Crown of Fire ss-2 Page 6

  Shandril shook her head. "No-whatever I do, danger waits for me or comes looking. At least if I'm going somewhere, I have the feeling I'm doing something rather than just running from the latest attack." She looked at them both and spread her hands. "If 1 wasn't trying to get to Silverymoon-even if it doesn't turn out to be a friendly haven-I'd be dead by now. I'd have surrendered, just to be free of always running and worrying and fighting. I'm so sick of it all-I could scream!"

  Fire danced in Shandril's eyes for a moment, and then died away, leaving her expression empty, her eyes like two dark, despairing pits. "I do scream," she added, voice unsteady, "when I have to use spellfire-cursing the gods for playing this jest on me."

  Delg squinted up at her. "Others have cursed the humor of the gods, lass, even among the dwarves-but I've heard elders tell them the gods jest with us all, and we are measured by how we deal with what befalls. Of course, you want to be free of all who harry you. Who in Faerun wouldn't?"

  He shifted his heavy pack on his shoulders and added, "More than that: I'd be sad if one so young and inexperienced as you had already decided exactly what she'd do her entire life through… because she'd have to be a fool to be so certain about so little."

  "My thanks, Delg-I think," Shandril told him a little stiffly.

  And then she shrieked. Out of nowhere, something slim and dark tore through the air, leaping past her breast to crash into the leaves beyond.

  Delg put his head down and charged bruisingly into Shandril. As they crashed into the damp, dead leaves together, the dwarf snarled, "Down!" in Narm's direction.

  With the hum of an angry hornet, another bolt tore through the air close overhead, and then another. Narm rolled amid dead leaves nearby, cursing.

  Shandril fought for breath as Delg wriggled and grunted beside her, shucking his pack, tearing his shield free, and getting his arm into the straps. His axe flashed past her nose as he hefted it.

  "The Zhents again!" the dwarf hissed, peering into the trees. "There!"

  He pointed. Shandril rolled onto hands and knees and came up beside his hairy hand, looking along the pointing finger-and into the eyes of a Zbent who was loading a cocked crossbow.

  From the leaves beside them, Narm muttered something. Two pulses of light leapt from his hand, streaking through the trees. The man grunted as they hit, staggering and dropping his bow.

  Shandril saw others behind him, and rose to her feet, pointing. Spellfire roared down her arm, shaking her, and white flames shot out through the trees like the breath of a furious red dragon. Leaves blazed and then were gone. Halfway to the Zhents a tree was burned through by the roaring flames. It toppled slowly, and crashed ponderously among the dead leaves.

  Sbandril snarled and raised her other hand.

  Delg caught her arm from behind. "No, Shan!" Then he cursed and shrank back from her, clutching at his hand. Shandril stared at him in shock. Smoke was rising in wisps from the dwarf's fingers; he shook his hand, roared out his pain, and looked up at her, eyes bright with tears.

  "Remind me not to do that again soon," he growled, flexing his burned fingers. Then he nodded at where she'd aimed. "You daren't do that in these heavy woods, lass-look."

  A burnt scar stretched away through the trees from where she stood, to where a tangle of trees had fallen. Shandril stared along her path of destruction, face bleak, and saw dark-armored figures moving amid the trees beyond it.

  The dwarf hesitated, then reluctantly reached out and caught at her arm again. This time no ready spellfire burned him. "Too many. We must run from them, lass-if you use your fire freely, all these woods'll soon be ablaze around us."

  They could see Zhent warriors, blades drawn, in the trees to their right and ahead of them. The Zhents were advancing cautiously, moving in as a group so as to arrive together, their blades a deadly wall of steel.

  Delg couldn't see any foes to their left. He heaved his pack back onto his shoulders, hung his shield on it, commanded, "Come!" and broke into a lumbering run, heading to the left.

  Narm and Shandril followed, hurrying through the trees. They heard shouts behind them and broke into a panting run. Narm skidded to a halt, waved his hands hurriedly, and then scrambled to catch up with his lady.

  Close behind him-too close-Zhentilar soldiers cursed and struggled in the invisible spellweb the young mage had left for them to blunder into.

