Spellfire

"The Wearers of the Purple are met," Naergoth Bladelord said. "For the glory of the dead dragons!"

"For their dominion," came the ritual response from sullen throats. Naergoth looked around the chamber.

Malark had not shown his face again. Naergoth was beginning to worry that something ill-and probably final-had befallen him. By the looks others were giving his empty seat, he was not the only one thinking along such lines. Long faces aplenty looked back at him.

"Well enough," Dargoth said. "What say you, Zannastar? You stand for our mages in the absence of Malark, and the doubt grows in my mind that we shall ever see him alive here again."

"It is not my place to speak as one of you," said Zannastar, a balding, bearded man of middle years. "I do not wear the purple."

His hard face turned to look down the table. "But I do think that the more one listens, the more one learns. Something, whether it's spellfire or not, is striking down brother after brother, and many of your sacred ones, too-Rauglothgor and Aghazstamn were both of great power. Can the dracolich Shargrailar be any the safer? Its lair is on the other side of the Peaks, true, but still near."

"Yes," Zilvreen agreed, "and yet the Sacred Ones can look after themselves far better than we can defend them, if we know not where the blow may fall. Better we go after this Shandril ourselves and destroy her. If we cower in lairs awaiting her attack, we have already conceded the victory."

"Yes, yes, we have heard this line before and agreed to it," Naergoth said. "Our absent mage may have died following it."

"Let this Shandril and the fledgling mage Narm go, then," Dargoth said. "The cost is too high."

"Too high already," agreed the cleric Salvarad in a soft voice that warned of sharp things beneath its purr. The triple lightning bolts of Talos, worked in silver, gleamed upon his breast. "Yet, brothers, consider the cost if it becomes widely known that a young girl-a young girl who commands an unusual and powerful ability of art-has defied us and destroyed so many of us! Can we afford to let her go-at any price-now? What think you?"

"Oh, aye, for the cost of a loss of reputation, let her go," Zilvreen said. "What loss is that? A few butcherings and mannings and menaces and that sort of loss is mended, at least among those folk with whom it works at all. But can we afford to pass up our chance of wielding spellfire, when our enemies could end up using it against us? There is the real price, brothers."

"Yes, we cannot afford to face this spellfire-that we have seen clearly. But we cannot let our foes gain it!" one of the warriors said. The man beside him turned to look in surprise.

"You think your enemies can stand against it? Hah! I've heard it whispered that Manshoon of Zhentil Keep was put to flight by this girl! I say we keep our ranks safe and war no more upon this Shandril-unless time and Tymora weaken her so that our chances are improved. Let others go after her and be the weaker for it! We shall reap the reward of their folly as the vulture dines upon the fields of fallen.

"Swords have got us where we are today. Aye, not without art and divine favor, I'll grant, but swords have kept rulers and bandits at bay. We do not need this spellfire. Waste not our best blood on it!"

"Well said, Guindeen. Yet," Salvarad responded, "can we afford to let our foes win spellfire to wield against us? We should all then be destroyed."

"You bring us to the hard choice, indeed," Naergoth Bladelord said quietly, "and that brings us to the choice behind it: Who wants to go up against this young maid?" He looked around the table, but the silence that followed grew heavy.

No one moved or spoke. After a very long time, Naergoth said softly, "So be it. We are agreed. We put spellfire behind us and go on to work for the greater glory of the dead dragons in other ways."

There were reluctant nods, but no one said anything. It is difficult to laugh at fear when one regularly dealt it often to others.

They rode west, steadily. Narm peered warily all about as they traveled, expecting another attack. But Shandril found this forest somehow friendlier than the Elven Court. Amid the thick tangle of trunks and gnarled limbs, one could see into the deep, hidden places. Vines hung in spidery tangles from high branches to trunks. Ferns grew thick upon the ground, broken only in places where limbs had fallen.

Shandril looked here and there, at moss upon rocks and trunks, and at great thick trees as large about as some cottages. But Narm saw only danger, possible ambushes, and concealing shadows. But as the day grew older and no attack came, he too began to enjoy the road to Deepingdale.

"It is beautiful," he said, as they came to the crest of a gentle rise in the road and saw sunlight streaming down through the trees in a small clearing.

"Aye," Shandril said in a small voice. "I've never seen these woods before, even though I lived just a day's ride from here." She peered about. "Sometimes I wish I'd never known this spellfire, and I could just come home now with you, instead of fleeing a hundred or more half-mad mages."

"Why not stay?" Narm replied. "You have the power to slay a hundred half-mad mages."

Shandril sighed. "Aye, maybe. But I'd lose the dale and my friends and even you, I don't doubt, in the process. Powerful mages always seem to destroy things about them. They work worse devastation than forest fires and brigands. Sometimes I think life would be much simpler without art."

"I said that to Elminster," Narm replied, "and he said not so. If I could see the strange worlds he's walked, he said, I'd understand."

"No, thank you," Shandril replied. "I've troubles enough, it seems, in this world." The road rose again through a leafy tunnel of old oaks, then gave way to an open area.

Narm and Shandril rode close and quiet, side by side, looking all about them for danger. Tiny, whiplike branches that had fallen from the trees above lay amid the dead leaves and tangled grass and ferns like thin, dark faerie fingers, waiting to clutch or snap underfoot. They rode on, and still no attack came, nor did they meet travelers upon the road.

"This is eerie," Shandril said. "Where is everyone?"

"Elsewhere, for once," Narm said. "Be thankful, and ride while we have the chance! I would be free of the dales, where everyone knows us. Your spellfire cannot last…triumph-forever."

"I have thought about that," Shandril said in a small voice. "Thus far, we have been very lucky. More than that, we've fought many who did not know what they faced, even as I do not. Before long, mages will come against us with spells and devices of art prepared specifically to disable me or foil spellfire. And then how shall we fare?"

"Ah, Shan, you moan a lot," Narm replied, exasperated. "I'm worried about you. You at least can strike back. Did you expect a life like in the ballads, all cheering and triumph and happy endings? No. Adventure, you wanted, adventure you have. Did you hear Lanseril's definition of adventure, at that first feast in Shadowdale?"

Shandril wrinkled her brow. "I did overhear it, yes. Something about being cursedly uncomfortable and hurt or afraid, and then telling everyone later that it was nothing."

"Aye, that was it." They rode over another rise with still no sign of other travelers on the road. "It is a long way to Silverymoon," Narm added thoughtfully. "Do you remember all the Harpers Storm named for us, along the way?"

"Yes. Do you?" his lady replied impishly, and Narm shook his head.

"I've forgotten half of them, I'm sure. I was not suited to be a world traveler." Narm replied ruefully. "Nor was the tutelage of Marimmar very useful in that respect."

Shandril laughed. "I'll bet." She looked at the woods about them. "If the Realms hold places as beautiful as this, mind you, I won't mind the trip ahead."

"Even with a hundred or so evil priests and mages after our blood?"

Shandril wrinkled her nose. "Just don't call me 'Magekiller,' or anything of the sort. Remember-they come after me. I have no quarrel with them."

"I'll remind the next dozen or so corpses of that," Narm replied dryly. "If you leave enough for me to speak to, that is."

Shandril looked away from him, then, and said very softly, "Please do not speak so of all the killing. I hate it. Never, never do I want to become so used to it that I grow careless of my power. Who knows when this spellfire might leave me? Then, Narm? I will have only your art to protect me. Think on that."

They rode down into a dell where moss grew in knobs and clumps of lush green amid the dead leaves. Small pools of water glistened under dark and rugged old trees. Narm looked around warily, as always, and said soberly, "Aye. I think of it often."

"It seems the fate of this Shandril to grow old unhindered-by us, at any rate" Naergoth said dryly to Salvarad, when they were alone at the long table. "Is there any other business?"

"Aye, indeed. The matter of your mage. Malark was destroyed in Shadowdale-how, I know not-but Malark perished at the hands of Shandril."

"You are sure?"

"I watch closely, and others watch for me-and, all told, we miss little."

Naergoth looked at him expressionlessly. "What then have you seen in the way of mages to take the Purple in the place of Malark?"

"Zannastar, certainly. You could even give him the Purple now. We have seven warriors and one mage.

"Well enough. Why Zannastar?"

"He is competent at art, but even more, he is biddable, something Malark was not."

"Aye, then. Who else?"

"The young one, Thiszult. A wild one-quiet but very reckless. He could be dangerous to us, or brilliant. Why not, alone and in secret, send him after the spellfire with four or six men-at-arms? He'll either bring it back or kill himself-or learn caution. We cannot do ill by this."

"Oh? What if he comes back with spellfire and uses it against us?"

"I know his truename," Salvarad replied smugly, "though he doesn't know that any have learned it."

Naergoth nodded. "Send your wolf, then. Who knows? Perhaps he'll succeed where all the others have failed-ours and those of Bane and Zhentil Keep. This gauntlet we've made the girl Shandril run will have its effect on her in the end, even if we've paid the price for it in blood thus far."

