Spellfire

“No, you can be sure that gods do not fate men to act thus-and-so often, if at all, despite the many tales-even those by the great bards-that would have it otherwise.”

“So we walk freely, and do as we will, and live or die by that,” Shandril agreed. “So where should we walk? You know maps, Lhaeo-I have seen your mark upon the charts here and in the tower yonder. Where upon the land of Faerun should we go?”

The scribe looked at her and spread his hands. “Where your hearts lead, is the easy answer” he said, “and the best. But you really ask me where you should run to now, this season, with half Faerun at your heels and with the Harpers your chosen allies. A good choice, know you by the road.”

He paced alongside Narm for a few strides and then said, “I would go south, quick and quiet, and go by the Thunder Gap into Cormyr. There, keep to the smaller places and join with a caravan or with pilgrims of Tempus who seek the great fields of war that lie inland from the Sword Coast. Go where there are elves, for they know what it is to be hounded and will defend you with fierce anger.”

He turned back to the cutting-board. “I daresay you would hear much the same advice from those who travel, if you could trust one to ask.” Narm and Shandril traded glances in silence. Then Narm spoke.

“We have heard such directions before, yes,” he agreed, “almost word for word. If the best way is so obvious as all that, will your enemies not be looking for us to take it, and be waiting?”

“Aye, most probably they will,” Lhaeo agreed, with the ghost of a smile. “So you must take care not to get caught.”

They both stared at him for a moment in frustration, and then Shandril laughed. “Well enough,” she said. “We shall try to follow your advice, good Lhaeo. Know you any ways of avoiding those who search?”

“You both work with art and walk with those who are mighty in art, and you ask me?” Lhaeo replied, eyebrows raised. “If you would learn the ways of stealth and disguise without art, ask Torm. I have escaped thus far, true, but in my case I was cloaked in the Lady’s Luck.” He turned to Narm. “If you must pace about like a great cat in a cage,” he added, “could you slice potatoes while doing it?”

Elsewhere, things were not so peaceful. In Zhentil Keep, two men faced each other across a table.

“Lord Marsh,” said the mage Sememmon carefully, “does it seem to you that the priests of The Black Altar, through some unfortunate internal dispute or other, have fallen into confusion and disarray too great for us to leave the city with it unaddressed? I know my fellow mages feel that eye tyrants ca

“I have heard those same reports,” Lord Marsh Belwintle agreed smoothly. “1 am forced to the same conclusions… as, I hold, any reasonable man would be. This matter of one girl who can create fire will simply have to wait, unless or until she shows up at your gates to do us harm. Whereupon I am fully confident that the power and skill of the gathered mages of the city would defeat her, so long as they have not all been destroyed or weakened in the interim by being sent off here and there on missions by one who had rather transparent reasons for wishing them out of the city.”

“Exactly,” Sememmon agreed. “I had thought to discuss with you the advisability of setting just one of your mages of power- Sarhthor, perhaps-to observing this maiden’s doings, so that her seizure by any of your foes or other concerns could be noted or countered by us. Were she to reveal any power or method whereby she gained spellfire, we could benefit merely from such a watch, with no blood lost to us and no art or coin wasted. Prudence would seem to indicate some sort of vigilance on your part.”

“An excellent plan, indeed,” Lord Marsh agreed, reaching for a glass of blood-red wine before him. “The fighting arm of the Zhentarim would certainly concur with-and even expect-such a tactic. An eye must serve us where a claw might be cut off, if we are not to be taken unaware by some creeping enemy and ultimately overwhelmed. More wine?”

“Ah, thank you,” replied Sememmon, “but no. It is excellent, indeed, but its taste lingers on the tongue and makes the sampling of potions when concocting them a chancy business, at best. Such onerous duties call, I fear”

“Quite so, quite so,” Marsh agreed, rising. “Well then, we are agreed. I shall not keep you longer. We may have to speak with each other later, and speedily, should the beholders prove troublesome. But for now, olore to you and your fellows-in-art.”

“Olore to you,” Sememmon agreed. He walked away.

An eye that neither of them saw floating under the table watched Sememmon go and then winked out.

“The Wearers of the Purple are met. For the glory of the dead dragons!” Naergoth Bladelord said. The leader of the Cult of the Dragon was, as always, coldly calm.

“For their dominion;’ the ritual reply answered him, more or less in unison. Naergoth looked about the large, plain, underground chamber. All were present save the mage Malark. Well enough. To tongue-work, then, the faster to feast in some fine festhall of Ordulin, above, and then bed and then sleep. The ruling Council of the Cult waited expectantly.

“Brothers,” he said, “we are gathered to hear of an affair that preoccupies your mages: this matter of spellfire and all that is drawn into it. Brother Zilvreen, what say you?”

“Brothers,” Master Thief Zilvreen said with soft, sinister grace. “I have learned little from your loyal followers of the fates of the dracolich Rauglothgor and the mage Maruel. But it appears likely that Rauglothgor, its treasure, the she-mage, and even another sacred night dragon, the wyrm Aghazstamn, whom Maruel called on for aid and rode upon back to Rauglothgor’s lair, have all been destroyed. Destroyed by the accursed archmage of Shadowdale, Elminster, a group of adventurers who call themselves the Knights of Myth Dra

“All?” rumbled Dargoth of the Perlar merchant fleet. “I can scarce believe they can all have been destroyed. What is so powerful, save an army of a size that we could see gathering for many days?”

“No such swords have been raised,” Commarth, the bearded general of the Sembian border forces, added dryly.

“Men sent back by Malark have described the site of Rauglothgor’s lair as a pit of freshly strewn rubble,” Zilvreen answered. “Draw your own conclusions.”

“So just what is this spellfire,” Dargoth asked, “that it can destroy great mages and great wyrms alike?”

Naergoth shrugged. “A fire that burns and can be hurled as a mage casts bolts of lightning,” he said, “and that affects magical items and spells as well as things not of art. More than that we do not know-which is why we sent Malark.”

“What of him?” Commarth asked. “Has he spoken to you more recently than we know?”

Naergoth shook his head. “No, I have heard no more than I have told you. He is in or about Shadowdale now, as far as we know, seeking a time and a way to get at the girl.”

“Shessair,” one of the others mused.” Wasn’t that the name of the mage that your brothers of art who preceded Malark slew at the Bridge of Fallen Men, in the battle that bought them their deaths?”

“Aye, it was,” Naergoth said, “but no co

“What boots it?” Dargoth said. “Ancient history only warms long tongues-it can have no bearing on what we decide to do in this matter!”