shuddering breath, "I am here." At his words, she coughed blood and began to cry weakly, the tears running down her cheeks as the knights gathered about in astonished silence. "If ye lie quiet," the sage murmured, "I shall see if I can find art enough yet in my tower to heal thee." He clasped her hand gently and began to slide out from beneath her. One feeble hand plucked at his sleeve, and the mage the knights had all hated or feared mastered her tears.

"No," she told him firmly, eyes burning upon his, "promise me you shall not bring me back… I am too set to change now. I cannot learn this 'good' you stand for." The Shadowsil's eyes closed; her head fell back wearily. Then her eyes flickered. "Promise," she hissed, hands trembling on his.

"Aye, Symgharyl Maruel, I promise thee," Elminster told her gravely, stroking her shoulder almost absently with one old hand. Symgharyl Maruel smiled.

"Good, then," she said, voice trailing away. '"Ware my belt… it has a poisoned buckle. One more thing," she added, voice a hissing ruin now. Elminster leaned close to the bloody lips to hear, and the failing hands gripped his robes until they grew as white as The Shadowsil's face.

The mage raised herself, her body shaking with the effort. Dark eyes shone defiantly once at them all, and then her head reached Elminster's shoulder. She clung there, shaking like a leaf in a gale, and then leaned forward to kiss his cheek, softly and yet fiercely. "I love you. I wish I could have had you." And The Shadowsil turned her head against his chest, smiled, then died.

There was silence for the space of many breaths while the old mage sat motionless, cradling the still body in his arms. The slim hands loosened their hold on him, but Elminster held her. No one moved or spoke. All stood waiting. From Elminster there came no sound.

After a time, the sage looked up, laid his burden gently upon the stones beneath, and slowly rose to his feet. Symgharyl Maruel's bone-white face was still smiling, but it was wet with the old man's tears. Elminster stepped back and waved the knights and Narm away from him, gesturing at them to draw far back. He then started to sing. The old mage's voice began scratchy and hollow from disuse, but gained in strength as he sang the leavetaking, until the last lines rolled out deep and clear.

The sun comes up and the sun goes down

Winters pass swiftly and leaves turn brown

Watching each day and at last it has found

Another dream to lay under the ground

Another name lost to the wind

Wailing away north past ears of flind

And all she has been crumbles away

Of all that great spirit, can nothing stay?

Mystra, Mother, take your own

Skill and power now dust on bone

Good or bad, what matters now?

Her song is done, her last bow

Mother of art, I pray now to thee,

Take back her truename in mercy

And as her body is lost to flame

Greet your own Lansharra again.

Elminster's hands moved, he spoke a few quiet words, and fire burst from his hands to strike the still form of The Shadowsil. Flames burst straight upward in a many-hued pillar. Narm watched the old man, who stood staring into the greedy flames. Hesitantly, the evoker approached. When he stood behind Elminster's shoulder, he spoke.

"She called you 'Master.'" The flames roared and crackled before them.

"Aye," said Elminster. He smiled slowly, and there were tears in his eyes again. He turned and looked out over the waters of the Sember, far below, but he didn't see them. He saw things long ago and in another place.

"You knew her?" Narm asked quietly.

"I once trained her and rode with her." The mage's lips moved roughly, almost reluctantly. Then his white beard jutted defiantly. "I was much younger then."

Narm felt a rush of sympathy and turned to look at Shandril, lying so still upon his cloak. His heart nearly broke. "Does one often see friends die if one is a mage of power?"

"Aye," Elminster replied, almost whispering. Then he seemed to rouse himself and caught Narm's eye in a gruff, more familiar look. "That is why even one's enemies are to be honored. If it falls within thy power, no creature must die alone."

Narm stared at him for a long breath, lips white, and then nodded slowly. Then he rushed forward and caught the old wizard in a fierce embrace, and tears came. A startled Elminster held him awkwardly and patted his head and said gruffly, "There, there, boy. Shandril lives. It's not so bad as all that." The sobs under the young apprentice's encircling arms died slowly and the strong young grip lessened. The muffled voice, when it came, was hesitant.

"Lansharra… did you love her very much?"

"Yes" the sage said simply. "She was like a daughter. Had I been several lifetimes younger and she not quite so quick to cruelty…" His voice trailed away and, abruptly, he spun about and stood facing the dying pyre. His voice rolled out, rich and imperious. "Look all of ye!"

He raised his hands and gestured. It seemed that above the thinning smoke that rose there a form came slowly into being-the form of a young and slim woman, with long glossy hair and almost chalk-white skin. She was very beautiful and wore a simple robe of white and gold bound with a blue sash. She looked around at them with joy and wonder.

All the hardened veterans of the knights stood and watched in silence, the flames flickering in ruddy reflections upon their armor and ready swords.

In utter silence the image of a youthful Symgharyl Maruel worked a bluefinger cantrip before them all. When the blue radiance sparkled into being at her fingertips, she laughed in sheer delight and held it up in one hand to show it. She then tossed her hair back to see it the better, waved at them, and was gone. Elminster stood looking into the last of the flames, his old face expressionless.

"You did that, did you not?" Torm asked, awed. "That wasn't… her."

"Aye, I did it, though not alone, and aye, it was her. So she was one summer before any of ye here but Merith was born. Her spirit lingered. I shaped an illusion, and she came into it to bid me-all of you-good-bye." The mage turned to Rathan. "Thy holy water, good brother?"

Rathan nodded and stepped forward, unclasping a flask from his belt reverently. A scorched smell from The Shadowsil's fireball hung about his clothing and he moved with the careful stiffness of the newly healed. At the mage's gesture, the flames of the pyre sank and died, and Rathan doused the charred bones from head to foot. Gray smoke rose and slowly drifted away.