Salvarad nodded. "Yes. She's only one maid, and not a warlike one at that. We'll have her in the end, spellfire or no spellfire. I mean to have the spellfire, too… but if we take her alive, she's mine, Naergoth."

Naergoth raised an eyebrow. "You can have women much easier than that, Salvarad."

"Nay, you mistake me, Bladelord," Salvarad replied coldly. "The power she has handled… does things to people. I must learn certain things from her."

Naergoth said, "Then why not go after her yourself?"

Salvarad smiled thinly. "I am intrigued, Bladelord. I am not suicidal."

"Others have said that, you know."

"I know that well, Naergoth. Some of them even meant it."

Night came upon them while they were still in the woods. The night grew cold, and the couple drew their cloaks about them as they rode on. Mist rose among the trees.

Narm watched it drift and roll and said in a low voice, "I don't like this. An ambush would be all too easy in this mist."

"Yes" Shandril replied, "but all the wishing in the world won't make any difference. We're not far, now-we can't be, for travelers who left the inn mid-morning fully expected to make Tasseldale by nightfall. And there is no other road. We cannot have missed our way." She looked into the soft silence of the trees. Tangled branches hung still and dark in the mist. Nothing stirred, and no attack came.

Shandril sighed. "Come on," she said, spurring her horse into a trot. "Let's get safely to The Rising Moon. I would see Gorstag again."

The fire burned low in the hearth, and it fell quiet in the taproom of The Rising Moon as the last of the few guests went up to bed.

Lureene quietly swept up fallen scraps of bread as Gorstag made the rounds of the doors. She heard his measured tread upon the boards in the kitchen and smiled.

So she was smiling in the dim glow of the dying fire when Gorstag, who carried no candle when he walked alone by night, preferring the dark, came into the room.

"My love," he said softly. "I would ask something of you this night."

"It is yours, lord," Lureene said affectionately. "You know that." She reached for the lacings of her bodice.

Gorstag coughed. "Ah… nay, lass, I be serious… ah, I mean, oh, gods look down!" He drew a deep breath as he walked slowly up to her in the dimness and asked very quietly and formally, "Lureene, I am Gorstag of Highmoon, a worshipper of Tymora and Tempus in my time, and a man of some moderate means. Will you marry me?"

Lureene looked at him, mouth open, for a very long time. Then she was suddenly in his arms, looking up at him with very large, dark eyes. "My lord, you need not… marry me. It was not my intention to-ah, trap you into such a union."

"Do you not want to be my wife?" Gorstag asked slowly, roughly. "Please tell me true…"

"I would like nothing more than to be your wife, Gorstag."

Lureene said firmly. His smile then was like a sudden flash of the sun in the darkness, as his arms tightened about her.

"I accept," Lureene added, gasping for breath. "Kiss me, now, don't hug the life from me!" Their tips met, and Lureene let out a little moan of happiness. Gorstag held her as if she were a very fragile and beautiful thing that he feared to break. They stood together so, among the tables, as the front door of the inn creaked gently open, and a cool breeze drifted in about their ankles.

Gorstag turned, hand going to his belt. "Aye?" he demanded, before his night-keen eyes showed him who had come.

Lureene turned in his arms and let out a happy cry. "Shandril!"

"Yes," said a small voice. "Gorstag? Can you forgive me?"

"Forgive you, little one?" Gorstag rumbled, striding forward to embrace her. "What's to forgive? Are you well? Where have you been? How-"

Outside, there was a snort and a creak of leather, and in mid-sentence, Gorstag said, "But you have horses to see to! Sit down, sit down with Lureene, who has a surprise to tell you, and I'll learn all when I'm done."

"I'm married, Gorstag," Shandril said quickly. "He's-Narm's with the horses."

Gorstag threw her a surprised look, but he never slowed his step. By the light of the fire, Shandril saw tears wet upon his cheeks, and then he was gone.

Lureene threw her arms about Shandril. "Lady Luck be praised, Shan! You're back and safe! Gorstag has been so worried about you, ah, but now… but now-" She burst into tears and held Shandril tightly.

Shandril felt tears of her own stinging her eyes, and she gulped quickly to forestall a happy flood. "Lureene… Lureene…" she managed, voice breaking. "We cannot stay. Half the mages in Faerun are after us, and we're a menace to you even by being here."

Fearfully, she stared at the barmaid. She was touched that Lureene had missed her so-she'd always thought the older girl must find her tiresome. Now she feared to lose what she had so fleetingly seen, swept away by fear. Lureene met her gaze and smiled, shaking her head slightly.

"Ah, little kitten, you have been hurt indeed, to fear these doors shut to you," Lureene said sadly. "If to see you again, we must entertain a few thousand angry mages, entertain them we shall, Gorstag and I, and think it a small price to pay.

"Ah, Shan, thank you! Thank you! You've made Gorstag so happy, he's like a youngling again-did you not see him stride and spring to the door? You've made him happy again, the way he has not been since you left."

"But we must leave again, on the morrow," Shandril said, teetering on the edge of tears. "How-?"

"He will understand, Shan. He knows you are not ours any more-I don't doubt that he's taking the measure of your man right now! It's just that he didn't know what had befallen you. Could you not have left a note or some word?"

Shandril cried uncontrollably, emptying out all the fear and regrets and homesickness of the days since she'd fled the inn, seeking adventure. Lureene held her tightly and rocked her wordlessly, until at last Shandril's sobbing had died away to shuddering breaths.

Then she kissed Shandril's bent head and said softly, "Do not be so full of sorrows, little kitten. I am most grateful to you." The body in her arms made a sort of bleating, questioning sound. Lureene hugged it still more tightly and said, "Gorstag was so upset over you, one night, that he could not sleep. I came to comfort him. He'd never have permitted me to do as I did, if he'd not been so in need of comfort. And he would not have asked me to be his wife."

Shandril looked up, hair all across her reddened eyes in disarray. "He did? Gorstag? Oh, Lureene!" Her tears were happy this time, and she hugged Lureene with bruising force. Ye gods, Lureene thought, stepping back to hold her balance, if this is what adventure does for a woman…

A woman? Shandril? But-aye! She is a woman, now, Lureene thought, holding her by the shoulders and meeting her delighted laughter with a fond smile. This was not the girl who'd slipped away from the kitchen.

This was a lady with a lord of her own-and something else. Something beyond the weapons worn so easily at hip and boottops… a quiet sort of confidence, of power hidden. Yet none of the loud arrogance of the adventurers who came to the inn for a night of revelry and often left, made wiser by Gorstag's hands and tongue, shamefacedly.

"Shandril, what has happened to you?" she asked quietly.

Shandril gave her a strange, almost haunted look. "Oh," she said in a whisper. "You can see it so clearly then, can you?"

Lureene nodded. "Aye. But I know not what it is." She raised a hand to Shandril's lips. "No… tell me not, if you would not. I do not need to know."

"But you should know," Shandril said simply. "It is not something easily believed, though. I hope Gorstag will be able to tell me more about why I have it."

Lureene grinned at her suddenly. "Then it can wait until after you've sat down and soaked your feet and eaten. I'll wake Korvan."

"No!" Shandril said sharply. Lureene turned to look a question at her. "No, please," Shandril pleaded. "Wake him not. I cannot trust his cooking-no offense to you-for my own good reasons. I'll cook, if you will have me."

Lureene nodded, looking troubled. "Did Korvan… bother you?" she asked with a little frown.

"It is not that," Shandril said. "Please trust me, and wake him not. I'll tell you, but it is better not to rouse him."

"Then I'll not leave your side unless your man or Gorstag is at hand to protect you while you are here," Lureene said firmly. "You can tell me what you like after you've rested." She reached out her hand. "Come here by the fire."

Shandril let herself be led and sat in a warm chair with a high back. Lureene poked the fire up into new flames and set fresh, dry wood on it, and went for a bowl. When she returned, Shandril's head had fallen onto her shoulders, and she was asleep.

Narm held the bridles of both horses, tense-ready to flee hurriedly if need be. He looked about him in the moonlit mist of the road, but he heard no creature moving in the rolling silence. Wait, Shandril had said. Come after me only when you have stood so long that you grow cold-and if you wait that long, mind you come most careful, ready for war. Narm shifted nervously. Was he cold enough, yet? There was noise within.

Then the door that Shandril had entered was flung wide. A burly, craggy-faced man with gray-white hair and level gray eyes wet with tears strode out. He stretched out a strong arm to Narm and said, "Well met, and welcome to the inn! I am Gorstag. You are Shandril's Narm?"

Narm met his gaze squarely and swallowed. "Yes. I was here almost two months back with the mage Marimmar. Shandril has told me of you, sir. I am at your service."

Gorstag chuckled. "Well, you can be of service," he said gruffly, "by leading one mount around to the stables with me." He set off with a horse and three mules in tow.

Narm followed him into a place where a sleepy boy on night watch unhooded a lantern for them and fetched water, brushes, and feed. In companionable silence, they set to work.

"You know the art?" Gorstag asked softly, as they both bent to the same bucket. Narm nodded.

