Spellfire

“Study?” asked Narm faintly, staring at Elminster, who stood puffing his pipe expressionlessly.

“Yes, with Illistyl and I,” said Jhessail. “He,” she added, nodding at Elminster, “will be studying your bride. It’s been a long time indeed since someone last mastered spellfire so ably-and survived its use so well.”

Flames flickered red and angry orange in two braziers. They stood in a vaulted stone hall, and between them was an altar of black stone, polished glossy-smooth and shaped like a gigantic throne, forty feet high. At the foot of the Seat of Bane was a much smaller throne, and upon it sat a cold-eyed man with pale brown hair and wan features. His high-cowled robe was deep black and simple, and his hands gleamed with many rings. None living knew his truename, save himself; few knew his common name. He was the High Imperceptor of Bane, and he was very angry.

“Give me good reason,” he said coldly to those who knelt before him, “why I should not put you to death. You have failed me. Manshoon was to have received our message at this meeting with his lords. Ws ca

“M-my Lord,” said one of those kneeling, hesitantly, “the message was about to be passed on to Manshoon, in a believable ma

“The word of summoning!” the High Imperceptor interrupted sharply. “What was it?”

“Ah-a moment. Dread Lord, it began, ‘Zell… ah, it was ‘Zellathorass’ the kneeling man said triumphantly. The High Imperceptor nodded.

“Rise, and continue,” was all he said. Bowing, the man did.

“The-the word he dismissed the globe with, Dread Lord, was ‘Alvathaitfl do recall. He seemed furious after that and dismissed us. He said, ‘Sirs, this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once.’ And he called down gargoyles upon us from above, and-and we fled.”

“Did you see where Manshoon went?” asked the High Imperceptor eagerly.

“N-no, Dread Lord. He was not seen in the city all the rest of that day.” The speaker spread his hands. “We came straight to you, leaving that night, for fear of delivering our message wrongly, once the chance you had directed us to take was lost.”

The High Imperceptor nodded shortly. “Well spoken, well recalled. Rise, all of you.” When the brief shuffling and rustling had died away again, he looked down at the line of men facing him. “Do any of you have aught else to report?”

One then spoke. “Aye, Dread Lord.” He was gestured to continue. “I met with a merchant loyal to The Black Lord”- he bowed to the great throne-”who told me of a young girl now on her way to Shadowdale in the company of those who call themselves the Knights of Myth Dra

The High Imperceptor was leaning forward on his throne now, interested. At a subtle signal of his hand, an unseen upperpriest behind black tapestries nearby had cast a spell to detect any lies Theln might speak. “They take her to Elminster, no doubt. Very powerful, indeed. If we held this power, we could strike down those who stand opposed to our great Lord”-all save the High Imperceptor bowed again-”and those traitors who were once our brothers, alike. We must try for this spellfire, if this tale be true. This faithful-who is he, and how old his news?”

“One Raunel, a dealer in sausages from the Vilhon Reach. He spoke to me on my way to you, on the road very close. He said he’d spoken with a forester who’d seen the girl and all himself, near the Thunder Peaks, in the late morning yesterday. He met this forester, one Hylgaun, yestereve at a roadside fire they shared.”

The High Imperceptor nodded again, and almost smiled. “You have done well, Theln. You will be rewarded. Go you and call upon the priest Laelar to attend us at once. All of you, leave us.”

The last to leave stepped from behind tapestries, bowed, and said merely, “No lies, Dread Lord,” as he left. Good. That left only two possible liars in this matter: this Raunel and the one called Hylgaun. It felt true.

When he was alone, the cold-eyed, wan man looked thoughtfully across the empty chamber. “Maruel… Maruel. I know that name.” He caught up the great black mace of Bane and hefted its dark and cruel length absently as he pondered. Why could he never remember such things? Why? It could well bring death one day… the wrong detail forgotten, the wrong precaution taken. The High Imperceptor sighed. It had not been a good day.

The black dragon flew heavily and raggedly. Often its wings faltered and it would sink down and to one side or the other, despite Manshoon’s commands and curses. Orlgaun was sorely hurt, and might never bear him again. That thought burned in Manshoon’s mind, atop his defeat, and he almost turned back in anger to slay with the art he yet held ready.

It was impossible. Orlgaun was flying on the last of its lagging strength now, lower than Manshoon would have preferred. The seemingly endless green of the great Elven Court stretched on beneath them as the dragon flew north and east. Manshoon thought back over the fray and concluded bitterly that he’d probably not slain a single one of those who’d stood against him. Elminster had shielded them at the first, aye, but few could survive he and Orlgaun both, even in passing. That cursed elf, and the ranger with his flying shield! He could feel their blades yet… they’d not live long, when he had that girl in his hands, even if they’d had nothing to do with Symgharyl Maruel’s death.

The thought of The Shadowsil’s passing made him feel dark and weak inside, and he rose out of that momentary sadness feeling savage. He clutched a wand fiercely and wanted badly to strike down something. Then he frowned.

The girl. Yes. Spellfire, it had been. He yet smarted where it had briefly touched him, despite all the healing potions he’d drunk since, emptying the belt he wore across his stomach. Gods, but it hurt yet! It had been fortunate she was so untutored and so unused to battle, or Manshoon the Mighty might well have fallen this day. Her power must be his own, and soon, before Elminster mastered it! Not such an old fool, that one. Not aggressive, but even stronger in art than he’d thought. No doubt he’d take a measure of killing-something best prepared in haste when back at-

Gods! They were flying among the trees!

Orlgaun had sunk lower and lower as Manshoon had pondered, the great wings moving more and more feebly, and suddenly its claws and belly were crashing and thrusting through the small uppermost branches of the tallest trees in the forest. Manshoon shouted, hauling hard on the fin before him and staring ahead. But the dragon did not respond, and the trees stretched on as far as the eye could see, with only a few gaps just ahead. Manshoon cursed feelingly as the dragon crashed further downward amid snapping and wildly whipping branches, rocking and buffeting its rider. The blows and crashes grew steadily harder as Orlgaun sank full into the trees, crushing them with its vast bulk and smashing them aside with the velocity of its fall.

More and more slowly they struck the next tree, and the next, and Manshoon crouched low and fended off flailing branches grimly as the great wyrm came down to earth. Orlgaun did not even grunt; perhaps its spirit had fled its torn and battered body in the air while still above the trees. Certainly this would be its last flight. Manshoon saw one wing smashed limply backward by a gigantic phandar that itself broke asunder, the trunk groaning as it parted, and then the dragon struck a stand of shadowtops head-on and the world itself seemed to shake and split asunder.