Spellfire

Narm rose on painfully stiff legs and looked down at Shandril again for a moment. He traded quick glances with Lanseril and Elminster, nodded wordlessly, and hurried away. Lanseril sighed. “These younglings… their love burns so.” He looked up suddenly as he realized Elminster was gri

“Aye, indeed, old one,” the mage said gravely, leaning on his staff. The two friends looked at each other for a moment in silence and then spoke as one, the druid who had not yet seen thirty winters and the mage who had seen some five hundred.

“Well, when you get to be my age,” they quoted the old saying together and broke into chuckles. Around them the knights were striding back and forth with small, clinking bundles, gathering Rauglothgor’s hoard at a great rate. They could see Narm in the distance, peering curiously at a ruby in his palm. A fistful of gold coins was begi

“Not much magic-damnation upon that baihiir,” Torm said to Jhessail, a dozen brass rings spilling from his hand as he brought them within range of her detect magic spell. They did not glow with the radiance that betokens magic.

Jhessail spread her hands. “It is the way of balhiirs,” she said simply. Then she smiled, eyes twinkling. “Poor Torm,” she said in mock sorrow and commiseration. “You’ll have to settle for mere gold, gems, and platinum… and so little, too!” She waved at the scattered riches that lay all around the knights.

Torm gri

“Precisely the thought that prevents most sane beings from taking up thievery,” Jhessail replied mildly. Torm chuckled and bowed to her in acknowledgement of a point well made.

Lanseril looked beyond them to the broken ridge of rock that marked the edge of the devastation Shandril’s spellfire had wrought. Florin stood there, watchful, bearing a special shield Elminster had brought back with the healing potions. The ranger’s blade was in his hands. He was silent and alert, eyes flicking here and there over the cold gray peaks above and the tree-clad land below.

Elminster, too, was silent and intent, but his eyes were upon Shandril. Even as Lanseril looked down at her, she moved slightly and frowned, murmuring something so faint they could not hear it. Lanseril leaned forward to reach for her, and the long, knobbly end of Elminster’s staff came down before him, warningly. The druid looked up its length at he who bore it and asked, “Do we tell Narm?”

Elminster smiled. “No need.” A crashing noise, growing swiftly louder, heralded Narm’s progress through the coins toward them. “Shandril!” he cried, and then met their gently silent gazes. “Is she-”

“She stirs, no more,” said the sage. “If ye must shake her, do it gently, and only once or twice.”

Narm threw him a frightened look and then fell to his knees beside his chosen’s unmoving form, scattering coins in all directions. “Shandril!” he pleaded at her ear, laying a timid hand upon her shoulder. “Shandril! Can you hear?” He shook her gently. Beneath his hand, his lady moaned and moved one hand. “Shandril!” he said with sudden urgency, and shook her. “Sh-” and he broke off as Elminster’s staff tapped him firmly on the shoulder.

“And how is she to heal her wits if ye awaken her with shakings and other such violence?” the sage asked gently. “Leave be for a time, and see how she does on her own.” Lanseril nodded, but it was Elminster’s face Narm was staring up at, throat tight and eyes very full, when Florin shouted. Elminster’s head snapped up, his eyes lighting like lamps as he looked to where the ranger’s blade pointed. ‘“Ware, all!” came Florin’s voice, and all about them knights drew weapons, and looked.

Far off in the sky to the north a dark winged shape moved, drawing nearer. It was large and serpentine.

“Dragon!” Florin and Elminster said together, and the knights began to move.

“Gods’ laughter/’ Torm muttered as he ran past, jingling and bulging with loot, “will this never end?” The adventurers scattered, seeking the cover of the larger boulders. Merith and Florin arrived on the run to where Narm and Lanseril sat by Shandril. Elminster stood over them, apparently unconcerned but watching the sky. Then he put his staff in the crook of his arm and quietly began to work a spell.

Narm looked up to him for guidance, but it was Florin who spoke. “We must move your lady,” he said, and jerked his head toward a spur of rock far off to the right. “There, I hold that place best for protection. Stay with her there, unless you have spells up sleeves and down boots that we don’t know about.” His tone, for all its gentleness, was a command, and Narm made no protest as they gently lifted Shandril together and bore her in stumbling haste across the scattered rock and treasure.

Jhessail and Elminster were both casting spells. Rathan was quaffing hastily from a skin Torm was holding. The cleric held his mace ready in his hand.

“This is not a good time for us to fight a dragon,” Narm said in helpless frustration, as they laid Shandril down gently in the lee of the rocks.

“Lad,” Florin told him with rare humor, “it’s never a good time to fight a dragon.” The knights turned away from the young spellcaster quickly, Lanseril squeezing his shoulder for a moment, and were gone across the open rubble-pit, weapons flashing as they were drawn. A faint belch echoed in their wake. Torm turned once to wave and grin as the dragon roared down upon them.

Orlgaun came down out of the chilly heights in a long glide, great black wings spread stiffly. Upon its back, Lord Manshoon waved his hands and spoke grim words of magic. Eight balls of fire sprang from his fingertips, flashing past Orlgaun’s black neck like shafts from a bow, trailing flame. Down they sizzled. Orlgaun arched its giant wings like sails to slow its dive.

There was a flash and a ground-shaking roar as the balls of flame exploded. Fire leaped briefly toward the sky. In the inferno Manshoon saw shapes staggering, yet standing against him. He drew a wand from his belt even as Orlgaun eagerly lowered its neck and spat blue-green acid. The spray sizzled as it struck dying flames and still-hot rocks. Orlgaun hissed triumphantly as one of his enemies fell. The dragon was turning and climbing steeply as the cold gray flank of one of the Thunder Peaks rushed up to meet it.

The great wings beat once, twice, and then there was a sudden, sickening shudder beneath Manshoon. The vast body faltered and twisted. Manshoon grabbed at a razor-sharp bony fin on the wyrm’s neck to keep his seat and yelled, juggling the wand for a few anxious moments. Orlgaun convulsed again, and sheered off sideways in the air with breath-robbing speed, revealing their foe.

In the air behind them flew a human in full coat-of-plate, shield up before him, long naked sword reaching again toward Orlgaun. Manshoon snarled and blasted the fool with his wand. Magic missiles pelted the twisting man like a sudden rain, and he fell away as they swept on.

Manshoon hissed a curse into the wind as he felt Orlgaun’s wingbeats come more slowly, and heard the joyous battle-roars of the great dragon no more. His wyrm was hurt already, and these people looked to be tougher than he had thought. He was readying a lightning bolt as Orlgaun swept around once more and he saw the old bearded man standing, alone now, on the rocks below. Beyond him thereas a maiden in robes. Manshoon dismissed her as nothing as he bent his gaze on the bearded one and cast his bolt.

Lightning seared the air in its crackling descent, white and writhing. It turned aside mere feet in front of the old man and crawled harmlessly away, as if it had struck something unseen. The old man looked up calmly as he cast a spell of his own, and Manshoon recognized him with a shock: Elminster of Shadowdale. The old mage was not off on some other plane meddling, or fussing scatter-brained among scrolls and librams dusty and brittle with age, but here and alert and looking completely unafraid. Of Symgharyl Maruel there was no sign. Manshoon snarled, a little unsettled, and reached for another wand. Orlgaun would not stoop as low as last time; the great wings were lifting them already.