"I was trained in Shadowdale as a conjurer. Shandril and I have come straight from there, where we were wed under Tymora." Narm felt suddenly shy under this old man's stern, clear eyes. He said no more, then, as he turned back to Warrior, who rumbled appreciatively. He turned from the horse's flank a few breaths later to find his gaze collected by Gorstag's. Unconsciously, Narm took a step back, but he said nothing. At last, Gorstag nodded and turned back to the first of the three mules.

"Tell me, if you will, how you met Shandril Shessair," he said softly. The mule pricked its ears at him, but it was clear that he expected no answer from it. Narm studied the innkeeper's broad shoulders for a moment.

"I saw her first here and… liked what I saw, though we did not speak. In the morning, I left with my master, and we made our way to Myth Drannor."

Gorstag's arms stopped their rhythmic brushings for a moment, and then resumed. "We met with devils, and Marimmar, my master, was slain. I was rescued from the same fate, by the Knights of Myth Drannor, who patrol there.

"Later I returned to Myth Drannor and saw Shandril from afar. She was the captive of a cruel mage, The Shadowsil, and I tried to free her. I called on the knights for aid, and we ended up in caverns where a dracolich laired. Shandril and I were trapped together when the cavern collapsed during a mighty battle of art. We thought we'd never get out, so…" Narm paused, studying the mule before him, and then sighed and turned to face Gorstag. "We came to care for each other. I love her. So I asked her to marry me."

To Narm's surprise, Gorstag nodded and chuckled. "Aye. It is the same for me." He made a clucking noise, and the stableboy reappeared immediately. Gorstag nodded. "See to them all… the very best, mind, as if a fine lord and lady rode them." He waved to Narm to follow him out, and then turned back to the boy and added, "Because they do."

As they went back around the side of the inn in the moonlit, misty night, Gorstag said, "My house is open to you both, but you seem in much haste. How long can you stay?"

Narm hesitated. "We must leave on the morrow, sir," he said quietly. "Many have tried to slay us-slay Shandril, actually-these past days, and they will no doubt try again. We dare not tarry. Elminster told us to be sure to call on you, and Shandril insisted too, but there is danger to us here, waiting, and we would not bring it upon you."

"Can you say more?" Gorstag asked. "I will not stay you, and Elminster is a name I set great store by, but I would rest easier, Narm-and call me Gorstag, mark you! — to know where and why the little girl I raised these years passing is riding, and who would do her ill, and why."

"I have not the right to answer you, Gorstag," Narm replied. "Only my lady should speak on this. I can say that those who pursue us are of different causes, but all, it seems, are powerful in art. Therein lies your peril and Shandril's secret."

They went inside the inn, only to find Lureene regarding them with a finger to her lips, as she knelt beside a chair before the fire. Narm raced forward at the sight. Behind him, Gorstag smiled.

"She sleeps," Lureene said softly as Narm bent anxiously near. Shandril moved her head and murmured something.

They all came close to listen.

"Narm," she said. "Narm, we're here. We're home. Wait here… wake Gorstag… come carefully, ready for war…"

Narm kissed her cheek, and in her sleep she raised a hand slowly to pat at his head, smiling. Then, suddenly, she was upset. "She went for you," Shandril cried faintly. "She went for you, and there was not time! I had to burn her!"

"Shan! Shan!" Narm said urgently, shaking her awake. "It's all right… we're safe."

"Yes, safe," Shandril said, awake now, looking up at him. "Safe at last." She kissed his hand on her shoulder.

Then her eyes moved to Gorstag, who stood looking gravely down at her. "I am sorry," she said slowly. "I did not wish to be such a trial to you. I should have told you where I'd gone. I was a fool."

"We all play at fools," Gorstag said with a smile. "You are back safely, and nothing else matters now."

Shandril thanked him with her eyes and said, "We cannot stay, I fear. We are fleeing from far too many to vanquish or avoid if we stand and stay. We must ride on in the morning."

"So Narm said," Gorstag replied. "And he said it was for you to tell us why. Will you, lass?" Shandril nodded.

"Have you ever heard of spellfire?" she asked.

Gorstag nodded, sadly. "Your mother had it," he said softly. "Oh, lass. Oh, Shandril. Beware the cult."

"Beware the cult, indeed" Narm said ruefully. "We have fought them half a dozen times or more already, if you mean the Cult of the Dragon."

"Aye," Gorstag said, "I do." But he said no more, for Shandril was gaping at him, flame flickering in her eyes.

She calmed herself and asked quietly, "Please, Gorstag, who were my parents?"

"The sage did not tell you?" Gorstag asked, gaping at her in his turn. "Why, your mother was a companion-at-arms of mine. We were adventurers together, long ago: Dammasae the Incantatrix. If she had a last name, I never knew it. She was born in the Sword Coast lands. She would not talk of herself."

"Are you-my father?" Shandril asked softly. Gorstag chuckled.

"No, lass. No, though we were good friends, Damm and I, and often held each other by the campfire. Your father was Garthond. A sorcerer he was, by the time he died, Garthond Shessair. I never knew where he was born either, but in his youth, he became apprentice to the mage Jhavanter of Highmoon."

"A moment, if you will," Lureene said gently. "This grows confusing. Let me go to the kitchen. Gorstag, pour ale, and tell your story as a story. If you ask question upon question, Shan, it grows as tangled as a ball of wool.

Shandril nodded. "You have told me the two things I wanted most to know. Unfold the rest as you see best, and I'll try not to break in. By the gods, master, why did you not tell me all of this before? Years I've wondered and worried and dreamed. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Easy, lass. And I am not your 'master.' You are your own master, now." Gorstag was solemn. "There were good reasons. Folk were looking for you, even then, and asking me where you came from. I never wanted to tell you a lie, girl, not since I first brought you here. Oh, you had wise eyes from the first. I could not say false to you. I knew that these same prying folk asked you and the other girls questions when I was not about. If you knew the truth, they'd have tricked or drawn it out of you.

"So I said nothing of it to you, and let the rumors of my fathering you pass unchallenged, and waited for you to be old enough to tell. You are that, now, and past time. I'm sorry you had to run away to find your adventure. The fault was mine, not to have seen your need sooner, and made you happier."

"No, Gorstag," Shandril said. "I've had nothing but good from you, as the gods witness all, and I blame you not. But tell me the tale of my parents, please. I've waited many a year for such news."

"Aye. Well, then. Enough of dates, and all. We can puzzle that out later. Here's the backbone of the tale. Garthond, your father, was an apprentice of the mage Jhavanter.

"Jhavanter, and Garthond with him, fought several times against the Cult of the Dragon in Sembia hereabouts. Jhavanter held an old tower on the eastern flanks of the Thunder Peaks, which he called the Tower Tranquil. Garthond dwelt there with Jhavanter until mages of the cult destroyed Jhavanter in a fight. After that, Garthond continued his studies-and his feud with the cult.

"At every turn he would work against them, destroy their lesser mages, and terrorize any among them not protected by art. He grew in power, Garthond did, and survived many attempts on his life by the cult. Eventually he rescued the incantatrix Dammasae from cult captivity-they had her drugged, bound, and gagged, in a caravan heading to one of their strongholds.

"Dammasae had adventured with me and others before this. She had become known for a natural power she had-a power she wanted to develop, by practice and experiment. She could absorb spells and use their force of art as raw energy, held within her. She could use her power to heal, or to harm in the form of fiery blasts. The cult took her to learn the secrets of spellfire for their own use, or at least control her use of it to further their own schemes. No doubt, if they seek you now, it is for the same reasons."

"That," Shandril agreed softly, "or my destruction. But please, Gorstag, say on!" To know her life at last! Her eyes were moist as Narm put his arms around her shoulders comfortingly.

Gorstag took down his axe from behind the bar and lowered himself into a chair facing hers, laying the axe near at hand on a table beside him. He turned his chair so as to better see the front door. Outside, moon-dappled mist drifted past the windows.

"Well," the innkeeper continued, "Garthond rescued Dammasae and protected her and worked magic with her… and they came to love each other. They traveled much, seeking adventure as many of we fools do, and pledged their troth before the altar of Mystra in Baldur's Gate.

"Here I must leave what I know occurred and relate to you some guesswork-of my own, of the sage Elminster, and of some others. We believe that a cult mage, one Erimmator-none know where his bones lie now to question him-cursed Garthond in an earlier battle of art. The curse bound a strange creature called a balhiir from another plane of existence"-Shandril gasped, and Narm nodded grimly-"in symbiosis with Garthond. Perhaps it was a cult experiment to find the possible powers of any offspring of a spellfire wielding incantatrix's union with a mage 'ridden' by a balhiir."

"I fear so," Narm replied. "But your tale, Gorstag… what happened after they were wed?"

"Why, the usual thing betwixt man and maid," Gorstag said gruffly. "In Elturel they dwelt, then, in quiet. In due time a babe-a girl, one Shandril Shessair-was born. They did not return to the Tower Tranquil and the dales, where the cult waited in strength and the danger to their babe was greater, until she was old enough to travel. Eight months, that wait was."