Then Elminster removed his cloak, and Florin and Lanseril stepped forward to lay the bones upon it as soon as they were cool. Jhessail joined her voice with the old mage's in a prayer to Mystra. When it was done, Elminster caught his cloak up in a bundle and said, "All well, friends? Rathan? Torm? Ye took it the worst, if memory serves."

"Well enough," the cleric replied, and Torm agreed with a terse, "Yes." Elminster nodded.

"Well, get thy treasure and let us see to Shandril. I would be gone from here as soon as she can safely travel-wyrms who are not as dead as they should be seem to have a distressing habit of showing up here to visit." With that, the old mage rose with his bundle and went over to Shandril, puffing on his pipe thoughtfully. "I wonder just who shall call upon us next?" he said aloud, looked down at the bundle be bore, and shook his head suddenly.

Outside, the afternoon sun was bright upon the towers and parapets of Zhentil Keep. Within the Tower High of Manshoon, lord of that city, all was dark save for a circle of glass-globed candles in a corner of the high-paneled feasting hall. No grand company had feasted there for twenty winters.

Beneath the tinted, flickering light was a small circular table and about it the high lords of the Keep sat in council. Lord Kalthas, general of the armies of Zhentil Keep north of the Moonsea, spoke at ease, purring from beneath his sandy moustache, flagon of amber wine comfortably by his hand.

"Defending the empty wastes of Thar is not the problem," he said smugly, "now that the lich Arkhigoul is no more. The Citadel is strong, and I see no need to weaken our forces by placing small garrisons here and there on various frozen rocks in the east. If something comes over the mountains from Vaasa, let it come. We can move in strength when any such foe has committed itself to a long journey and a particular target, and crush any invasion at our leisure. The riders of Melvaunt can slow down any major assault long enough for us to muster patrols in from all Daggerdale and the Teshen lands. Why defend a week's cold ride of barren rocks and snow? Any fool…" The deep boom of a bell echoed somewhere in the darkness above them.

There was a sudden squeal of wood as the dark-robed figure of Manshoon, first Lord of the Keep, who had been sitting in languid boredom on one side of the table, rose suddenly. Table, papers, ink and quills, crystal decanters, and ornate metal flagons all crashed together to the floor. More than one noble lord, chair and all, went to the flagstones with them.

"My Lord!" gasped Lord Kalthas in protest, wiping wine from his fur-trimmed doublet. His words fell into tense silence and died away as their speaker realized his peril. "What means this?"

But Manshoon was not even looking at him. White-faced, he stared into the air, his voice quavered. "Symgharyl Maruel," he whispered, blinking away a tear. Lord Chess gasped aloud; more prudent nobles gaped in silence. None had ever before seen Manshoon cry or show any sign of weakness (or as one lord had once put it, "humanity").

Then the moment passed, and a coldly furious Manshoon snapped, " Zellathorass! " At his command, a globe of crystal swooped into view on the stairs, danced sideways in the air like a questing bat, and darted over to spin in the air before him. Manshoon seized it and peered into its depths, where a light kindled and grew.

He was silent for a moment, and his handsome face grew as cold and hard as drawn steel as he saw something that the other lords could only guess at. Then he released the globe, which began to spin slowly, said " Alvathair " softly, and watched it vanish back the way it had come. His mouth tightened.

He turned to face them all. "Sirs," he said curtly, "this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once." He crooked a finger, and horribly grinning gargoyles, hitherto motionless on stone buttresses overhead, flexed their slate-gray wings. The high lords of Zhentil Keep hastened to find their feet, and then their cloaks and swords and plumed hats, babbled and stammered their thanks and good-byes all together, and found the exit with comical haste. A patient golem closed the door they left standing open.

Manshoon then spoke to the gargoyles in a harsh hissing and croaking tongue, and they began to glide about the tower on their leathery wings, watching in terrible silence for intruders. Their lord stood in the dark hall and spoke. The candles sank and died. They had scarce guttered into acrid smoke before he spoke again, and at his words this time a stone golem as tall as six men strode ponderously toward him from one corner of the hall. It waited there in the darkness to greet any visitors foolish enough to enter unannounced in his absence. Manshoon looked about and then raced up the stairs in the darkness. His ragged shout of rage and loss echoed back down the stairs behind him. "Shadowsil!"

As he stepped out into the chill air atop the Tower High, he spoke a certain word. There came a stirring, and part of the tower beneath him moved. A great bulge of stone shifted and humped. Vast wings opened out over the courtyard of the tower and the minarets of the walls. A great neck arched out and glimmering eyes regarded Manshoon with eagerness and quickening interest, and fear.

The massive bulk rose up the tower wall as huge claws caught and pulled. Somewhere a stone broke loose and clattered, unseen, far below. Then the wings beat in a lazy clap that echoed back from the rooftops of the city. Frightened faces appeared in the windows of temple spires and noblemen's towers, and vanished again in haste. Manshoon smiled without mirth at the sight and coldly locked eyes with the huge black dragon he had freed. Cold eyes looked back at him.

Few men, indeed, can retain sanity and will in the face of the full gaze of a dragon. The wyrm regarded him with vast age, and knowledge, and amusement. Manshoon merely smiled and held its eyes with his own deep gaze. The fear in the dragon's eyes grew. Then Manshoon hissed in the tongue of black dragons, "Up, Orlgaun. I have need of you." The great neck arched over the parapet for him to mount.

With a bound and flurry of beating wings the black dragon soared aloft from the city of cold stone and ready swords. Manshoon came with fire and fury to destroy the slayer of his beloved. Many have done so before, in more worlds than Faerun, and will again in days to come.