  Shandril looked anxiously back every time her route through the thick-standing trees turned to one side or the other. Narm grinned at her between gasps for air as he closed the distance between them, sprinting and leaping as he'd done as a small boy-and never since, until now.

  That invisible web Elminster had taught him had come in very handy. A few Zhents must have gotten around its ends, though-and soon it would melt away, freeing them all. By then, a certain trio of fools had better be long gone.

  Narm reached Shandril's side. They crashed wildly through leaves and tangles, leaping over rocks and fallen branches and slipping on mud and wet leaves underfoot while the dwarf huffed along ahead of them, completely hidden under his pack. The bulging rucksack looked like it was running away by itself, leaping and scuttling through the leaves.

  With aching lungs and pounding hearts, Narm and Shandril followed, plunging down a slope of old leaves and soft mosses that gave way and slid under their feet. Soon they reached the bottom of a leaf-

  choked gully, and ran along it, gathering speed with the easier footing. Their route looked like an old, sunken road hidden below the overhanging trees, cutting through a ridge ahead and then dropping out of sight.

  The pack that hid Delg bobbed and wiggled as it fairly flew along ahead of Narm and Shandril, but their longer legs were beginning to close the distance to the huffing dwarf. Now he was only thirty paces or so in front of them. Narm growled and put on a determined burst of speed.

  Twenty paces ahead. Ten.

  There was a sharp cracking sound-and then another. The ground in front of Delg rose suddenly, like the drawbridge of a keep, and the two puffing humans saw the bulky pack slip back down its slope. Delg's axe flashed for a moment as he waved it-and then the dwarf and his pack fell out of sight.

  Narm and Shandril came to a shocked halt on the very edge of the pit Delg had fallen into, and they clutched at each other for balance. Delg lay helpless like an upended turtle atop a forest of wooden spikes that had pierced the pack he wore. Shandril looked over her shoulder to find a vine to drag Delg out, but just then, four Zhentarim soldiers with drawn swords rose from behind the trees, atop the banks of the gully.

  "Surrender to us," one said heavily, "or-"

  Shandril didn't want to hear the choice, it seemed. With a scream very like the angry shriek of a harpy, she hurled spellfire in a fury. White flames leapt forth, roaring; when they died away, the Zhents around saw that the warrior's upper body had been blasted away.

  The legs tottered for a moment and then fell. The two men beside the ash heap screamed in terror and ran. Narm dropped to his belly beside the pit. Its lid was held open by Delg's booted feet; the red-faced, furious dwarf lay below, just beyond his reach, spitting curses Narm was glad he couldn't understand.

  Shouts came from the trees behind them. The warriors they'd run from-who'd herded them here, Shandril realized were following up their trail. Fast.

  One man remained atop the other bank, sword drawn. He looked down at them uncertainly, his face gray with fear, his eyes wide.

  "Drop your sword, or die!" Shandril told him. "Now!" Alorth licked bloodless lips and looked across at what was left of the swordmaster. He threw his blade down, raising his hands to plead. "Please-"

  "Get down here!" Shandril hurled spellfire back down the gully behind her without looking; a cry of despair, abruptly stilled, answered her. She glared at the Zhentilar. "Come down-or die!"

  Almost weeping with terror, Alorth slithered down. Those burning eyes stared up at him from only a few feet away. They might belong to a young, frightened girl-but they held
his death, and Alorth knew it. He trembled, sudden sweat running down his nose.

  "Touch no weapons," Shandril said, biting off her words. "Reach down and get him out of the pit. If he's hurt, or if you leave the pack behind, you die."

  Alorth stared at her for a moment, and at the young mage who rose up from the dirt to glare at him. A crossbow bolt whistled past them.

  "Move, or die!" Shandril hissed, eyes flaming. Spellfire lanced out. The Zhentilar cried out at the burning pain her gaze brought him, and fell heavily on his knees. Behind him, he heard screams and a roar like rolling thunder. He looked around-to find the forest lit by hungry flames, Zhentilar warriors shrieking and staggering in the conflagration. The young lass stood defiantly facing them, fire dancing in her hands.

  Then something gleamed, very near, as it slid down into his view: the point of his own sword, not a finger's length from his eyes, the angry face of the young mage behind it.