Gorstag shifted in his chair, eyes distant, seeing things long ago. "They rode with me. East, overland, we went, and the cult was waiting for us, indeed." The innkeeper sighed. "Somehow-by art, likely-they knew, and saw through our disguises. They attacked us at the Bridge of Fallen Men on the road west of Cormyr.

"Garthond was thrown down and utterly destroyed, but he won victory for his wife and daughter, and for me. That day he took nine mages of the cult with him, and another three swordsmen. He did not die cheaply.

"He was something splendid to see that day, Shan. I've not seen a mage work art so well and so long, from that day to this, nor ever expect to. He shone before he fell." The old warrior's eyes were wet again, as he stared into dim night and saw memories the others could not.

"Dammasae and I were wounded-I the worse, but she could bear hurt less well. She carried less meat to lose and twice the grief and worry, for she feared most, Shan, for you. The cultists were all slain or fled from that place, and we rode as fast as we could to High Horn for healing. We made it there, and Dammasae had some doctoring. She needed the hands and wisdom of Sylune, though, and we could not reach Shadowdale in time.

"Your mother is buried west of the dale, on a little knoll on the north side of the road, the first one close to the road west of Toad Knoll. A place holy to Mystra, for she appeared there to a magister once, long ago."

Gorstag looked down at the flagstones before his chair. "I could not save her," he added simply, old anguish raw in his voice. Shandril leaned toward him, but she said nothing.

"But I could save you," the warrior added with iron determination. "I did that." He caught up his axe and hefted it.

"I took you on my back and went by way of the woods from Shadowdale south to Deepingdale. It was in my mind to leave you with elves I knew and try to get into the Tower Tranquil to get something of Garthond's art and writings for you, but I was still on my way south when elves I met brought word that the cult had broken into the tower and plundered it, blasting their way into its cellars. Then they used the great caverns they'd created as a lair for a dracolich-Rauglothgor the Proud-whose hoard had outgrown his own lair.

"So I counted on my obscurity in the eyes of the cult-that few who had seen me riding with Dammasae and Garthond yet lived to tell the tale-and came openly to Deepingdale, where I used some gems I'd amassed on my travels to buy a run-down inn and retire.

"I was getting too old for rough nights spent on cold ground, anyway. Few of my former companions-at-arms were alive and hale, and an old warrior who must join or gather a new band of younger blades is but asking for a dagger in the ribs at first argument.

"I brought you up as a servant here, Shan, for I dared not attract attention to you. Folk talk if an old retired warrior lives alone with a beautiful girl-child, you know. I had to hide your lineage-and, as long as I could, your last name-for I knew the cult would be after you if they guessed.

"That fight at the bridge, you see-they could have slain us all by art from afar without exposing themselves to our blades and spells for anything near so high a cost, if all they'd wanted was us dead. No, they wanted you, girl, you or your mother. I let them have neither! It was the greatest feat I ever managed, down all those years of acting and watching my tongue and yet trying to see you brought up proper. "For they've kept nosing, all these years, the cult and others. I suspected your Marimmar, Narm, of being yet another spying mage-who knows, now? Some, I think, were fairly sure, but they did not want to fight rivals for you unless you were the prize, so they watched closely to see if you'd show some of your mother's powers. I dreaded the day you would. If it were too public a show, I might not have time to get you to the elves or the Harpers or Elminster.

"I was more wary of the old mage, for it is great mages who fear and want spellfire the most and will do the greatest ill to get it. Even if I had the time to run, then, I might not have the time to get Lureene and the others safe away. The cult might well burn this house to the ground and slay all within, if they came to take and found me gone."

He shook his head, remembering. "Some days, I was like a skulking miser, looking for those coming to plunder under every stone in the yard and behind every tree of the woods and in the face of every guest."

Chuckling, he shook his head. "Now you are wed, and I am to be wed, and you went to find yourself because I would not tell you who you were. And you've come back, with all my enemies and more besides upon your trail, and you wield spellfire. And I am too old to defend you."

"Gorstag," said Narm quietly. "You have defended her. All the time she needed it, you kept her safe. Now all the Knights of Myth Drannor must scramble to defend her! She drove off Manshoon of Zhentil Keep and wounded him perhaps unto death! My Shandril needs friends, food, and a warm bed, and a guard while she sleeps. But if others give her those, it is not she who needs defending now when she goes to war!"

Shandril chuckled ruefully. "There you hear love talking," she said, wearily pushing her hair out of her eyes. "I need you more than ever, now. Did you not see how lonely The Simbul was, Narm? I would not be as she is, alone with her terrible power, unable to trust anyone enough to truly relax among friends and let down her defenses."

"The Simbul?" Lureene gasped. "The Witch-Queen of Aglarond?" Gorstag, too, looked awed.

"Aye," Shandril said simply. "She gave me her blessing. I wish I could have known her better. She is so lonely, it hurts me to see her. She has only her pride and her great art to carry her on."

In a far place, in a small stone tower beneath the Old Skull, The Simbul sat up in the bed where Elminster lay snoring, and tears came into her eyes. "How true, young Shandril. How right you were. But no more!" she said softly. Elminster was awake, instantly, and his hand went out to touch her bare back. "Lady?" he asked anxiously.

"Worry not, old mage," she said gently, turning to him with eyes full. "I am but listening to Shandril speak of me."

"Shandril? Are you linked to her?"

"Nay, I would not pry so. I have a magic that I worked long ago, that lets me hear when someone speaks my name-and what they say after, for three breaths, each time-if they are near enough. Shandril is speaking of me, and my loneliness, and how she wished to know me better as a friend. A sweet girl I wish her well."

"I wish her well, too. She is at ease, then, and unhurt, would you judge?"

"Aye, as much as one can judge." The Simbul regarded him impishly. "But you, lord! You are at ease and unhurt. Shall we see to changing your sloth into something more-interesting?"

"Aaargh," Elminster replied eloquently, as she began to tickle him, and he tried feebly to defend himself. "Have you no dignity, woman?"

"Nay-only my pride, and my great art, I'm told," The Simbul said, skin gleaming silver in the moonlight.

"I’ll show you great art!" Elminster said gruffly, just before he fell out of the bed in a wild tangle of covers and discarded garments.

Downstairs, Lhaeo chuckled at the ensuing laughter, and began to warm another kettle. Either they'd forgotten him, or thought he'd grown quite deaf-or, at long last, his master had ceased to care for the proprieties. About time, too.

He began to sing softly, "Oh, For the Love of a Mage," because he was fairly confident that Storm was busy, far down the dale, and would not hear how badly he sang.

These are the sacrifices we make for love, he thought.

Upstairs, there was laughter again.

"It grows early, not late," Gorstag said, as he saw Shandril's head nodding into her soup. "You should to bed, forthwith-and then it is in my mind, Narm, that you both stay and sleep as long as your bodies need, before you set off on a journey that is long indeed, with no safe havens anywhere."

"We have not told you all yet, Gorstag," Narm said quietly. "We have joined the Harpers-for now, at least-and we go to Silverymoon, to the High Lady Alustriel, for refuge and training."

"To Silverymoon!" Gorstag gasped. "That's a fair journey, indeed, for two so young, without adventurers to aid you! Ah, if I was but twenty winters younger! Still, it'd be a perilous thing, even then. Mind you stay with caravans for protection. Two alone can't survive the wilderness west of Cormyr for long, no matter how much art they command!"

"We'll have to," Shandril said in a grim, determined voice. "But we will try to take your advice and stay with the caravans. And if you don't mind, we will sleep over tomorrow. Foes or no foes, I can't stay awake much longer."

"Come," Lureene said, "to bed, lass. In your old place, in the attic. Gorstag and I'll sleep by the head of the stair, the other side of the curtain. I'm not leaving you alone while you're here."

"Aye," Shandril murmured, rising slowly by pushing upon the table. In the darkness of the passage that led out to the kitchen and the attic stair, cold eyes regarded them for a last instant and then turned with their owner and fled silently into the dark. So the wench had returned, had she? Certain ears would give much, indeed, to hear speedily of this…

"Gorstag?" Lureene asked sleepily. "Happy, love? Put that axe down at hand here, and come to bed now."

"Aye," Gorstag replied. "There's something I must find first, love." He ducked into the darkest corner of the attic, at the end beyond the stairs, and dragged aside a chest bigger than he was. He did something to one of the roof beams, down low behind it in the dust, and part of the beam came away in his hands. He took something from a small, heavy coffer, and then replaced everything as before.

Bearing whatever he had unpacked with him in his hand, he came back across the broad boards of the attic floor to the curtain and called softly, "Narm? Shandril?"

"Aye, we are both awake. Come in," Narm said in reply, from where they lay together.

Gorstag came in quietly, and lowered something by its chain from his hand to Narm. "Does your very touch drain items of art, Shan, or only when you will it so?"

"Only when I call up spellfire, I think," Shandril told him. She gazed at the pendant Narm held. "What is it?"

"It is an amulet that hampers detection and location of you, by means of art and the mind, such as some foul creatures use. Keep it, and wear it when you sleep. Only try to take it off when you must use spellfire, or you'll drain its art. Wear it tonight, and you may win a day of uninterrupted rest tomorrow. I only wish I had one for each of you-but the dark necromancer whose neck I cut it from, long ago, only found the need to wear one."

