Spellfire

Orlgaun fell away weakly, hearing its master cry out. The dragon drew back, uncertain. It dared not attack anything that had slain Manshoon-and if Manshoon was dead, there was no reason to tarry. It had hurts of its own, deep, raw pain that stabbed to the lungs at each wingbeat.

But Manshoon yet lived, clinging to his wits and his saddle grimly, barely able to hold himself upright. He could not survive another blast like that-and it had not even come from Elminster. The old mage still stood waiting, calmly, and Manshoon knew he could not continue this battle and live.

Beyond Elminster lay the young maiden who had come crawling out from the gods only knew where to smite him with what must have been raw energy: Spellfire! Manshoon shuddered, looked around quickly to ensure that neither of those who had flown to attack him was near, and urged Orlgaun away northward. He tilted the dragon’s body to shield himself from Elminster’s gaze and foil any magic missiles the old mage might now unleash. An attack he could not hope to survive, Manshoon thought despairingly.

Behind him, the air crackled and there was a flash of light as one last lightning bolt struck. Orlgaun convulsed beneath him and fell, the great wings shuddering. For terribly long moments they dropped before the dragon caught itself and began, raggedly, to fly again. He had escaped alive. Not quite the achievement he had expected.

“Shandril!” was all Narm said. It was all he needed to say. They hugged each other fiercely and cried for a long time. Around them, the Knights of Myth Dra

“Are you well?” she asked softly, as the other knights gathered around, Torm and Rathan gri

“Yes,” Narm said thickly into Shandril’s hair. “Right well.” Then he disengaged himself from Shandril anxiously. “How are you, my lady?”

Shandril smiled back at him. “I live. I love you. I am most well.”

Narm smiled in his turn, and then asked very softly. “May I take you to wife, Shandril Shessair?”

Jhessail turned away to seek out Merith’s eyes and found his gaze already upon her. They shared a smile of their own.

The knights waited. Shandril’s face was hidden in her hair, her head bent down. Someone-Florin-looked away in sudden dismay. Silence fell. Then Shandril’s shoulders shook, and they realized she was crying. Her slim hands reached out and found Narm’s shoulders, and she clung to him and pulled herself into his embrace and said brokenly, “Oh yes. Yes. Please the gods, yes.”

The knights let out a great roar of pleasure and congratulation, and hands were pounding the shoulders of the young couple. Jhessail and Merith embraced, Rathan raised a wineskin, and Torm laughed and tossed a dagger high and caught it out of the air as it fell twinkling. Then the thief raced over to Elminster, who still stood motionless with his back to them all. Torm caught at his sleeve, tugged the startled mage around, and shook him in glee.

Elminster spoke mildly. Only his eyes glinted. “Ye’ve ruined the spell, and I’ve lost him. Wd better have a good reason for this, Torm, son of Dathguld.”

Torm stopped in mid-laugh, startled. “You know who my father was?”

Elminster waved a hand in vague dismissal. “Of course, of course,” he said peevishly. “Now, I asked thee thy reason for all this hooting and slapping me about and dancing up and down even now upon my very toes!”

“Oh.” And for once in his life, Torm could think of little more to say, until his own feet were clear of the old mage’s, and his hands free of Elminster’s clothing. Then his joy and his purpose both returned to him in a rush, and he said grandly, “Narm and Shandril are to be wed! What say you? Wed, I say!”

The mage looked bewildered for a moment, and then cross. “Is that all?” he demanded. “Oh, aye-any fool could see that. Ye spoiled my spell and lost me my hook on Manshoon for that? Garrrgh!” He stamped his foot and turned away sharply in a swirl of dusty robes, leaving Torm to stare after him in astonishment. The thief recovered his customary grin when he saw that Elminster was heading straight for the laughing, still-embracing couple.

“Dolt,” said Rathan affectionately, and pressed his wineskin into Torm’s hands. “Come and sit, and have drink.”

Torm shuddered. “I hate this swill!” he protested. “Can’t we just play pranks on each other, instead?”

“I have wondered, friend Torm,” came Florin’s grave voice behind them, “just what you do when really happy.. and now I know. Truly, wonders anew unfold before my eyes every passing day. But the message I bear is to your damp companion. Rathan, Narm and Shandril would speak with you and myself as soon as the gods will.”

Rathan looked at him, momentarily surprised, and then nodded in understanding. “Aye. Of course.” He thrust the skin into Torm’s hands, and said, “Mind this for me then, Torm? Thankee.” Two steps away, he checked, whirled about, and said sternly, “And no pranks, mind!”

Torm shrugged and spread his hands in mock i

“Nay,” said Elminster dryly from behind him. Torm jumped, startled. “ Tis the length of thy tongue.” The old sage put his hand under the thief s elbow as he passed and drew him along. “Come,” he commanded, simply, “thy presence is required.”

Narm was looking up at Rathan, his arm about Shandril and a kind of light about his face. Yet out of his eagerness, he spoke gently and hesitantly. “I-I have no gift to give you, good guide of Tymora,” he said. “But I-we-could you wed us two, and soon?”

Rathan gri

And as the chorus of “Ayes” rang out, the sun above them shone with sudden brightness, and a beam of golden light touched the coin in Hainan’s fingers. There was a flash, and it was gone. Narm, who had secretly doubted the stout cleric’s sincerity until that moment, opened his mouth in awe. Rathan spread his empty hands in benediction, stepped forward to take one each of Narm’s and Shandril’s hands and clasped them together under his own. He stepped back and bowed, and then he was Rathan again, smiling and blinking and looking about for his wineskin.

“Our thanks, Rathan “ Shandril said huskily, and he bowed again and said, “Tymora’s will, but my pleasure/’ and made of the formal words the approval and joy of a friend.

Narm spoke then. “My lord Florin,” he said to the tall ranger in the scorched and claw-scraped armor, “may we come to Shadowdale for a time, with you all? We have no home, and my lady-no, we are both weary of ru

“But no more drivel,” said Torm unexpectedly. “Of course you will come to the dale… where else would you go?”

Florin looked at him sternly, and then gri