Spellfire

In falcon shape, The Simbul shook her head and chuckled again. They were good folk, she thought, and then rose on powerful wings to look around at the trees below. Children, still, but they’d not be for much longer. She had other concerns, too long neglected, to see to now. Perhaps they’d be killed-but then again, it was entirely possible that they’d do the killing if any in Faerun quarreled with them. Farewell, you two. Fare-you-very-well. The lonely queen of Aglarond flicked raven-black wings and rose higher.

They made good time across the strangely still place known as the Vale of Lost Voices. Sacred to the elves, it was, and men whispered that something unseen and terrible guarded it. Something that destroyed axe-wielding men and great mages alike, and left no trace behind. In the vale the elves of the Elven Court buried the bodies of their fallen, but those who dared to dig for treasure there vanished in the mists and were not seen again.

Narm and Shandril, and those who passed them there, said not a word all the time they rode across that tree-choked valley. The largest trees they had seen yet grew in the vale, some as big around as Elminster’s tower back in Shadowdale. The light was eerily blue under the trees where mists coiled slowly far off, and faint glowing lights drifted and danced. No one stepped off the road while they traversed the vale.

They left it at last, Shandril shivering in sudden relief as they came up over the crest of the steep hill that marked its southern edge.

“The Lost Dale, they call it in Cormyr,” Narm said, low-voiced. “Forever lost to men, because of the elves.”

Shandril looked at him. “They say in the dales that every elf in the Elven Court would have to be dead before one tree of the vale could be safely cut.”

“But all the elves are gone now,” Narm said. Shandril shook her head.

“No. I saw one in the woods at Storm Silverhand’s. She waved to Storm and went away as we came down to the pool.” Shandril turned to peer all around into the trees.

“But that’s far from here,” Narm protested.

“Think you so?” asked Shandril very softly. “Look there, then.” Narm followed her gaze and saw a motionless figure in mottled green-gray standing upon the mighty branch of a shadowtop that towered high above the road ahead. The figure was an elf, and he leaned easily upon a bow that must have been a bead taller than Narm. He looked at them with steady blue, gold-flecked eyes. Shandril bowed her head, spread empty hands, and smiled. Narm did the same. A slow nod was their only answer. The horses carried them past at a steady pace, and Shandril said, “A moon elf, like Merith.”

“A possible enemy, unlike Merith,” Narm replied grimly. “We must watch our every step.” He peered ahead. “The trees thin,” he said. “We must be nearing Essembra. I can see fields.”

A caravan rumbled toward them, then, a dozen wagons pulled by oxen. The wagons were surrounded by hard-eyed outriders who rode with crossbows at their saddles and short spears in their hands. The wagons bore no merchant ba

Well behind the caravan rode a family on heavily laden draft horses, leading strings of pack mules. They were led by a single excited youth with a halberd that dipped and swung alarmingly as he rode forward to challenge them. “Way, there! Way, if you be not foes! Declare yourselves!”

Narm stared at him in silence. The halberd lowered upon them.

“Declare yourselves, or defend yourselves!”

“Ride on in peace,” Narm replied, “or I’ll turn your halberd into a viper and turn it back upon you!”

The boy recoiled, his horse dancing uncertainly as its rider waved about trying to draw his blade wrong-handed while keeping the halberd menacingly upon Narm. “If you be a mage,” he said shrilly, backing away as Narm and Shandril rode steadily on, “give your name, or face swift death!” Beyond him Narm saw small crossbows raised ready upon saddles, and calm, wary eyes above them. He could not hesitate longer. Beside him, Shandril rode serenely silent.

Narm drew himself up in his saddle. “I am Marimmar the Magnificent, Mage Most Mighty. I and my apprentice would pass you in peace. But offer us death, and it shall be yours!”

Beside him, Shandril burst into muffled giggles. Narm kept his composure with an effort, as the boy cast him a frightened look and hastened by. Narm nodded pleasantly and then stared straight ahead as he rode past the other men and the mules behind, managing to hide a smile that kept creeping onto one side of his face.

“Sarhthor?” Sememmon asked aloud, peering into the depths of the crystal ball before him. Its magical telepathy was always difficult to focus at first. In its depths he could see flickering lamps and an expressionless, elegantly bearded face. Sarhthor looked back at him and sent his thoughts without speaking. Sememmon tried to hide his own irritation at the other mage’s precise ease of art and apparent fearlessness.

“Well met, Sememmon. I have searched the dale. Elminster and the knights have just returned, using the road south from Voonlar. The girl with spellfire and her consort mageling are not here, as far as I can determine.”

“Not in Shadowdale?”

“Not. They may be here in hiding, but I doubt it. None of the knights-or those Harpers I can observe in safety-have gone anywhere out of the ordinary or met with anyone. The folk of the tower know they left two nights ago.”

“Two nights?” Sememmon almost screamed. “Why, they could be almost anywhere!”

Precisely why I’m returning to you, as soon as possible, Sarhthor thought flatly, then said aloud, “By the way, who is that with you?”

“With me?” Sememmon asked, angry and startled. “I am alone!”

“You are indeed-now. A moment ago there was an eye floating above your left shoulder-the ocular construction of a wizard eye spell. A spy, then. Guard yourself, Sememmon.”

Sememmon had already turned angrily away from the ball, to stare wildly about his chamber. “Show yourself!” he thundered, casting a detect magic spell. Dweomer-the auras of familiar objects imbued with art-glowed all around him. The faint traceries of spells, too, shone in the field of revealed magic created by his spell, but they were all spells he knew about, preservative and defensive, all art that should be there. There was no sign of any intruder.

At last Sememmon turned angrily back to the crystal ball, but it was dark. No one waited at the matching globe at the other end any longer. Sememmon cursed the shadows about him, but they did not answer.

The sun was low again. Shandril and Narm passed a skin of hot spiced tea between them as they rode, their bellies full of warm roast phledge, the plump ground-partridge of the woods, smoky-tasting and delightful in a thick pea gravy. No one had acted suspicious of them at the i

“How do you feel, my lady?” Narm asked suddenly, not meeting her eyes. “About the spellfire, I mean. Does it… change one?”

A little startled at the sudde

Narm looked at her, and there was a little silence as they regarded each other. And then the attack came.

Shandril felt something was wrong an instant before the boulder struck Narm’s shoulder, and his head flew back. The jarring made her bite her lip. Narm was whirled about, his arm striking her head solidly as he spun, and he toppled and fell.

Stu