Narm chuckled. "You should have gone looking for his brother."

"Someone else had slain him already," Gorstag replied with a grin. "It seems he liked to torment everyone around with summoned or conjured nasty creatures. Someone finally grew tired of it, walked to his tower with a club, threw stones at the windows until he appeared, and then bashed his brains out. The someone was eight years old."

"A good start on life," Narm agreed with a yawn, and put the amulet about Shandril's neck. "This has no ill effects, does it?"

"Nay, it is not one of those. Good night to you both, now. You've found the chamber pot? Aye, it is the one you remember, Shandril. Peace under the eyes of the gods, all." The innkeeper ducked back through the curtain. Lureene grinned up at him, indicating the empty bed beside her, and the great axe lying on the floor beside it.

"Now close the bedroom door, love, so the gooblies can't come in and get us," she said gently. Gorstag looked at the trapdoor at the head of the stairs.

"Oh, aye," he said, and closed it down, dragging a linen chest over it. "There. Now to sleep, at last, or it will be dawn before I've even lain down!" Clothes flew in all directions with astonishing speed. Lureene was rolled into a bear hug, and kissed with sudden delicacy. She chuckled sleepily and patted his arm.

"Good night to you, my lord," she said softly, and rolled over. She had barely settled herself before she heard him breathe the deep, slow, and steady draws of slumber. Once an adventurer, always… she fell asleep before she finished the maxim.

It was highsun when Narm awoke. The sun was streaming in the small round windows at either end of the attic, and the curtain had been drawn back. Lureene sat upon a cushion beside them, mending a pile of torn linens. She looked over at Narm and smiled. "Fair morning," she said. "Hungry?"

"Eh? No, but I suppose I could be." Narm sat up and looked at Shandril. She lay peacefully asleep with the amulet gleaming upon her breast, Narm's discarded robe clutched in her hands. Narm chuckled and tugged at it. A small frown appeared on Shandril's face. She held hard to it and raised a hand in an imperious, hurling gesture. Narm flinched back, but no spellfire came.

"Shandril," he said quickly, bending close to her. "It is all right, love. Relax. Sleep."

Her hands fell back, and her face smoothed. Then, still deep asleep, she muttered something, turned her head, and then turned it back and murmured quite distinctly, "Don't tell me to relax, you…" and she trailed away into purrings and mutterings again. Lureene suppressed a giggle into a sputter. Narm did likewise.

"Aye, we'll let her sleep some more. If you want to eat, there's a pot of stew in the taproom, untouched by Korvan's hands, on the hook over the hearth. I've bread and wine here. Go on… I'll watch her."

"Well, I-my thanks, Lureene. I'll…" He looked about him.

Lureene chuckled suddenly, and turned about on the cushion until her back was to him. "Sorry. Your clothes are over there on the chest, if you can live without that robe Shan's so fond of."

"Urrr… thanks." Narm scrambled out of the bed and found his clothes. Shandril slept peacefully on. Lureene gave him a friendly pat as he climbed down the stairs past her. He was still smiling as he went down the hall from the stairs, past the kitchen, and came face to face with Korvan. The cook and the conjurer came to a sudden stop, perhaps a foot apart, and stared at each other. Korvan had a cleaver in one hand and a joint of meat in the other. Narm was barehanded and weaponless.

Silence stretched between them. Korvan lifted his lip in a sneer, but Narm only stared straight into his eyes and said nothing. Korvan raised the cleaver suddenly, threateningly. Narm never moved, and never took his gaze away from Korvan's own. Silence.

Then, giving a curse, Korvan backed away and ducked into the kitchen again, and the hallway was free. Narm strode forward without hesitation into the taproom; and greeted Gorstag as though nothing had happened. Elminster had been right. This Korvan wasn't worth the effort. A nasty, mean-tempered, blustering man-all bluff, all bravado. Another Marimmar, in fact. Narm chuckled at that, and was still chuckling as he went back past the kitchen door. There was an abrupt crash of crockery from within, followed by a clatter, as if something small and metal had been violently hurled against a wall.

Thiszult cursed as he looked up at the sun. "Too late, by half. They'll be out of the dale and into the wilderness before nightfall! How, by Mystra, Talos, and Sammaster, am I to find two children in miles of tangled wilderness?"

"They'll stay on the road, Lord," one of the hitherto grimly silent cult warriors told him. Thiszult turned on him.

"So you think!" he snarled. "So Salvarad of the Purple thinks, too, but I cannot believe two who have destroyed The Shadowsil, an archmage of the Purple, and two sacred dracoliches can be quite so stupid! No, why would they run? Who in Faerun, after all, has the power to match them? No, I think they'll turn aside and creep quietly about the wilderness slaying those of their enemies they come upon, while the rest of us search futilely elsewhere, until we are all slain or overmastered! I must reach them before dark, before they leave the road!"

"We cannot," the warrior said simply. "The distance is too great. No power in the Realms could-"

"No power?" Thiszult fairly screamed. "No power? Why think you I follow these two, who felled such great ones! Hah! That which I bear is power enough, I tell you!" He reined in sharply and cast his eyes over the warriors in leather who rode behind him. "Ride after us, all of you-to Deepingdale, and the Thunder Peaks beyond! If you see my sigil-thus-upon a rock or tree, know that we have turned off the road there, and follow likewise."

"We?" the warrior who had spoken before asked him.

"Aye-you and I, since you doubt my power so much. Trust in it, now, for it is all that stands between you and spellfire!" He gestured at all of them. "Halt!" Turning to the warrior, "You, dismount… No, leave your armor behind!" He touched the warrior, and spoke a word.

They both vanished, warrior and mage, in an instant. The other men-at-arms stared. One of the now riderless horses reared and neighed in terror; the other snorted. Quick hands caught bridles. "Stupid beast," one warrior muttered. "There's no danger, now. Why'd it take fright?"

"Because the smell of the man that was on its back a breath ago is gone," another, older fighter told him sourly. "Gone-not moved away, but suddenly and utterly gone. It would scare you, if you had any wits. A stupid beast, you call it? It goes where you bid it, and knows not what waits, but you ride to do battle with two children who have destroyed much of the power of the cult hereabouts in but a few days, and know they await you, and still ride into danger… So who, of man and mount, is the stupid one?"

"Clever words," was the reply, but it was made amid chuckles. The reins of the two mounts were lengthened so that they could be led, and the warriors hastened on.

"Is it in your mind, then," one asked the older warrior, "that we ride on a hopeless task?"

The older warrior nodded. "Not hopeless, mind you-but I've seen too many young and over-clever mages who follow our way-like that one, who just left us-come to a crashing fall, to think that this last one has any more wisdom or real power than the others."

"What if I tell Naergoth of the Purple of your doubting words when we return? What then?" asked the one he had rebuked earlier. The old warrior shrugged and grinned.

"Say the word, if you will. It is my guess you'll be adding them to a report of Thiszult's death, unless he flees. I've served the cult awhile, you know. I know something of what I say, when I speak." His tone was mild, but his eyes were very, very cold, and the other warrior looked away first. They rode on.

A wild-eyed Shandril was buckling and lacing and kicking on her boots for all she was worth, at the head of the stairs. "We must away," she panted to Narm, as Lureene fussed about her. "Others come… I dreamed it… Manshoon, again, I tell you-and others! Hurry and get dressed!"

"But…but…" Narm decided not to argue and began to eat stew like a madman, wincing and groaning as he burned his lips on hot chunks of meat. Lureene took one look at him, as he danced about Shandril on bare feet, and fell back onto the beds hooting in helpless laughter.

"Forgive me," she gasped when she could speak again. By then Shandril had straightened her belt and started down the stairs, and Narm had halted her with a firm arm to the chest. He handed her the bowl of stew.

"— You two," Lureene continued, "but I doubt I shall ever see a mage of power so discomfited! Whhooo! Ah, but you looked funny, gobbling like that!"

"You should see me casting spells," Narm said dryly. Then he asked, "When did she awake like this?"

"Scarce had you gone down when she sat upright, straight awake, and called for you. Then she scrambled up, grabbing for clothes and the like, all in haste. She dreamed that enemies follow fast upon your trail."

"She's probably right," Narm said ruefully, and began scrambling for clothes himself.

"Did your art have the desired effect?" Sharantyr asked softly.

"Yes," Jhessail said heavily. "This dream-weaving's wearisome work. No wonder Elminster was so reluctant to teach it to me. Yet, I think I scared Shandril enough to get her moving before the cult tries again." She lay back in her chair wearily, rubbing her eyes. "Ahhh, me," she said. "I'm ready for bed."

Sharantyr arose. "I'll get Merith," she said, but Jhessail shook her head.

"Nay, nay… it is sleep I need, not cuddling and companionship… you have no idea, Shar-it is like a black pit of oblivion before me, I am so tired…"

With that the lady mage of the knights drifted forward into the pit, and was gone. Sharantyr found a pillow for her head, drew off her boots, wrapped her in a blanket, and left her to sleep.

