Spellfire

He gri

The Bright Spot

I have known the crushing of the soul that defeat brings, and the burning, sickening pain of deep wounds-and would not have it otherwise. Such dark things make the bright spots burn the brighter.

Korin of Neverwinter

Tales Told By The Warm Fireside

Year of the Blazing Brand

“No… make no sound,” the man in robes warned. “Speak not. Cast no spells. Use no spellfire, Shandril Shessair-or I will let fall the rock on the head of your husband.” His eyes bore into hers. “Do not think to trick me or take me unaware,” the man added calmly, “for I am not such a fool- and yonder stone can hardly miss its mark.”

Shandril sat still in her saddle, cold fear trickling slowly- slowly and chillingly-down her spine. She stared at the mage and wondered for an instant who this one was. How to win free? her mind screamed then. How to win free?

“I am Malark “ the man said with cold pride, “of the Cult of the Dragon. 1 come for revenge, and I will have it.” His eyes flickered. “Get down off your horse slowly, and stay just where you land, or your husband will die.”

Shandril did as he commanded, never taking her eyes off his. He watched her with the cold patience of a snake.

“Lie down. Slowly. To your knees, and then upon your belly, arms outstretched toward me. Do not touch any weapon.” Shandril did so, heart sinking as she pressed her face into the rocky ground. “Good,” said the voice coldly.

“Spread your arms and legs apart. Do not try to rise.”

He was nearer. Shandril obeyed, wondering how much she’d have the courage to endure. She gathered spellfire within her, silently. Malark walked around her, staying at a safe distance. Angry warmth filled her chest and throat. She glared at the grass before her eyes, and it began to smolder. She hooded her fire, hastily, and held herself ready. Tymora aid me!

“You have cost us much indeed, Shandril Shessair. The Shadowsil, the dracolich Rauglothgor, his lair, and the fortified tower above it, with all his treasure, the dracolich Aghazstamn, many devout worshippers-the worth of all these, you owe us. The price is your spellfire-that, and your service and that of your husband. You may serve us, or die. Lie still.” The cold voice began the mutterings of spellcasting.

Gods aid me, Shandril thought. What will become of us? There are no knights here to rescue us, now.

Malark’s cold chanting ended in a sudden squealing, gurgling sound. Shandril, waiting to absorb his spell, froze and then rolled over in breathless haste. If that rock fell on Narm…

But Narm was safely to one side, in the grip of a gri

In the thief s hands were the ends of the waxed cord that had choked off Malark’s spell in mid-word. Malark was hanging from the cord now, face terrible, frantic fingers clawing at the cord about his throat growing feeble. Malark’s eyes rolled up into his skull, and he began to sag. Torm held the cord tight as he lowered the mage slowly to the ground.

“Well met,” the thief said cheerfully as he rolled the body over, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion, and beckoned Rathan over with a jerk of his head. “His purse, quickly, before he is fully dead… these damned mages all have spells set to trigger all ma

Rathan bent to work obediently. “Ho, Shandril-thy lad’s all right,” he said quickly. Shandril stared at the boulder, now sunk into the grass nearby, and shuddered. “Nothing but a bit of rag and a handful of coppers,” Rathan told Torm.

“His boots,” Torm directed, still holding the cord tight. Malark’s face looked so dark and terrible that Shandril turned away.

“Is-is he dead?” she asked weakly.

“Nearly. I’ll cut his throat in a moment… Then, lady, it would be best to burn the body completely, or some bright-minded bastard of the cult will raise him to lurk on your trail.” Torm turned professional eyes upon the boots. “Try that heel.”

“Hah!” Rathan said in satisfaction a moment later, holding up six platinum pieces. “Hollow, indeed!”

“Hmmph,” Torm said, wrinkling his nose. “No magic? Scarce worth all this trouble. Have off his robe, Rathan, and we’ll cut his throat and be done with it.”

“His robe?”

“Aye, his robe. Where he conceals the components for his spells, a few extra coins, and the gods know what else… which we’ll soon learn. Come on-my arms grow weary!”

“They do? Pretend they’re around a wench, and ye’ll have no trouble at all,” Rathan told him gruffly, tugging off the mage’s robe. He stepped back, looked at the body as Torm laid it down with both ends of the cord in one fist and a dagger gleaming long and wickedly in the other, and then gri

“Not unimportant, are you?” he said. “Malark, one of the rulers of the Cult of the Dragon. An archmage in his own right. You watch out, now. There are lots of other rats like this one in Sembia, mind, and there’s one in Deepingdale, too..-..”

“Yes,” Shandril said. “Korvan.”

Rathan nodded. “Aye, that’s the name! You’ve been warned, then? Good. Well, you’re doing fine thus far!”

“Fine,” said Shandril bitterly, looking at Malark as Torm freed his cord at last and slashed with cruel speed. Her gaze fell next on Narm, who still lay silent in the grass. “Oh, yes. Fine indeed.” She burst into tears.

Rathan sighed and went to her. “Look, little one,” he said awkwardly, “Faerun can be a cruel place. Men like this have to be slain-or they will kill thee. Nor is there any shame in defeat at his hands-this one could have slain any of us knights, in an open fight. He was an archmage.” He enfolded her in a bear hug. “Ye wouldn’t be thirsty, perhaps?”

Shandril’s shoulders shook helplessly then, as tears were overwhelmed by laughter. She laughed for a long time, and a little wildly, but Rathan held her tight, and when at last she was done, she raised bright eyes and said, “Are you finished, Torm? I think I’d like to wield a little spellfire.”

Torm nodded and stepped back, and Shandril raised a hand and lashed the body with flames, pouring out her anger. Oily smoke arose almost immediately, and the horses snorted and hurried off in all directions.

Torm and Rathan let out brief despairing cries and ran after the horses, just as Narm rolled over and groaned, and then asked faintly, “Shandril? Wha-why did you do that? Am I not to kiss you?”

“They could be dead by now!” Sharantyr said angrily. “I ride patrol for a few days and return to find you’ve put your toes to the behinds of two of the nicest young people I’ve met! One struggles with half-trained art, and the other bears spellfire that every mage in the Realms would slay her to gain or destroy, and both are mad enough to seek adventure. And but days married, too! Where is your kindness, Knights of Myth Dra

Easy, Shar,” Florin said gently. “They joined the Harpers and wanted to walk their own road. Would you want to be caged?”

“Caged? Does a mother turn her infant out of the house because it’s reached twenty nights of age? Alone, you sent them!” She turned upon Elminster. “What say you, old one? Can they best even a handful of brigands on the road? Brigands who attack by surprise in the night? Speak truth!”

“I have never done aught else,” Elminster answered her. “As to the fight ye speak of, I think ye’d be surprised.” He drew out his pipe. “Besides,” he added, “they’re not alone. Not by now. Torm and Rathan rode after them.”

Sharantyr snorted. “Sent the brightest lances, didn’t you?” She paced, sword bouncing on her hip, and then sighed.