  Sobbing in fear, Alorth turned and reached for the dwarf. Too far. He'd never reach that far, without-he frantically scrabbled at the edge of the pit, but harsh hands were suddenly at his ribs and belt, heaving and shoving.

  With a cry of terror, Alorth Bloodshoulder toppled headlong toward the spikes, those cruel points leaping up at his face, and-there was a sudden pain in his knees as he came to a wrenching halt. Alorth groaned. Sweat fell past his eyes-and spattered on the sharpened wood only inches below. The mage must be sitting on his lower legs.

  The dwarf, still snarling dwarven curses, swarmed up his arms, digging in fingers with cruel force. Then the weight and the pain were both gone, and Alorth was roughly hauled up onto the ground. Freed, he slumped into the dirt, moaning softly.

  The noise like thunder came again. Alorth looked up with tear-blurred eyes, and saw a stream of white, roaring flames rolling down the already blackened gully away from him, the girl silhouetted against its brightness. Crossbow bolts leapt from the trees to either side, caught fire as Shandril looked at them, and crashed down in smoke and ashes. The dwarf, axe in hand, glared at Alorth from a foot or so away, and the Zhentilar fearfully snatched the dagger from his belt.

  Shandril heard his grunt of effort and spun around. Spellfire roared, and Alorth found himself staring at the bare bones of his arm. The smoking remnants of the dagger fell from them an instant before they collapsed, pattering to the ground in a grisly shower. Alorth found breath enough to whimper for a moment before the world spun, and he crashed down into darkness…

  "Are there any left?" Narm was peering back through the trees as they stood gasping for breath in a little hollow deeper in the forest- They had run from the gully of smoking Zhentilar corpses for what seemed like an hour. The pursuing shouts and crossbow bolts seemed to have stopped-and far behind them, they heard barking calls that probably meant wolves had discovered waiting cooked meals.

  "There're always more Zhents, lad," Delg puffed. `they're like stinging flies." The dwarf was glumly looking at his torn and punctured pack. Shredded clothing protruded from the rents the spikes had made.

  Narm pushed the cloth back through the holes. Between gulps for air, he said brightly, "That could've been… far worse… aye?"

  Delg rolled a severe eye around to meet his. "Many men spend their lives trying to get out of one hole or another. Just take care, Narm, that yours doesn't wind up being a pit with sharpened spikes at the bottom of it."

  Shandril managed a weak chuckle, and then got to her feet. "We'd best go on while we can," she sighed. "Or they'll be on us again-and those crossbows can't miss forever."

  Narm was muttering something and passing a hand over Delg's pack. Where he touched it, the worst rents and holes shrank and closed, the fabric smoothing out as if new. Narm, finished, probed at his work, and looked up at her. "How are you feeling, Shan?"

  "Tired. When I said I was sick of endless battle," Shandril told him grimly, "I meant it."

  The glow from the pool lit the face of the Zhentarim priest who stared into it, watching them from afar. He smiled a slow, cruel smile and said, "Oh, maid, if you're sick of battle now, you'll be at the doors of death over it, before long-I can promise that." The warriors standing with him all laughed. It was not a pretty chorus.

  As they struggled through the endless green depths of Hullack Forest, and the day wore on, Delg felt the constant weight of watching eyes on them. More than once, he called a halt to peer around suspiciously, looking at the dim legions of tree trunks on all sides. "We're being watched," he said. "I can feel it."

  "Magic?" Narm asked.

  "Of course magic, stumblehead," the dwarf replied grumpily. "If a beast-or even a Zhent sneak-thief-

  was stalking along behind us, I'd have seen it by now."

  As you say, oh tall and mighty one," Narm replied, eyes dancing.

  Shandril flicked a warning look at her husband as the dwarf growled something under his breath, and Narm raised his hands. "Peace! Peace, oh giant among dwarves!" "A bit less tongue, youngling," Delg replied, "and we'd best be on our way again-unless Elminster taught you any clever spells that can ward off scrying magic."

  The mage frowned. "No, no… but I'm trying to remember something Storm said, back in Shadowdale, about the goddess Tymora."

  "Tymora?"