Then she drew her sword and sat down nearby where she could watch Jhessail, laying it across her knees. After all, it had been overlong since Manshoon had worked his last mischief in Shadowdale.

They kissed Lureene good-bye in excited haste, thrust the empty bowl into her hands, and were downstairs and out through the taproom, and into the sunshine, before they drew breath again.

There in the innyard Gorstag stood with their mounts and mules ready-harnessed. The latter two mules of each train bulged suspiciously here and there where they had not bulged before.

"Bread. Sausages. Cheeses. Two casks of wine. Pickled greens-this jar, sealed with clay. A crate of grapes and figs. A coffer of salt. Some torches," Gorstag said briefly. "And the gods watch over you." He enveloped Shandril in a crushing hug, and swung her up into her saddle. "Carry this," he said, and pressed a bottle into her hands. "Goat's milk… drink it before highsun tomorrow, or it may well go bad."

He turned to Narm without waiting an instant, like a swordsman turning from a kill in battle, shook the conjurer's hand in a bruising grip, took him by both elbows and lifted him bodily into the saddle. He then thrust a small, curved and polished miniature disc of silver into his hands.

"A shield of Tymora, blessed by the priests in Waterdeep long ago. May it bring you safe to Silverymoon."

He stood looking up at them. "You are in haste," he said gruffly, "and I was never one for long good-byes. So fare you well in life-I hope to see you again before I die, and you both as happy and as hale as you are now. I wish you well, both of you." He stretched up to kiss them both. "You have both chosen well, in each other." He patted the rumps of their horses to start them on their way, and raised his fist in a warrior's salute to an honored champion as they called their good-byes.

As they turned out of The Rising Moon's yard, Shandril burst into tears. When Narm looked from comforting her to wave, Gorstag still stood like a statue with his arm raised in salute. He stood so until they were out of sight.

When Lureene came down to him, standing there, she heard him muttering prayers to Tymora and Mystra and Helm for the two who had gone. When she put her arms around him from behind, and leaned against the old might of his many-muscled back, she could feel the trembling as he left off praying and began to cry.

It was dark in the meeting chamber of the Cult of the Dragon. Only a single oil-lamp flickered on the table between the two men who were there.

"Do you really think this boy-mage can defeat Shandril, after she has destroyed your best and most powerful?" Dargoth of the Purple said angrily.

"No," Naergoth Bladelord replied simply. "Another of our dragons pursues her right now."

"Another dracolich?" Dargoth said in angry astonishment. "We haven't many more sacred ones to lose!"

"True," Naergoth said, turning cold eyes upon him. "This one went of its own will. I did not compel it or ask it to go to war-but I did not forbid it, either. One does not forbid Shargrailar anything."

Dargoth looked at him. "For the love of lost Sammaster! Shargrailar the Dark flies? Gods preserve us!" He sat back, shocked, shaking his head.

"They will hardly start doing that after all this time," Naergoth said to him dryly, reaching to extinguish the lamp. Darkness descended.

Suddenly they were in a place of fragrant vapors, pots, and knives. The warrior looked around and snorted. "A kitchen!" At his words, the cook, who stood with his back to them over a bloody cutting board, gave a start and whirled around, cleaver rising.

Thiszult smiled coldly at him. "So pleased to see us, Korvan?"

The sour-faced cook struggled to regain his composure; hatred, envy, fear, and exultation chased rapidly across his mean face. "Why, Thisz-"

"Hush. No names! How long ago did the wench leave?" Thiszult strode forward. "Which is the way out of here?"

"Outside, the back, that way. Or, in front: that way, right into the taproom, then left across it to the front door," Korvan said. "She and the boy-mage left but ten breaths back, if that, you may well be able to catch them if you-"

"Have horses. Where are the stables?"

"Around the side; that way. There's a good strong black, and a stouter but slower bay, down the end, and-"

"The cult thanks you, Korvan. You will receive an appropriate reward in time." Thiszult strode coldly out into the hallway with a snap of his dark cloak, the warrior at his heels. As the man went out, he drew his broad, stained sword and held it ready in his hand.

"Korvan," Lureene whispered as she came out of the open pantry, eyes dark with anger, "do you know those-those folk?"

The cook stared at her, white-faced, for a moment-and then he raised his cleaver again and went for her, determined. Lureene cast the tin of flour she held at his face and fled out the door, into the hall and then the taproom beyond. It was empty.

She ran across it, dodging between tables, and burst out the front door in time to see the dark-cloaked mage spur out of the innyard like a vengeful whirlwind.

Before her, in the mud, Gorstag stood with his hands locked about the forearms of the warrior who had come with the mage. They stood straining against each other, the warrior's sword shaking in his grasp as he tried to force it between them. Lureene ran as hard as she could toward them, sobbing for breath.

Behind her, the front door of The Rising Moon banged open again. Korvan. Her death. Lureene ran on, slipping and sliding desperately, knowing she had to warn Gorstag before Korvan's cleaver could reach him.

The two men were only ten paces away, now… now six, now three… Suddenly Gorstag slipped to one side and pulled hard on the man's wrist instead of pushing against it, and the blade lunged forward-harmlessly past Gorstag's shoulder. He crashed into the man's chest and drove his fist as hard as he could into the man's throat.

Throat, neck, and man crumpled without a sound, and Gorstag turned in time to catch Lureene about the shoulders and spin her to a halt. "Love?" he asked, and Lureene pointed past him.

"Korvan!" she gasped. "He serves the cult! Look out!" As she spoke, the cook put on a last burst of speed and chopped at them as he came. Gorstag pushed Lureene hard to one side so that she staggered and nearly fell, and leaped away in the other. The cleaver found only empty air.

Korvan looked about, wildly, at both of them-too late, as fingers of iron took him by the neck from behind. The cook staggered and lashed out blindly to that side with the cleaver-only to have that wrist deftly captured and twisted. Korvan let out a little cry and dropped his weapon from suddenly numb fingers. Gorstag wrenched him around bodily until they were face to face.

"So," the innkeeper said, "so… first you molest my little one… and now you would slay my bride-to-be! You threaten me with steel here in the yard, and you serve the Cult of the Dragon-in my own kitchen." His voice was low and soft, but Korvan twisted in his grasp like a frantic, hooked fish, face white to the very tips.

"This has been coming for a long time," said Gorstag slowly. "But at least I've learned something about cooking." The hand that held Korvan's wrist let go and darted to his throat, whip-fast, and the two old hands twisted mercilessly. There was a dull crack, and Korvan of the cult was no more.

Gorstag let the body fall into the mud grimly and turned to Lureene. "Are you all right, my lady?" he asked. "Is there fire or ruin behind you in The Moon?"

Lureene shook her head, wide-eyed. "No, Lord," she said, close to tears. "I am fine… thanks to you. We are safe."

"Aye, then," Gorstag said, and he looked down the road. "But will Narm and Shandril be? Find me the fastest horse, while I get my axe."

Lureene stared at him in horror. "No!" she said. "You'll be slain!"

"Leave my friends to die because I did nothing?" Gorstag's face was like iron. "Find me the fastest horse!"

Lureene rushed toward the stables, tears blurring her sight as she ran. "No," she whispered. "Oh, gods, no." But the gods did not hear before she reached the stables.

There was a slow thudding of hooves, then, as Gorstag came back out of the inn with axe in hand. Frightened faces were gathering about the yard.

A dwarf on a mud-spattered mule rode heavily in at the gate, and came to a sliding halt before Gorstag. The dwarf heaved himself sideways and rolled down out of the saddle with practiced ease, using the axe he bore naked on his shoulder like a walking-stick. Crippled, he leaned heavily on his axe as he limped over to Gorstag. The innkeeper was looking grimly toward the stables, where a worried Lureene was leading out a horse.

"Well met," the dwarf said to Gorstag. "You are Gorstag?" The innkeeper, who was intent upon Lureene and the approaching mount, looked down in surprise. "Aye, I am."

"Have you seen a companion of mine, the adventuress Shandril? She waited on tables here, once," the dwarf rumbled. I hear she rides with a young mage, now, and hurls spellfire."

"Aye. I have," Gorstag said, axe coming up. "Who then are you, and what is your business with Shandril Shessair?"

"I am come from Shadowdale," the dwarf said gruffly, looking up at him with a gaze as harshly steady as his own. "From Sharantyr and Rathan and Torm of the knights I have heard where Shandril headed and followed on. I am sent by Storm Silverhand of the Harpers and Elminster the sage, and bear a note to ye, to tell you to trust me in this. Here; read it. Now tell me where Shandril is, for time draws on and my bones grow no younger."

Gorstag grinned at that as he unrolled the parchment. "Not so sour, Sir Dwarf. Life is less a trial to the patient."

"Aye," the dwarf replied, "most of them lie dead. Tell me where Shandril is!"

