Spellfire

“Yes, if you worship Tymora,” Torm returned. “We are both more prudent men, eh, Narm?”

“Ye worship Mask and Mystra between ye and speak to me of prudence?” Rathan chuckled. “Truly, the world rears strangeness anew with each passing day.” He leaned forward suddenly to point into the dimness. “Look ye, loose-tongues! Is that not a devil in the trees?”

Narm froze in his saddle. His hands suddenly felt like ice. He tried not to tremble. Torm had turned his mount, slim longsword out. “Do they wander so far, now? We may not be able to wait for Elminster’s or Dove’s return before we raise all against them, if they are grown so bold!”

“It’s but the one, oh bravest of thieves,” Rathan said dryly, standing in his stirrups to get a better look. “And there’s something awry… see how its flame scorches not and it passes through brush without disturbance, without so much as a leaf crunching or a twig cracking? Nay, ‘tis an illusion!” He swung about to fix Narm with a stern eye, the silver disc of Tymora shining in his hand. “This would not be your work, Narm Not-Apprentice, would it now?”

“No,” Narm said, spreading honest hands. Indeed, the knights could see he was white with fear. Both turned back to peer at the woods around suspiciously.

“Why an illusion, but to draw us away?” Rathan said in a low voice.

“Yes,” Torm replied softly, “but into a trap, or to get us off the trail and away from someone who wants to pass without meeting us?”

“Hmmph,” Rathan said and rose in his saddle again, holding his holy symbol aloft. His hands traced empty air around the disc, following its curves. First he used one hand, while the other held the disc, and then he switching hands, all the while chanting gently, “Tymora! Tymora! Tymora! Tymora!” The disc began to glow, faintly at first, and then gradually more brightly, until at last it shone with a bright silver radiance. Torm sca

“By Tymora’s power and Tymora’s grace, Be revealed now wherever I face, All lives and things that evil be Unveiled truly now before me!”

The cleric took hold of the disc as his words ended; the disc flared with silvery light, and then the radiance slowly faded away. Rathan, holding the disc before him, was already peering ahead down the path, eyes keen. “Aha!” he said, almost immediately. “Six creatures on the trail, moving this way!” He dragged a long, heavy mace from his belt and whacked his armored knee lightly, swinging his arm to limber up his shoulder. “Ready, Torm?” he asked. “Narm, watch the rear, will ye?”

“Six?” Narm asked. “What if they’re devils?”

Rathan Thentraver stared at him blankly for the space of a breath and then shrugged. “I do worship the Lady of Luck,” he replied, as if to an idiot child. “Torm?”

The slim thief slipped back into his saddle, and gri

Rathan nodded briefly and jerked his horse’s reins. His mount reared, pawing the air. The cleric clipped the disc onto his shield with practiced ease, mace held in the crook of his arm. When the horse came down, the mace was in his hand and he leaned forward, bellowing, “For Tymora and victory! The Knights of Myth Dra

Narm gulped as the horse and the roaring man atop it tore away through the trees at full gallop. Torm was right at Hainan’s heels, waving his longsword in circles. Far ahead he heard yells echoing in the forest and then the slash and skirl of steel upon steel. There was a short shriek, quickly cut off, much thudding of hooves, more steel, and then a few scattered yells.

Narm wondered uncomfortably what he should do with the mules if the two were slain. He had no wish to be thought of as an enemy of Shadowdale, or a thief, but…

He heard crashing on the trail ahead, nearer than the sounds of battle, and he nervously drew his dagger.

“Ho, Narm!” Torm’s voice came floating through the trees cheerfully. “Haven’t the mules eaten all the leaves on that stretch yet?” The thief rode into view with a cherry wave, eyed the dagger Narm was sheathing without comment, and swung lightly down from the saddle to see to the mules. “Adventurers out of Zhentil Keep-priests of Bane, and a worker-of-illusions out to make a name for himself/’ he explained briefly.

“Dead?” Narm asked.

Torm nodded. “They weren’t willing to surrender or flee,” he said mildly, holding the reins of the mules firmly as he thrust the hobble-ropes through his belt and swung up into his saddle again. Narm shook his head. “Eh? Why so?” Torn asked, eyeing him. Narm gri

“Just the two of you,” the ex-apprentice said, “and Rathan bellowing war cries… and three breaths later you come back and tell me they’re dead.”

Torm nodded. “It’s what usually happens,” he said, deadpan.

Narm shook his head again as they walked their horses forward. “No, no,” he said. “Mistake me not… How can you just ride forward like that, knowing you face six foes, and at least one a master of art?”

“The war cries and all? Well, if you’re risking death, why not have fun?” Torm replied. “If I wanted to risk death without having fun, I’d be a tax collector, not a thief. Come on-if we’re much longer, Rathan’ll have finished all the food and wine, and we’re not even there yet!”

Where was she? The smell of earth and old, dank stone hung around her in the darkness. Shandril lay still on something hard and uneven and collected her wits. Her mouth was dry, her head ached, and her back and shoulder throbbed. Oh, yes… she had fallen into this… while crawling away from a well. She was in a large ruin in a forest, inhabited by devils and other fearsome monsters. It was probably Myth Dra

Tymora spit upon all! If this was adventure, perhaps it was worth Korvan and unending drudgery at The Rising Moon, after all! Shandril looked about her helplessly. It was too dark to see anything. She would have to blunder around in the dark, feeling for a way out… if there was a way out. Shandril sighed. The Lady of Luck smiled indeed…

Then, above her, she heard a shout. Ru

“Ilzazu!” hissed a second voice, and there was a blue-white flash and a crackling, sizzling sound, followed by a horrible, dying moan.

This was just about enough, Shandril decided, and fainted again.

When she knew the world around her again, the light overhead was much brighter. Shandril found herself lying at the edge of the pile of coins, feet up on the slithering riches, head down and aching. She felt weak and dizzy; it seemed like days since she fled from that gargoyle.

She got up and looked around. The coins-thousands of them, rusty-brown with age and damp-looked to be all copper. Sigh. Above her, atop the heap, lay two bodies on their backs, feet entangled, both human. One wore armor, much blackened; about him there still clung a faint reek of burned flesh. The other wore robes, and clutched the crumbled fragments of a stick of wood. A sword protruded from his rib cage, and a small shoulder bag lay half-crumpled beneath him. Shandril clambered up the mound of coins again. Food? Perhaps one carried water, or wine?