  "Aye… Rathan gave us a luck medallion blessed by Tymora, and Gorstag gave us another. Storm said something about how such things can be used, but I can't recall-"

  The dwarf snorted. "Of course not. You're a mage, and mages can't even remember their own names or ages. Let me look at these medallions."

  Shandril obediently pulled on the chain around her neck, drawing her medallion out of the breast of her tunic. Narm brought his out of his robes. The dwarf squinted at them both and sighed.

  "By the gods, you two innocents'll be the death of me yet! With these, we can be cloaked from magic, twice — each use will burn away one medallion."

  "What?"

  "Aye."The dwarf fairly danced in impatience. "There's a charm on these things." He swung around to fix Narm with eager eyes. "You can cast an invisibility spell, can't you, lad?"

  Narm nodded. "Y-yes."

  "Well, if you cast it on one of these medallions, the spell will last until the next morn, so long as the medallion isn't touched by a living being, or moved. The spell covers everyone within ten paces-or whatever, I forget exactly how far-and nothing can see, hear, or smell them from outside that space. Even sniffing beasts and wizard spells miss you. All the spells that detect things find all sorts of

  traces, aye-in the wrong places, and moving in the wrong directions."

  "You speak truth?" Narm's astonishment overrode his manners.

  "Nay, lad-I want to die under a dozen Zhentarim blades," the dwarf snarled, "after all we've been through thus far. So I'm lying to you both so Manshoon can walk right up to us while you think us safe. Of course I speak truth! One of these saved my life, once, when our company was too badly wounded to go on; with it, we bought time for healing."

  "If that's so," Shandril said quietly, "I could use a rest from all this running-and time to practice a bit with my spellfire. I'm still burning things to ashes when I mean only to cook them gently, or send spellflame past them at something else. I've no wish to burn most of this forest down, or slay things I

  have no quarrel with."

  "Let's go on until we find another clearing, then," Narm said. "And some water to drink."

  "We're past highsun," Delg said. "We'd best be getting on."

  It had grown late, the sun sinking low amid the trees, before they found another clearing. "Here," Shandril said, giving her medallion to Delg.

  The dwarf set it on a stone near the center of the open, grassy space, and sat himself on an old stump nearby. "Your spell, lad," he directed. Narm carefully worked his magic and touched the shining silver disc. It flashed and then briefly sparkled, but nothing else seemed to happen.

  "Is it working?" Shandril asked. The young man and the dwarf traded looks and shrugged in unison
.

  "I don't feel we're being watched anymore," Delg said. He turned to Narm. "Best study your spells, lad, while I get a meal ready."

  Shandril sighed, relaxing, and then walked a few paces away. She found some bushes and a comfortable mosscovered stone, and sank down thankfully. Yawning, she rubbed at her shoulders and aching feet. Then she stiffened. There was a tiny fluttering inside her; spellfire tingling faintly… building again.

  She bent her will to calling the inner fire up, feeling it surge and roil about within her. When Shandril felt ready, she stood and hurled a tongue of flame between the two trunks of a forked duskwood tree. They smoked and creaked in the heat, but neither burst into flame.

  Pleased, she threw spellfire again. This time her target was a small cluster of leaves: could she burn them off their branch without disturbing other leaves nearby? The cluster flared and was gone; a few flames flickered and then died in their wake. Shandril frowned; she'd burned more leaves than she'd meant to.

  None of the three travelers saw the medallion begin to smolder. When the next burst of spellfire lashed out at a small patch of toadstools, the medallion pulsed with momentary fire. Drifting smoke showed that only a blackened patch remained where the toadstools had been; the medallion melted into a tiny remnant that crumbled and fell apart, unseen.

  When next spellfire licked out in a curving arc this time, reaching around behind a stout tree-malevolent eyes were watching, as before…

  "Watch well," Gathlarue said softly, looking into the glowing crystal, "and remember-this is not a fire spell. The maid's fire cleaves all spell barriers we know of and will scatter any wall of fire you or I might raise."

  Mairara lifted an eyebrow. "I find it hard to credit that wench with wits enough to stand up to any mage of skill."

  "She is said to have forced Lord Manshoon himself to flee," Tespril whispered. Her eyes were large and very dark; Gathlarue was pleased to see that at least one of her apprentices was smart enough to be scared.