Spellfire

Narm nodded, slowly. “Yes.” Then, roughly, he burst out, “You knew it would kill her! You knew!”

Elminster shook his head. “No, Narm. I feared it might but saw no other way.” He turned away. “Do not delay me now, or Shandril may die.”

Rathan touched Narm’s shoulder. “I am done, lad. Let us get her moved-if Elminster counsels haste, ye may be sure haste is the thing.”

Narm nodded slowly, tore his eyes from the old mage’s back, and sighed. “Yes. I trust him. Sorry.” He looked down and burst into tears.

“Look” said a voice by his other ear, “stop blubbering and lift your lady by the shoulders. I’ll take her feet. Jhessail, hold her head as we carry.” Narm found himself looking at Torm, who nodded at Shandril. “Come on. Haste, the man said.”

“Aye.” Narm reached out a tentative hand and fumbled at the open front of her tunic.

“Leave it,” Torm said firmly. “I promise you I won’t look-much.”

Narm shouted at him, a raw torrent of words that made Torm broaden his grin and finally break into a chuckle. Seething, Narm stopped when he realized he had no idea what he was saying.

They climbed up over broken rocks, Rathan at Narm’s elbow, Jhessail hip-to-hip beside him cradling Shandril’s head. Shandril’s eyes were closed, her lips parted. She looked so beautiful. Narm started to weep again. Through the tears, he saw the elf, Merith, guiding Torm through the tricky entrance to the smaller cavern beyond where he and Shandril had been trapped together. The smell of burned flesh was strong around them. Narm looked down at Shandril in disbelief. He had seen it, yes. How much force had it taken? How much had she held? And how in the name of all the gods could she survive it?

“The scrolls-is Elminster back yet?” he asked frantically as they stumbled forward into the now-familiar, low-ceilinged cavern. Lanseril, in his own form again, sat against a wall with lit torches on either side of him.

“I felt the mountain shake,” he said. “Was it Shandril?” At Torm’s nod, he said nothing but only shook his head. And then a thought struck him. “Bring her over here. No, not straight across-Elminster might teleport in right there- around this way.”

“Good thought, but u

“Damage?” Narm asked.

“The spellfire burns inside,” Elminster said gently. “It can burn out lungs, heart, and even the brain, if held overlong.” He shook his head. “She seemed to be master of it at the last, but she held more than I have ever known anyone to bear before, without bursting into flames and being entirely consumed on the spot.”

“Cheerful, isn’t he?” Torm put in lightly. Narm stared at him in horror, then burst into tears and started to tremble. Jhessail held his shuddering shoulders and looked at the thief levelly.

“Torm,” she said in a cutting tone, “sometimes you are a right bastard.”

Torm indicated Narm with one hand. “He needed it,” he said soberly.

Jhessail held his gaze for a moment and then said, “You’re right, Torn. I’m sorry. I mistook you.” She enfolded Narm in her arms, and he uncontrollably sobbed out his relief into her breast.

“You and the rest of the world,” said Torm mournfully. “Most of the time.”

“And with no cause at all,” Merith added i

Rathan nodded that he was done as they approached and got up wearily to see to Lanseril.

“A hard day of healing?” the half-elven druid asked wryly as the cleric knelt beside him. Rathan grunted.

“Hard on the knees, anyway,” he agreed, rolling open the next scroll. “Now lie there, damn ye. It is hard enough convincing the Lady that healing an unrepentant servant of Silvanus like thyself is a devout act, without ye squirming around.”

“True enough,” Lanseril agreed, settling himself. “How does the young lady fare?”

Rathan shrugged. “Her body is whole. She sleeps. But her mind? We shall see.”

Across the cavern, Narm looked down from Jhessail’s arms at the softly breathing form. “Why does she not awake?” he moaned. “She’s healed, the priest said. Why does she sleep?”

“Her mind heals itself,” Elminster said from near at hand. “Do not disturb her. Be calm, Narm… a fine mage yell make, indeed, with all this weeping and shouting! Come away, and eat something and rest.”

“I’m not hungry,” Narm said sullenly, as Jhessail rose and pulled him up, her slim arms surprisingly strong.

“Oh, aye,” Elminster said in obvious disbelief, handing him a sausage and producing a knife to saw at the hard piece of bread on his lap. Narm stared at the sausage and thought of Shandril and himself and sausages, and burst into laughter. Tears came again as he rocked helplessly back and forth.

“Stable fellow, isn’t he?” Elminster inquired of the world at large. “Eat,” he commanded, thrusting Narm’s arm toward his mouth with a flick of his fingers and the quick saying of an unseen servant spell. The wood and string in the mage’s hands melted away into nothingness, and suddenly Narm was sobbing on sausage, then eating ravenously. Elminster, shaking his head, used the spell to convey a flask from where it lay by Torm through the air to his own waiting hand. Torm discovered its theft, but snatched for it much too late.

Merith, who had been carefully examining the chamber with Florin, came over to Narm in his customary silence and touched the young mage’s elbow. Narm surfaced from his sausage slowly. “Yes? Oh, sorry.”

“No, lad. Don’t be sorry,” Merith told him. “If you would, point out to us where this mage your lady felled with the balhiir-globe and a rock lies now.” The elf s eyes were serious and wary.

Narm blinked at him. “There, among the rocks.” He pointed, but his hand moved uncertainly when he could not see Symgharyl Maruel’s feet.

“Aye,” Merith agreed soberly. “We thought so.”

“She’s gone?” Narm asked, astonished.

“She is nowhere in this chamber,” Florin said quietly. “Not even among the bodies at the entrance.”

“Then… where is she?” Narm asked, his mind still on Shandril and spellfire and sausages.

“I’m afraid,” the battle-leader told him, “we’ll find out soon enough.”

Her jaw ached abominably. That little bitch had broken it, and her arm and probably her cheek, too. The cheek was so swollen that her left eye was almost shut. Symgharyl Maruel was still able to hiss spells and command words, though, and it would not be long before that wench would pay. Pay dearly, too; burn off her legs with the fire of Symgharyl Maruel’s favorite wand, and then her arms, and then set to work with a knife. Oh, she’d whimper and plead-until her tongue was cut out. Symgharyl Maruel chuckled in her throat and winced at the stabbing pain this brought to her jaw. Gods spit upon the little whore!

Symgharyl Maruel found her feet wearily and unsteadily crossed the cave that was her refuge. Too unsteadily. Gods, the pain! She leaned wearily against the shelves which held her grimoires, arbatels, and librams. It was no use. She could not study art in this pain. Where were those thrice-damned potions?

The chest! Of course. She clawed her way along the shelves in frantic haste, fell upon her knees by the chest, and fumbled it open with her good arm. Careful, now; the right ones… She searched among the many vials for a certain rune. It would not do to make a mistake now. She’d never thought to need these, carefully gathered here so long ago. But if one plays with fire, she thought ruefully, one must expect to get burned. But a mere nothing of a girl, and with a rock! She snarled through the blood in her mouth and winced at the result. The pain! Would it never end? Never, indeed, if she didn’t drink the potions! Gather your wits, Symgharyl Maruel-who knows but one of them might follow here. A spell-sealed cave, yes, but not to one with a tracer spell.