Spellfire

“It is not my place to speak as one of you,” said Za

His hard face turned to look down the table. “But I do think that the more one listens, the more one learns. Something, whether it’s spellfire or not, is striking down brother after brother, and many of your sacred ones, too- Rauglothgor and Aghazstamn were both of great power. Can the dracolich Shargrailar be any the safer? Its lair is on the other side of the Peaks, true, but still near.”

“Yes,” Zilvreen agreed, “and yet the Sacred Ones can look after themselves far better than we can defend them, if we know not where the blow may fall. Better we go after this Shandril ourselves and destroy her. If we cower in lairs awaiting her attack, we have already conceded the victory.”

“Yes, yes, we have heard this line before and agreed to it,” Naergoth said. “Our absent mage may have died following it.”

“Let this Shandril and the fledgling mage Narm go, then,” Dargoth said. “The cost is too high.”

“Too high already,” agreed the cleric Salvarad in a soft voice that warned of sharp things beneath its purr. The triple lightning bolts of Talcs, worked in silver, gleamed upon his breast. “Yet, brothers, consider the cost if it becomes widely known that a young girl-a young girl who commands an unusual and powerful ability of art-has defied us and destroyed so many of us! Can we afford to let her go-at any price-now? What think you?”

“Oh, aye, for the cost of a loss of reputation, let her go,” Zilvreen said. “What loss is that? A few butcherings and ma

“Yes, we ca

“You think your enemies can stand against it? Hah! I’ve heard it whispered that Manshoon of Zhentil Keep was put to flight by this girl! I say we keep our ranks safe and war no more upon this Shandril-unless time and Tymora weaken her so that our chances are improved. Let others go after her and be the weaker for it! We shall reap the reward of their folly as the vulture dines upon the fields of fallen.

“Swords have got us where we are today. Aye, not without art and divine favor, I’ll grant, but swords have kept rulers and bandits at bay. We do not need this spellfire. Waste not our best blood on it!”

“Well said, Guindeen. Yet,” Salvarad responded, “can we afford to let our foes win spellfire to wield against us? We should all then be destroyed.”

“You bring us to the hard choice, indeed,” Naergoth Blade-lord said quietly, “and that brings us to the choice behind it: Who wants to go up against this young maid?” He looked around the table, but the silence that followed grew heavy.

No one moved or spoke. After a very long time, Naergoth said softly, “So be it. We are agreed. We put spellfire behind us and go on to work for the greater glory of the dead dragons in other ways.”

There were reluctant nods, but no one said anything. It is difficult to laugh at fear when one regularly dealt it often to others.

They rode west, steadily. Narm peered warily all about as they traveled, expecting another attack. But Shandril found this forest somehow friendlier than the Elven Court. Amid the thick tangle of trunks and gnarled limbs, one could see into the deep, hidden places. Vines hung in spidery tangles from high branches to trunks. Ferns grew thick upon the ground, broken only in places where limbs had fallen.

Shandril looked here and there, at moss upon rocks and trunks, and at great thick trees as large about as some cottages. But Narm saw only danger, possible ambushes, and concealing shadows. But as the day grew older and no attack came, he too began to enjoy the road to Deepingdale.

“It is beautiful,” he said, as they came to the crest of a gentle rise in the road and saw sunlight streaming down through the trees in a small clearing.

“Aye,” Shandril said in a small voice. “I’ve never seen these woods before, even though I lived just a day’s ride from here.” She peered about. “Sometimes I wish I’d never known this spellfire, and I could Just come home now with you, instead of fleeing a hundred or more half-mad mages.”

“Why not stay?” Narm replied. “You have the power to slay a hundred half-mad mages.”

Shandril sighed. “Aye, maybe. But I’d lose the dale and my friends and even you, I don’t doubt, in the process. Powerful mages always seem to destroy things about them. They work worse devastation than forest fires and brigands. Sometimes I think life would be much simpler without art.”

“I said that to Elminster,” Narm replied, “and he said not so. If I could see the strange worlds he’s walked, he said, I’d understand.”

“No, thank you,” Shandril replied. “I’ve troubles enough, it seems, in this world.” The road rose again through a leafy tu

Narm and Shandril rode close and quiet, side by side, looking all about them for danger. Tiny, whip like branches that had fallen from the trees above lay amid the dead leaves and tangled grass and ferns like thin, dark faerie fingers, waiting to clutch or snap underfoot. They rode on, and still no attack came, nor did they meet travelers upon the road.

“This is eerie,” Shandril said. “Where is everyone?”

“Elsewhere, for once,” Narm said. “Be thankful, and ride while we have the chance! I would be free of the dales, where everyone knows us. Your spellfire ca

“I have thought about that,” Shandril said in a small voice. “Thus far, we have been very lucky. More than that, we’ve fought many who did not know what they faced, even as 1 do not. Before long, mages will come against us with spells and devices of art prepared specifically to disable me or foil spellfire. And then how shall we fare?”

“Ah, Shan, you moan a lot,” Narm replied, exasperated. “I’m worried about you. You at least can strike back. Did you expect a life like in the ballads, all cheering and triumph and happy endings? No. Adventure, you wanted, adventure you have. Did you hear Lanseril’s definition of adventure, at that first feast in Shadowdale?”

Shandril wrinkled her brow. “I did overhear it, yes. Something about being cursedly uncomfortable and hurt or afraid, and then telling everyone later that it was nothing.”

“Aye, that was it.” They rode over another rise with still no sign of other travelers on the road. “It is a long way to Silverymoon,” Narm added thoughtfully. “Do you remember all the Harpers Storm named for us, along the way?”

“Yes. Do you?” his lady replied impishly, and Narm shook his head.

“I’ve forgotten half of them, I’m sure. I was not suited to be a world traveler?’ Narm replied ruefully. “Nor was the tutelage of Marimmar very useful in that respect.”

Shandril laughed. “I’ll bet.” She looked at the woods about them. “If the Realms hold places as beautiful as this, mind you, I won’t mind the trip ahead.”

“Even with a hundred or so evil priests and mages after our blood?”

Shandril wrinkled her nose. “Just don’t call me ‘Magekiller,’ or anything of the sort. Remember-they come after me. I have no quarrel with them.”

“I’ll remind the next dozen or so corpses of that,” Narm replied dryly. “If you leave enough for me to speak to, that is.”

Shandril looked away from him, then, and said very softly, “Please do not speak so of all the killing. I hate it. Never, never do I want to become so used to it that I grow careless of my power. Who knows when this spellfire might leave me? Then, Narm? I will have only your art to protect me. Think on that.”