Spellfire

“Clever words,” was the reply, but it was made amid chuckles. The reins of the two mounts were lengthened so that they could be led, and the warriors hastened on.

“Is it in your mind, then,” one asked the older warrior, “that we ride on a hopeless task?”

The older warrior nodded. “Not hopeless, mind you-but I’ve seen too many young and over-clever mages who follow our way-like that one, who just left us-come to a crashing fall, to think that this last one has any more wisdom or real power than the others.”

“What if I tell Naergoth of the Purple of your doubting words when we return? What then?” asked the one he had rebuked earlier. The old warrior shrugged and gri

“Say the word, if you will. It is my guess you’ll be adding them to a report of Thiszult’s death, unless he flees. I’ve served the cult awhile, you know. I know something of what I say, when I speak.” His tone was mild, but his eyes were very, very cold, and the other warrior looked away first. They rode on.

A wild-eyed Shandril was buckling and lacing and kicking on her boots for all she was worth, at the head of the stairs. “We must away,” she panted to Narm, as Lureene fussed about her. “Others come… I dreamed it… Manshoon, again, I tell you-and others! Hurry and get dressed!”

“But… but…” Narm decided not to argue and began to eat stew like a madman, wincing and groaning as he burned his lips on hot chunks of meat. Lureene took one look at him, as he danced about Shandril on bare feet, and fell back onto the beds hooting in helpless laughter.

“Forgive me,” she gasped when she could speak again. By then Shandril had straightened her belt and started down the stairs, and Narm had halted her with a firm arm to the chest. He handed her the bowl of stew.

“-You two,” Lureene continued, “but I doubt I shall ever see a mage of power so discomfited! Whhooo! Ah, but you looked fu

“You should see me casting spells,” Narm said dryly. Then he asked, “When did she awake like this?”

“Scarce had you gone down when she sat upright, straight awake, and called for you. Then she scrambled up, grabbing for clothes and the tike, all in haste. She dreamed that enemies follow fast upon your trail.”

“She’s probably right,” Narm said ruefully, and began scrambling for clothes himself.

“Did your art have the desired effect?” Sharantyr asked softly.

“Yes,1 Jhessail said heavily. “This dream-weaving’s wearisome work. No wonder Elminster was so reluctant to teach it to me. Yet, I think I scared Shandril enough to get her moving before the cult tries again.” She lay back in her chair wearily, rubbing her eyes. “Ahhh, me,” she said. “I’m ready for bed.”

Sharantyr arose. “I’ll get Merith,” she said, but Jhessail shook her head.

“Nay, nay… it is sleep I need, not cuddling and companionship… you have no idea, Shar-it is tike a black pit of oblivion before me, I am so tired…”

With that the lady mage of the knights drifted forward into the pit, and was gone. Sharantyr found a pillow for her head, drew off her boots, wrapped her in a blanket, and left her to sleep.

Then she drew her sword and sat down nearby where she could- watch Jhessail, laying it across her knees. After all, it had been overlong since Manshoon had worked his last mischief in Shadowdale.

They kissed Lureene good-bye in excited haste, thrust the empty bowl into her hands, and were downstairs and out through the taproom, and into the sunshine, before they drew breath again.

There in the i

“Bread. Sausages. Cheeses. Two casks of wine. Pickled greens-this jar, sealed with clay. A crate of grapes and figs. A coffer of salt. Some torches,” Gorstag said briefly. “And the gods watch over you.” He enveloped Shandril in a crushing hug and swung her up into her saddle. “Carry this,” he said, and pressed a bottle into her hands. “Goat’s milk.., drink it before highsun tomorrow, or it may well go bad?’

He turned to Narm without waiting an instant, like a swordsman turning from a kill in battle, shook the conjurer’s hand in a bruising grip, took him by both elbows and lifted him bodily into the saddle. He then thrust a small, curved and polished miniature disc of silver into his hands.

“A shield of Tymora, blessed by the priests in Waterdeep long ago. May it bring you safe to Silverymoon.”

He stood looking up at them. “You are in haste,” he said gruffly, “and I was never one for long good-byes. So fare you well in life-I hope to see you again before I die, and ‘you both as happy and as hale as you are now. I wish you well, both of you.” He stretched up to kiss them both. “You have both chosen well, in each other.” He patted the rumps of their horses to start them on their way, and raised his fist in a warrior’s salute to an honored champion as they called their good-byes.

As they turned out of The Rising Moon’s yard, Shandril burst into tears. When Narm looked from comforting her to wave, Gorstag still stood like a statue with his arm raised in salute. He stood so until they were out of sight.

When Lureene came down to him, standing there, she heard him muttering prayers to Tymora and Mystra and Helm for the two who had gone. When she put her arms around him from behind, and leaned against the old might of his many-muscled back, she could feel the trembling as he left off praying and began to cry.

It was dark in the meeting chamber of the Cult of the Dragon. Only a single oil-tamp flickered on the table between the two men who were there.

“Do you really think this boy-mage can defeat Shandril, after she has destroyed your best and most powerful?” Dargoth of the Purple said angrily.

“No,” Naergoth Bladelord replied simply. “Another of our dragons pursues her right now.”

“Another dracolich?” Dargoth said in angry astonishment. “We haven’t many more sacred ones to lose!”

“True,” Naergoth said, turning cold eyes upon him. “This one went of its own will. I did not compel it or ask it to go to war-but I did not forbid it, either. One does not forbid Shargrailar anything.”

Dargoth looked at him. “For the love of lost Sammaster! Shargrailar the Dark flies? Gods preserve us!” He sat back, shocked, shaking his head.

“They will hardly start doing that after all this time,” Naergoth said to him dryly, reaching to extinguish the lamp. Darkness descended.

Suddenly they were in a place of fragrant vapors, pots, and knives. The warrior looked around and snorted. “A kitchen!” At his words, the cook, who stood with his back to them over a bloody cutting board, gave a start and whirled around, cleaver rising.

Thiszult smiled coldly at him. “So pleased to see us, Korvan?”

The sour-faced cook struggled to regain his composure; hatred, envy, fear, and exultation chased rapidly across his mean face. “Why, Thisz-”

“Hush. No names! How long ago did the wench leave?” Thiszult strode forward. “Which is the way out of here?”

“Outside, the back, that way. Or, in front: that way, right into the taproom, then left across it to the front door,” Korvan said. “She and the boy-mage left but ten breaths back, if that, thou may well be able to catch them if you-”

“Have horses. Where are the stables?”

“Around the side; that way. There’s a good strong black, and a stouter but slower bay, down the end, and-”

“The cult thanks you, Korvan. You will receive an appropriate reward in time.” Thiszult strode coldly out into the hallway with a snap of his dark cloak, the warrior at his heels. As the man went out, he drew his broad, stained sword and held it ready in his hand.

“Korvan,” Lureene whispered as she came out of the open pantry, eyes dark with anger, “do you know those-those folk?”