Spellfire

“Go now,” Torm said gruffly, over his shoulder. “Or we’ll be all day a-weeping and a-saying farewells.”

Rathan nodded and urged his large bay forward to take a hand of both Narm and Shandril. “Tymora go with ye and watch over ye,” he said fervently. “Think of us when ye are downcast or cold-such thoughts can warm and hearten.”

Torm stared at his friend. “Such bardic soft and high glory,” he said in amazement. “You’ve not been drinking, have you?”

“Get on with ye, snaketongue, to the nearest mud, and fall from thy saddle into it,” Rathan said kindly, “and mind ye get lots of muddy water in thy mouth.”

“Peace, both of you” Jhessail chided them. “Narm and Shandril should be well away before highsun, if they are to make Essembra even two nights hence.” She turned to the young couple. “Mind you stay on the road. The Elven Court is not the safest place in Faerun these days.”

“Let not fear or pity stay your hand, either,” Florin said gravely. “If you are menaced on the road, let fly with spellfire before hands are laid upon you. A swinging sword often cant be stopped in time by spellfire or art.”

“Oh, aye… one last thing,” Elminster said. “I know something of illusions. This will make ye both look rather older, and a trifle different in appearance-save to each other’s eyes. It will wear off in a day or so, or ye can end it at any time, each of ye affecting only thyself, by uttering the word gultho-nay, do not repeat it now, or ye will ruin the magic. Let me see…” He drew back his sleeves and sat upon his placid donkey and worked magic upon Narm and Shandril while the knights drew their mounts around in a respectful circle.

When it was done, the knights moved their mounts in closer for careful, critical looks. Narm and Shandril looked to each other and could not see the slightest difference in each other’s appearance, as Elminster had said, but it was clear that they looked different to the eyes of others.

“Go now,” Elminster said gently, “or ye’ll be seen. We shall ride north toward Hillsfar with illusions of ye for a time to confuse any who seek ye, but those who pursue ye are not weak-minded. Go now, and go swiftly. Our love and regard go with ye.” His clear blue eyes met theirs fondly and steadily as they slowly turned their mounts about, and then, with a vast wave, spurred away.

Looking back as they thundered south along the road with tears stinging their eyes, Shandril and Narm saw the knights sitting their saddles watching. Florin raised something that flashed silver to his lips as they rode on over the first rise, and as the descending slope of the road hid the knights from their view, the clear notes of the knights’ battle-leader’s war-horn rang out in a farewell. He was playing the Salute to Victorious Warriors. Shandril had heard it played by bards at the i

“Will we ever see them again?” Narm asked softly, as they slowed.

“Yes,” said Shandril, with eyes and voice of steel, “whatever stands in the way.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “It is time we learned to look after ourselves. If I must slay with this spellfire every jack and lass seems so eager to take, then so be it. I’m afraid I can’t laugh at devils and dracoliches and mages and men with swords the way Torm does. They just make me angry and afraid. So I’ll strike back at them. I hope you won’t be hurt… I fear much battle lies ahead of us.”

“I hope you won’t be hurt, my lady,” Narm answered her, as they rode on. “You’re the one they’ll be after.”

“I know,” Shandril said softly, and steel shone in her eyes again. “But it is I who’ll have spellfire ready when they find me.”

They slowed their horses to a steady trot. The road was lightly traveled that day. They saw no one traveling south, and only a few merchants heading north. AD rode ready-armed, but nodded without incident or ill looks.

Great old trees of the Elven Court rose on both sides of the road. Between them and the road itself stumps rose out of the ditch like the gray fingers of buried giants, all that remained of saplings cut by travelers as staves and litter-poles and firewood. Narm watched these narrowly as they rode, half-expecting brigands to rise up out of them at every bend and dip of the way.

They rode in silence for the most part, until the sun glimmered low, and the trees laid dark shadows across the road.

“We should find a place to sleep, love,” Narm said as shadows lengthened and their horses slowed.

Shandril looked at him and nodded soberly. “Aye, and soon,” she said. “We are almost upon the vale. A cursed place. Let us stop here-at that height, ahead-and hope none find us.”

They reined to a halt, and Narm swung down. “Ohhh,” he groaned. “Stiff… ohhh. Tymora watch over us.” He patted his mount’s head and listened. “Water, down there,” he said after a moment, pointing.

Shandril swung down into his arms. “Good, then,” she said lightly, inches from his nose. “You fetch some while I tie the horses, oh mighty conjurer.”

Narm growled and kissed her, and then unhooked the nosebags from the mules and went down to get water. Somewhere nearby a wolf howled. Overhead, as the last light faded and the moonlight began, a black falcon came silently to a branch above Shandril, and clung, watching.

They awoke in each other’s arms on a hard bed of canvas tent laid flat upon mossy ground. Birds called in the brightening morning. It was damp and misty among the trees. They were in a beautiful place, but somehow it was not welcoming. They were intruders, and could feel it.

Once Narm thought he saw elven eyes far off in the gloom, regarding him steadily, but he blinked and they were gone. The Elven Court itself may have gone from these woods, but the hand of man had not tamed them-yet. Narm felt more comfortable with his hand resting on the hilt of his drawn dagger, beneath the cloak that covered their shoulders and throats. He turned to Shandril, who smiled through tousled hair, looking sleepy and vulnerable. “Good morn, my lady,” Narm greeted her softly, rolling over to draw her close.

“And to you, my love,” Shandril replied softly. “It is nice to be alone for once, without mages attacking us and guards watching over us always, and Elminster fussing about… I love you, Narm.”

“I love you, too,” Narm said quietly. “How lucky I’ve been to see you in the i

“Aye,” Shandril whispered against his chest. “Long gone and probably dead. Oh, Narm…” They lay in each other’s arms, warm and safe and unwilling to rise and end this feeling of peace.

Then they heard the dull thudding of hooves from the road nearby, and the creak of harness leather. Shandril sighed and rolled free of Narm. “I suppose we must get up,” she said, long, blond hair hanging about her shoulders as she rose to her knees, pulling the cloak about her against the chill. “If we stop in Essembra only to buy feed and to eat and then hasten on, we could camp on the southern edge of the woods this night. I would be out and away, west of the Thunder Peaks, before the Cult of the Dragon and Zhentil Keep and whoever else is after me know we have parted from the knights. Come, now. You can kiss me more later.”

Narm nodded a bit mournfully. “Aye, I know.” He sat up and looked all about at the drifting mist in the trees, and the horses chewing on leaves patiently. He sighed too, then, and scrambled up to draw on his clothes. His thighs were raw from yesterday’s riding. He drew on his belt, then stopped abruptly, listening. He could have sworn he had heard a chuckle, but there was no one to be seen. All was quiet from the road, too. After a long time he shrugged and continued on, glancing back often at his lady. He never saw the black falcon winging low over the treetops to the east on the long flight home.