Spellfire

“Aye? Oh, no, thank you,” Sharantyr told him. “And it is the cold I seek,” she added, putting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock-faintness. Both guards chuckled and saluted her.

“The Lady of the Forest and Tymora both watch over thee, Lady,” they wished her, and she nodded. She went on past other guards and flaring torches and the last fading sounds of revelry, into the cool, dark night.

Overhead, Selune rode high in the starlit night sky, trailing her Tears. Sharantyr stood for a long breath looking up at the bright moon, and then set off toward the river at a brisk walk. It would not do to catch a chill by remaining still too long-and, besides, no doubt her bladder would want to be free of much wine now she was out in the cold. The tall ranger looked about her without fear at the dark trees ahead. This was her true home, for all that she had come to it late. The dizziness was leaving her as she came out into the road with the dew of the tower meadow on her boots. She let fall the hem of her gown again and approached the bridge.

“Most will be drunk by now,” the one called the Hammer of Bane grunted. “These Dalefolk are all alike. Too much to eat and too much to drink all at once, and they’ll be as sluggish as worms in the winter until tomorrow eve, when they can do it all over again. The ones we want will be inside, you can be sure, and may be well guarded. But if we are quick enough that they ca

Laelar, the High Imperceptor’s henchman priest, rose, in the darkness, and continued, “You two cast a spell of silence on that stone, and bear it with us as we swim across. Remain below, by the bank, until the rest of us have the rope up, and then stay at the bottom and deal with anyone who happens by. We’ll up and do the grab. If we pull on the rope thrice, come up to us. Otherwise, stay where you are.” There were nods, all around, and the curly-haired priest of Bane nodded. “Right… let’s go. Cast your spell.”

The guards on the bridge greeted Sharantyr with polite curiosity, but let her pass unchallenged. As she passed into the trees, she glanced back and saw them shrug to each other and smiled ruefully. Oh, well, no doubt they already considered all of the knights crazy. She walked on swiftly and quietly, past the temple of Tymora and into the deep woods, until she found a stump where she could sit and relax.

After a time, she heard unmistakable noises, and looked up with a frown. There were large creatures off to her right; men, most probably. Best to be quiet until she knew who they were, and why they were here. Then utter silence fell, very suddenly. Puzzled, Sharantyr rose and peered through the moon-dappled trees. Eight men were moving soundlessly down to the river Ashaba.

“Time to stop shivering here and make another round of the tower,” Torm said. “Even anyone foolish enough to attack the dale in the first place knows that everything and everyone of value is in the tower. If they aren’t creeping through these trees, they’ll be over there on the other side of the river, in those trees.”

“Think ye so?” Rathan grunted. “If they’re as foolish as ye say, why don’t they ride right up to the gates pretending friendship and then do their fighting? It’d save a lot of time and creeping around, would it not?” Torm chuckled. “Of that,” Rathan noted, “ye can be sure. I may be reckless enough to please Tymora, but I’m not reckless enough to creep around as ye do.” He peered ahead. “Look ye, down by the old dock… was that not a man, moving?”

Torm peered. “I see nothing,” he muttered. “Get down, will you? They’ll be well warned if some great giant with a mace and the sanctity of Tymora heavy upon him sails into their midst. Down!” Rathan grunted his way reluctantly to his knees and then to his breast in the dew-wet grass. “Now,” Torm continued, “look along the ground and see if Selune above us lights them from behind as they stand above you.” His tone changed. “There! Was that the place you saw before?”

“Aye, and there’s another.” The cleric rolled over and rose to his knees. Holding the disc of Tymora out before him by its chain, he chanted softly.

The silver disc seemed to sparkle for a moment, and then Rathan turned his head and said shortly, “Evil. Aye.”

Torm nodded. “The prudent thing to do now would be to summon guards, create a big fray and much upset… Look, they have one of those magical ropes that climbs by itself. By the time we could rouse all, they could well have done much damage.”

Rathan was already clambering to his feet. “Ye want to have fun, is what ye mean. Right, then; let’s go.” His mace gleamed in Selune’s pate light as he raised it. “Don’t fall, now,” he warned. “It would not do for a priest of Tymora to rush upon them with the ferocity of a raging lion, but alone.”

“Keep up, if you can,” Torm replied, breaking suddenly into a run of almost frightening speed. Rathan shook his head and followed.

Laelar was third on the rope. He watched narrowly as the adept at the top looked cautiously in a window. If the alarm was raised now, before they could get proper footing within, things could go ill indeed. He belched to ease his taut stomach, knowing that the magical silence would cover the sound, for he carried a second stone that bore a dweomer of silence upon it. Utter silence reigned. Overhead, the moon shone uncaring.

There was a violent tug on the rope, and the warrior immediately above Laelar lost his hold and came crashing down upon the Hammer of Bane in a silence that could only be magical.

Torm rushed straight in at the two warriors. Blades swept out to impale him, but he dove hard at the turf in front of them, rolled, and straightened his legs as he somersaulted to catch those blades and bring their points down. Rathan leaned over him, mace glinting in the moonlight, to strike a blow with all his weight behind it. The man he struck crumpled, neck shattered, and fell to the side, forcing his comrade to leap away or be struck and encumbered.

Torm, on the ground, scissored the man’s legs between his own, and twisted around hard. The warrior toppled helplessly, arms and blade flailing, and Rathan dealt another heavy blow with his mace. He spun around to see if any of those on the rope were close enough to attack them, but the velvet silence had prevented any warning sounds. Only the man at the bottom of the rope was turning, startled. Torm slammed into him like a dark wind in the night, and swept him away from the rope into the wall beyond, knife flashing repeatedly as they fell together.

Rathan hurried to the rope, saw with satisfaction that only Torm was getting up, wrapped his hand around it securely, and hauled. He let go immediately and stepped back, not a breath too soon. Two mailed bodies crashed together into the space he had just left. Rathan attacked again with his mace. Tymora smiled, surely, or else it could never be this easy.

It wasn’t. One of the two who had fallen still moved. Torm rushed in, catlike, with his dagger, and was struck by a black rod that seemed to come out of nowhere and shook him from teeth to fingertips. He staggered back soundlessly, and Rathan moved in.

Rod struck mace. Rathan felt the jolt up his arm, shuddered-magic! Gods’ laugh, wouldn’t you know it-and struck again. His blow was countered. The force of the counter-blow drove him back. Another was down the rope now, this one a warrior with a blade. Rathan and Torm went forward together, cautiously.

There was a flurry of blows, much shoving and twisting, and the foes reeled apart again. Torm threw daggers carefully at the curly-haired one with the rod, more to spoil any working of magic than to injure. They were struck aside, harmlessly. The other foe, the warrior, plucked something from his throat and threw it over Torm’s shoulder.

The world burst into flames. Torm and Rathan were thrown forward in that terrible silence. Blistering flames raged over and past them. Those they faced reeled back against the tower wall at the searing heat. The rope, still standing upright by itself, was blackened but not burned. Torm stared at it as he sank to his knees in agony, face twisting in a soundless scream.