"A moment." Gorstag read the parchment. Lureene brought the horse to his shoulder, and he moved so that she could read what was written, too:

To Gorstag, of Highmoon, By these words, well met! The bearer of this note is the dwarf Delg, once a swordmate of Shandril in the Company of the Bright Spear, just after she left your house. He serves no evil master and bears Shandril no ill will; trust us in this-he has submitted to all our tests of art in this regard, and it is true. The Cult of the Dragon destroyed the company, and it was thought only Shandril survived. This Delg, left for dead in Oversember Vale, made his way to the shores of the Sember, where he was found by elves and taken to priests of Tempus. While they were healing his wounds and praying to the god for guidance as to what task they should set him in return, a messenger of Tempus appeared and said that Delg's task was to defend the girl who wielded spellfire against seeking swords; and so he has come to you for word. Your part in defending Shandril is done, valiant Gorstag; we tend Dammasae's place of rest and remember. Aid this one as best you can, and you will be honored greatly. You shall have then in your debt,

Elminster of Shadowdale and

Storm Silverhand of Shadowdale

Gorstag read it, frowning a little, and then looked up at Delg. "You've missed them," he said simply. "They rode west from here some short time ago, now. A mage hostile to them follows them, close indeed."

"I've missed them? Then there's no time left to wait about!" the dwarf said, and hobbled back to his mule. "Up!" he commanded it, "and ride like the wind… or she'll be in trouble again, and in need of old Delg, before we get there!"

"Will you not take a faster mount?" Gorstag asked, waving at the horse Lureene held. Delg shook his head.

"My thanks, but how fast would I travel if I fell off it at the first bend in the road? Nay, I'll stick to what I know, and make haste in my own way. Fare thee well, Gorstag. Stay by your lady. It is the greatest adventure you can have." And he grinned then, and rode away, raising his arm in a warrior's salute. Gorstag returned it, watching him go, and Lureene stroked his arm thoughtfully and said nothing.

After a time Gorstag looked away from the road and said gruffly, "Well, you can put the animal away. We shan't be needing it."

Lureene nodded. "Of course," she said, turning, "and there's a little matter of corpses lying about, too…"

Gorstag growled and went to put away his axe and find a shovel. He carried the letter very carefully in his hand, and looked at it again as he went.

Shargrailar the Dark circled high above the Thunder Gap, cold winds whistling through the spread, bony fingers that were all that was left of its wings. Shargrailar was the mightiest dracolich in Faerun known to the cult, perhaps the most powerful bone dragon there had ever been. Its eyes were two white lamps in the empty sockets of a long, cruel skull. It looked down with the cold patience of a being who has passed beyond the tomb and yet can fly, and it flew lower, watching and waiting.

So a human female dared to destroy dracoliches? Death must find her. Lucky she must have been, and her victims young fools, but still, she must die. She was headed toward Shargrailar's lair. Armed with spellfire, they said. Interesting. Shargrailar glided among the clouds like a silent shadow, peering at the tiny road men called the East Way, far below. It had been a very long time since Shargrailar had been interested in anything.

There below, on the road. Two human riders, with mules… one was female. Silently Shargrailar descended, skeletal head peering. Yes… yes… this must be her. If not, what matter? What pair of humans could hurt Shargrailar? The great dracolich dove down out of the sky like a gigantic arrow of death, for that is the way of dracoliches. As it descended, Shargrailar could see that the she-human was beautiful… it opened bony jaws to give her death, silently, patiently…

Thiszult rode hard, hauling upon the reins savagely. He had to pass the maid and mage and get ahead of them, to have to time to call up his special magic-or find a height or their camp, to have some time with them in view to do it. It would not do to miss them now-or to get too close and warn them, without his swordsmen to chase them and bring them to a stand.

He thought furiously as he rode. He wore no insignia, and rode alone. There was nothing to say that he was a mage, nor that he wished anyone ill. Yet, he was riding in brutal haste-dangerous, as the road climbed toward the Peaks, and a warning to anyone that all was not right-especially to a couple no doubt wary indeed, by now, of attacks. He slowed his mount, cudgeling his brains for a plan. In darkness they could too easily evade him. Yet, one had to sleep, and they would halt, to camp. Perhaps then would be the best time to attack, but only if he had their close trail by then and remained unseen. There was no other way.

With a sigh, he brought the horse to a shuddering halt, leaped clear and then tied its reins to a sapling before the winded horse could move away. He checked what he carried with him. It was all secure. Well and good. A quick glance up and down the road-empty, as far as he could see from here-and he quickly cast spells of invisibility and flight upon himself, and leaped into the sky.

He was gone before Delg found the exhausted horse and wasted several breaths in puzzlement, as he looked about for traces of anyone leaving the road nearby or continuing on foot, but found nothing. The dwarf shook his head and rode on, thinking of Burlane and Ferostil and Rymel, all dead now, all never to laugh with him again… well, perhaps he'd join them soon, if there were hostile mages about. He kicked his mule into reluctant hurry, and watched the road ahead narrowly, his axe ready in his hand.

"Someone follows us," Narm said, peering back over his shoulder as they rode.

"Some one?" Shandril asked him. "One? Alone?"

"Yes… a child, or one of the short races, on a mule," Narm said doubtfully. "Seems an odd traveler, to ride alone through the wilderness."

"Well, it is an open road," Shandril replied. "It cannot be untraveled, by any means." She turned in her saddle. Behind them, the land fell away in gentle hills to the dark woods and Deepingdale, and she thought she could see The Rising Moon, or where it must be. Tears touched her eyes for a moment, again-and then she saw bony death gliding coldly down out of the sky behind them.

"Narm!" she screamed, as she kicked heels to her mount and climbed forward onto its neck in sudden, wild urgency. "Get down!"

Narm looked, and saw. In frantic haste, he tore Torm's gift from his neck and threw it away. Shandril had one glimpse of his white face before the world exploded around them.

What in the name of the Soul Forger was that? Delg stood in his stirrups, open-mouthed, as the great skeletal bulk arrowed down out of the sky ahead of him. It was like a dragon, but it was a skeleton! It was… oh, by the lode-luck of the dwarves, it must be one of those dracoliches Elminster had told him about! Delg swallowed and sat down in his saddle again. He was getting too old for this sort of thing…

No dwarf stood a chance against that! Nor, he thought grimly, did little Shandril, even if she had married a boy who could cast a handful of spells and gained some fire magic of her own. The mule beneath him had slowed to a walk as he had sat thinking.

Delg booted it mercilessly in the ribs then, waving his axe so that it flashed in the sunlight. "Get you going!" he snarled into the mule's ears. "I'm late for a battle, and they'll be needing me, never fear!"

Thiszult flew low over the trees to one side of the road, the wind of his flight whipping past his ears in his haste. He had to find them, and get ahead of them. Soon, now…

There was a flash and roar of flame ahead. Startled, Thiszult veered off to one side, rising in the air for a better look. Were they in a fight? This might prove even easier than he had thought!

A vast, dark skeleton wheeled in the air, and Thiszult gasped in astonishment. A Sacred One! But how did it come to be here? And-who was it? He had never seen one so large and terrible before! As he stared at the dracolich, its cold orbs met his gaze, and it rose toward him. Its skeletal jaws looking somehow amused.

But I'm invisible! Thiszult thought in amazement. How can it see me? Or is that a power of the Sacred Ones?

From the great dracolich's maw, a blue-white bolt of lightning leaped and crackled. Thiszult did not have time to protest that he was a friend before it struck him. All his limbs convulsed at once, and he was dead, mouth open to speak, even before Shargrailar's bony claws struck his body and tore it apart. Thiszult's secret, powerful magic fell to earth. It was lost in the trees below.

Far away, Salvarad of the cult sighed and turned from his scrying font. Thiszult would never take the Purple now.

Shandril got up, grimly. The stink of cooked horseflesh was strong in her nostrils. Faithful Shield had lived up to her name all too well. The dracolich's flames had poured strength into Shandril, not harmed her. She only hoped Narm had survived.

Lightning cracked overhead as Shandril ran across the smoking road. She did not look up; she had eyes only for her man. A heart-twisting, blackened tangle of horse's legs met her gaze. Where once she would have turned away, sick, she now ran forward without hesitation, peering anxiously into the smoking slaughter. Narm! Oh, Narm!

He had no protection against dragonfire. He could well be dead. Their child would never know its father… Shandril snarled at herself. None of that! Find him, first!

There he was, moving weakly, half-buried under scorched baggage. He was alive! Oh, gods be praised!

Tears ran down Shandril's face as she knelt beside him, tearing aside smoldering straps and canvas with frantic haste. Narm moaned. His hair smoked; the left side of his face was black and blistered.

"Oh, Narm! Beloved!" Shandril wept. Cracked lips moved; lids that no longer had lashes flickered open. Watery eyes met hers, lovingly-and then looked beyond, and widened.

"Look out, love!" he hissed, painfully. "The dracolich comes!" Shandril followed his gaze.

The great Shargrailar wheeled directly above them, vast and dark and terrible. For all that it was only empty, hollow bones, the undead creature was awesome. Shandril shivered as she gazed up at its fell might. It turned and dove silently down the sky at them again.

"Run, Shan!" Narm croaked from beneath her. "Get you hence! I love you! Shandril, go!"

