Spellfire

“Uhh,” Malark agreed.

Somehow he got the three of them through the guards and inside. He let them stumble slightly ahead of him to guide him, and they went straight down a long, high hallway to the guardroom. There luck was with Malark. Culthar, his spy, was one of the two watchmen, waiting in the guardroom until a bell rang on the board before him, calling him to assist of another guard elsewhere. The other was just rising, with an oath, to answer a bell three floors up.

“Why can’t Rold relieve himself before he takes up his post?” he growled as be made for the back stairs.

Malark’s companions stumbled around the room, catching at the table for balance. They made for the door to the bunkroom. One began to sing-under his breath, fortunately-as he went. “Oh, I once knew a lady of far Uttersea… she’ll never come back, now, no never come back to me…” The door banged, and there came a fainter crash on the other side of it. Culthar cursed.

“He’s always falling over that chair. It’ll be broken now, sure, and we’ll have to fix it again because”-Culthar’s voice now rose in vicious mimicry of the guard-”he’s not too good with his hands, and alt.” At that moment, the other guard who had come in with Malark heaved and shuddered, and made a sickening gulping sound. “Oh, gods!” Culthar cursed. “Quick, get his face into that bucket! Hurry! I should have known Crimmon would drink himself sick!” Malark scooped a leather bucket from its peg and did as he was bid, just in time.

When the retching was done, Crimmon roused himself blearily and walked toward the bunkroom almost normally, saying, “No more for me, I think. I’d best be getting back, Jhaele,” back over his shoulder.

“Yes, dearie,” Culthar said in disgusted mimicry, and they both waited. An instant passed in silence, and then there was another splintering crash from the bunkroom. Malark chuckled helplessly, and after a moment, Culthar joined in, as Crimmon’s curses faded in the bunkroom. Malark put down the bucket and closed the bunkroom door. He turned to face Culthar, who frowned and said, “And how much have you had to drink?”

Malark let his face shift back to his own features for two slow, deliberate seconds and said, “Nothing, Culthar. Sorry to disappoint you.” When he gri

Culthar stared at him in astonishment. “Lord, why are you here?” he whispered. “Is Roz…?”

“Sleeping. I have little time for talk. Take this.” He pressed a ring into Culthar’s palm. “Hide it well, on your person, and do not part with it. It has magics upon it to conceal it from normal scrutiny by one of the art, but wear it only when you intend to use it. Speak its command word, which is the name of the first dracolich you served when you joined the followers, and it will instantly take you and one other creature whom you are touching flesh to flesh to Thunderstone-specifically, a hill above that town where one of our group lives as a hermit. His name is Brossan. If he is not there, go to…” Several more instructions followed. Then-

“One thing more. I may appear to you and give the sign of the hammer, or a redcrest may fly into this guardroom-it may be but an illusion, mind. These both are signals that you are to try and take this Shandril Shessair and escape with her by means of the ring if you see any opportunity, however scant. Otherwise, you are to take her when you think best-you guessed the task before I said it, did you not? Good. You will do this?”

“Aye. For the greater glory of the followers,” Culthar whispered. Malark nodded and picked up the reeking bucket.

“Before your fellow watchmen return,” Malark said, “I shall go to be sick outside.” Holding the bucket before him, he staggered out and down the hall, once again every inch the drunken Rozsarran. It was a white-faced and thoughtful Culthar who drew off his boot and ran the brass ring onto his little toe where he could feel its presence reassuringly at every step.

It was a loudly and realistically sick Rozsarran who staggered out through the guards at the gate and into the night. It was a coolly efficient nightcat who loped from where the bucket and clothes had fallen, heading for a certain spot in the trees. There the nightcat became a rat, crept close to the waiting cultists, and listened.

“Do you hear anything?” Suld asked suspiciously, peering into the night.

“Probably the master, coming back,” Arkuel said. “Just sit quiet, now, or we’ll both catch it.”

“Sit quiet, yourself, cleverjaws. It wasn’t me who bought a wagon whose front seat was so full of splinters it was like a carpenter’s beard.”

“Pierced your wits, did they? You shouldn’t carry them so low down,” Arkuel said smugly.

“You say a lot of clever things,” Suld responded darkly. “I hope the scant wits you have about you work half as well for more useful work.”

“Well met” said Malark dryly, stepping from the darkness in a spot neither of them was facing. “I’m glad to hear you both so happy and good-natured.” He pointed at the sleeping Rozsarran. “Take up our sleeper, and come. Cover the lantern and I’ll carry it.”

When the light was hidden, the mage dispelled his darkness and set off back toward the tower. There he raised darkness again and within it they dressed Rozsarran and left him with the bucket in his hands, for the other guards to find. “Back to the i

The mage raised his arms and his fingers flowed and grew, then branched and branched anew. In the space of a breath or two, Malark’s upper body looked like a large bush. A mouth opened high on one of the branches and said, “Come! And stay behind me.” Together they crept through the night to the back of the stables.

“The dogs sleep,” Arkuel whispered.

“Yes, but the stablemaster does not,” Malark hissed back, and withdrew slightly, becoming himself again and muttering the phrases of a spell while Arkuel and Suld stood guard, swords drawn. Malark rejoined them and eyed the blades with contempt. “Put those away,” he muttered angrily. “We’re not carving roasts.”

“The stablemaster, then?” Arkuel asked, as his blade slid back into its sheath. Somewhere off in the hills to the north, a wolf howled.

“He has something to watch, over by the well,” Malark said. “Dancing lights. Come, now-quickly and quietly, to the wall.” He strode across the i

At the base of the wall, the archmage’s body shifted shape again, rising into a long pole with broad rungs; it gripped the windowsill of their rented room with human hands. The pole sprouted two eyes on stalks that peered back across the i

“Hurry” commanded a mouth that appeared on the crossbrace Arkuel was reaching for. He flinched back and almost fell from the ladder.

“Don’t do that,” he pleaded, catching himself.

“Move!” the ladder responded coldly. “You too, Suld. Our luck can’t hold all night.” But they all reached the chamber and closed the shutters without incident.

Malark wondered, as he erected a wall of force between himself and his underlings, just what would go wrong when the time came. Everything had gone smoothly, yet he could feel in his bones that the secret of spellfire was not fated to come within the grasp of the followers.

Such hunches had given him sleepless nights before, but this time he fell asleep before he could fret. Soon he was falling endlessly through gray and purple shifting mists, falling toward something he could not quite see that glowed red and fiery below. “Horsecobbles,” he said to it severely, but the scene did not go away, and he. went on falling until he reached morning.

“I would speak with the cook,” the traveler said. “I eat only certain meats and must know how they are prepared. If you have no objection-?”