"No," Shandril said, in tears. "No, lord, I will not!" As the great bony jaws opened, she carefully climbed forward until she lay gently atop Narm's blackened body, shielding him as much as she could. Narm groaned in pain. She braced herself to lift her weight off him, and said softly, "I love you."

As the roar of the dracolich's approaching flame grew in the air about them, Shandril put her lips to Narm's and gathered her will. Then blasting flame swallowed them again.

"Clanggedin aid me!" Delg muttered, as the mule bucked beneath him. The road before him was one great smoking ruin. A roaring cone of fire had just raked it again. In a moment the swooping dracolich would be above him. The mule bucked again. "Oh, blast!" Delg burst out, as he found himself somersaulting forward in the air. His frantic grab for the saddle-horn missed. Well, at least he still had hold of his axe. He tucked it close against him so that it would not be chipped in the hard landing to come.

So the mule's saddle was empty when the raking claws of Shargrailar swept the poor beast skyward, rending and tearing. The dracolich let out the first sound it had uttered in many long years as it rose into the air-a long, loud hiss of anger and frustration. It shredded the mule as if it were a rotten rag, and wheeled again. Destroying an enemy had never taken this long before.

Shandril desperately drew in all the flame that struck her, and strained to reach the dragonfire that ravaged Narm's helpless body and draw it into her, too. Through their joined lips she felt the fierce energy flowing; sluggishly at first, then faster and faster. Gods, the pain! Her lips were seared as if by hot metal; tears blinded her. Her body shuddered at the pain, but she held fast to her Narm as the last of the flames swept over them and were gone.

Still energy flowed into her. She realized with a start that Narm's own energy was stealing into her now; she was killing him, draining him to death! Hastily she broke their kiss and stared anxiously down at the slack, silent face. Oh, Narm! She had no art to heal him! What had she done?

Bitterly, Shandril felt the swelling energy burning within her. Her veins were afire; she was bloated with more than she could hold for long. The pain…

Into her mind then came Gorstag's voice, telling of her mother: "… to heal or harm…!" Heal! Could she heal as well as burn? She gathered her shaking limbs to lie tenderly upon Narm again, and set her lips to his. Closing her eyes, Shandril willed energy to flow out of her gently, slowly, like a cooling flow of water, through her lips. It did.

Through their kiss she could feel her released energies flowing into Narm. She willed it so, fiercely, and felt his feeble heart grow stronger, and his body began to rally. He moved beneath her, struggling to speak.

Shandril shed fresh tears as she poured still more energy into her beloved, until he was whole and strong and-

Bony claws raked shrieking agony across her back. Shandril was torn free of Narm and flung to the road beyond by Shargrailar's angry strike. Pain almost overwhelmed her; she shrieked aloud, flame gouting from her mouth in her agony. Ohhh, Tymora, the pain!

She had ignored the strike of another bolt of lightning and the numbing impacts of a shower of magic missiles while healing Narm, but the great dracolich could slay her this way, destroying her as surely as if she had no spellfire. Shandril twisted and writhed in the dust of the road in her agony. She could feel her blood flowing out of her. Blood, blood… she had seen more spilled these last tendays than in all her life before this, and she was heartily sick of it!

Well, now she could do something about it. Shandril opened her eyes and looked for the dracolich. A fierce anger was upon her. Exultation rose within her to join it; she could heal! She could use spellfire to aid as well as to do battle! On hands and knees, Shandril turned and saw Shargrailar sweeping down again, its cold eyes glimmering at her from its cruel skull, its claws outstretched to rend and tear. The onetime thief from Deepingdale met the dracolich's chilling gaze and laughed.

From her eyes flames shot forth, in two fiery beams that struck the undead dragon's own eyes. Smoke rose, and Shargrailar screamed.

Bony wings sheared away to one side in agony; Shandril was still laughing in triumph as she spat a white inferno of flames into the blinded dracolich. It reeled backward in the air, blazing, and crashed to earth.

She ignored its snappings and thrashings and turned back to heal Narm. Shandril felt a tingling in her own torn back. She bent her will to cleanse and heal herself as she crawled back to join her husband where he lay among all the dead horses. She sighed at the soothing relief from pain that spread across her back. Ahhhhh…

Her energy was much lessened, now, and Shandril became alarmed as she gave more of it to Narm. She shouldn't have healed herself… she had too little left, and the dracolich was still dangerous. It was not wasting spells on her any longer; she could not gain any more spellfire from it. Oh, Tymora! Was her luck always to be bad?

No, a small voice said within her, it could be fatal just once-now, perhaps-and all her worries would be over. Shandril got up, hastily, looking for the dracolich. If it clawed her now…

She could hear a strange smashing and hollow splintering sound from where Shargrailar had landed. Peering cautiously over the unfortunate horses, she saw an axe rise and fall amid the dracolich's weakly crawling rib cage. Bone chips flew. The dracolich had already lost its wings and two claws. It was trying feebly to turn its head to blast its attacker with flame, but the bones of its neck were smashed in two places, and smoke still rose from its blackened skull where Shandril had burned it.

A hearty kick sent more pieces of bone flying. The descending boot was planted firmly on one of Shargrailar's claws, and its owner chopped brutally downward.

"Delg!" cried Shandril in happy astonishment, and then she was laughing and crying at the same time as. she hurried toward the small, burly figure whose gleaming axe still chopped and smashed methodically up and down the splintered bulk of the helpless dracolich.

The dwarf grinned up at her. "Well met, Shandril! Long days pass, and you've gotten into trouble, as always… only this time you're in luck: Delg's here to lay low your dracolich from behind!"

Then he was swept up into a happy embrace, clear off his feet, before Shandril let out a whoof of effort and staggered forward to set him down again.

"Delg! Delg-I thought everyone of the company was dead!" Shandril cried. The dwarf nodded soberly for a moment before his fierce grin came again.

"Aye. So did I," he said, beard bristling. "But I've found you at last."

"Found me? Do you know what's happened to me? This bone dragon you're destroying is but the latest. Scarce a day passes without someone trying to slay us because of the spellfire I wield."

"Spellfire, aye, so they've all been telling me."

"All?"

"Aye, Elminster and Storm and the knights and Harpers and all. I rode the legs of my mule a good two fingerwidths shorter following you. You've become important indeed, lass, in less time than I've seen most heroes and legends rise, in my years." The dwarf waved his axe. "So let's see this spellfire again, before we move Narm somewhere safer."

"Well enough," Shandril said, and turned to where the dracolich lay. "Do you know this one?"

"Never seen it before I buried this axe in it," Delg replied, raising an eyebrow. "Does it matter?"

"No, I suppose not," Shandril replied, and let fly with roaring spellfire that blasted Shargrailar's helplessly flopping skull to bone shards. As the smoke died away, Shandril looked at Delg and shrugged, expressionless.

"Beware, Delg, I'm not safe to be near, these days," she said with a sigh. "So much killing, since first I left The Rising Moon… Is butchery what all the legends are built on?"

"Aye," the dwarf said gruffly, "Didn't you know?" He turned to Narm. "Let's drag your lord a goodly distance from all this carnage, and see what we can salvage before sunset."

"'We?' You'll come with us?"

"Aye, if you'll have me. On your bridal journey, and all."

The dwarf looked embarrassed, and then squinted at her defiantly, hands twisting nervously on his axe as he spoke. "I am a friend to you, Shandril, and will stand true by you and your lord. Few enough such you'll find, mark you, and you need but little more in life than good food and good friends. The company's gone now, all save for you… so old Delg'll ride with you.

"If you make it to Silverymoon all well, and are sick of me by then, I'll leave you. I hope you won't be… it is a trial indeed, when you be my age, befriending pretty girls anew to ride with… folks get all the wrong ideas, y'see."

The old dwarf handed her his axe. "Hold this, while I carry your mage here-easy, lad, you'll feel better soon enough; I know, I've lived through battles enough to tell, by now-down the road apiece. The sun waits not for all my talking." Nor did it, but it was a happy camp that sunset.

In the morning, the dwarf walked with the young couple as they headed west up into the mountains. It was a clear day, and the green Dalelands spread out behind them as they went up the rolling hills toward the Thunder Gap. All was peaceful. A lone black falcon soared high above in the clear blue air, and the day passed on with no attack or hurling of spellfire. Delg told Narm fierce tales of Shandril's daring with the company, and Narm, recovering, told Delg of the struggle in Myth Drannor and Rauglothgor's lair, and how she blasted apart the mountaintop. The dwarf looked at Shandril with new respect, and chuckled, and said, "I won't ask you to hold my axe, next time!"

Near sunset, on the heights of Thunder Gap, they turned at last and looked back over the marching trees, and the road dwindling down, down, down from where they stood to Highmoon, hazy in the distance.

"Who could know, looking at it, that this beautiful land could be so dangerous?" Narm asked quietly. Delg looked, and smiled, and said nothing.

"Never mind," Shandril replied, putting a hand on his arm. "We found each other, and that is worth it all."

They walked off into the evening together, and thought on many mornings ahead as the soft stars came out above them, and were very happy.