Crown of Fire ss-2 Page 7

  She stretched, then favored them both with a smile. "We shall watch and learn much more before we move against Shandril ourselves."

  She ran her fingers idly through a lock of Mairara's long, glossy black hair, and as its owner smiled at her, sat back from the crystal and told Tespril, "Order our evenfeast brought to us, here. Tonight we'll have rare entertainment to watch; the main troop of Zhentilar are to try their luck at capturing Shandril. The idiot sword-swingers are such crude fumblers they've been assigned one of Fzoul's best priests in case they should kill Shandril by mischance."

  The apprentices laughed merrily, and Tespril bowed and hastened away to give the orders.

  "Lady," Mairara whispered, bending over her mistress, "is this spellfire really so much more powerful than the spells of, say, a pair of capable archmages?"

  "Watch," Gathlarue murmured at her senior apprentice. "Watch what befalls tonight, in my crystal… and govern your own mind in the matter."

  Mairara nodded, somber eyes on her, and then looked up swiftly as Tespril returned.

  "The men are taking bets on how this night's battle will turn out," the younger apprentice said, chuckling. "They want to know who commands the Zhentilar."

  Gathlarue smiled. "Karkul Memrimmon leads," she said. "A great beast of a man who fights with spiked gauntlets, and never stays out of the fray."

  "You've met him, Lady?" Tespril's tone was teasing, her eyes bright.

  "I kept well out of his reach," Gathlarue told her. "He's the sort who'd get thrown out of taverns I wouldn't go into…"

  Spellfire crackled satisfyingly around the stump. Shandril watched a small thread of smoke curl up from the bark, and she nodded, satisfied. She could strike exactly the spot she aimed for-and high time, too, as Delg would say.

  She sighed ruefully and looked at the dark, deep woods around her. A branch snapped somewhere off to her left, not far away. Shandril's eyes narrowed, and she backed up to a tree, calling "Narm? Delg?" as loudly as she dared.

  Her answer came swiftly-something large and hairy emerged from behind a nearby tree, lumbering along like a grotesque parody of a man. A cruel beak larger than Shandril's head protruded from the dusty, matted feathers on its face. Hungry, red-rimmed eyes glittered at her, and it began a crashing charge through the leaves.

  Shandril screamed and hurled spellfire at it in a frantic spray. Sputtering spellflames raced out of her and wreathed the huge monster-and it screamed. Shandril sent a bolt of fire right into its face and backed hastily away around the tree, as it roared and flailed blindly with its bearlike claws.

  Her flames hit it again, and its cries grew weaker. There were other crashing sounds behind her, now, coming closer. Shandril looked up. Delg and Narm were bounding through the undergrowth. She sighed thankfullyand the wounded beast charged toward the sound. Anxiously Shandril hurled spellfire into that reaching beak-and the thing recoiled, roaring again.

  There was a sudden flash of light in front of Shandril. It lit Narm's stern face as he guided his conjured blade of force straight into one of the beasts eyes.

  Light flashed again inside that monstrous head, and with a rough, despairing cry, the thing crashed to the damp leaves at her feet. Smoke rose from its mouth and then drifted away. The beast thrashed about briefly and lay still, its eyes growing dull.

  "An owlbear!" Delg's voice was rough with worry. "You seem to run into the most interesting folk, wherever we go.

  Shandril looked down at the smoking thing at her feet, her eyes empty. She suddenly shuddered and turned away with a sob, starting to bolt. A moment later, she ran straight and bruisingly into something large and hard — Delg's shield. The dwarf stepped out from behind it, letting it fall, and caught Shandril by the arm. "You can't run from it, lass-sooner or later, you've got to face it. As long as other folk in Faerun want what you've got, you must kill to live-so, these days, killing's what you do."

  Shandril stared at him. "And what if it's not what I want to do?" she asked very quietly.

  The dwarf squinted up at her and then shrugged. "Then you'd best lie down and die the next time someone attacks. You'll save a lot of trouble-for yourself, not for the rest of the Realms."

  Shandril looked back at the smoking corpse, and then fixed tired eyes on his. "I don't like killing. I'll never like killing."

  Delg nodded. "If that proves true, 'tis good, very good, for us all."

  Shandril frowned. "What do you mean, `proves true'?" The dwarf leaned on his axe. "Slaying's never easy, lass. When you're young, it's a shock-the smell, the blood and all…"

  Narm added quietly, "And when you're old, you see your own death in each killing… a part of you dies each time."

  The dwarf looked at Narm in surprise. "Wise words for one so young; right you are, indeed." He stared off into memory for a moment, and added softly, "Much too right, lad."

  "And between youth and old age?" Shandril asked quietly. "What then?"

  Delg squinted at her. "Ah," he rumbled, "that's the time when one who must kill is most dangerous. They get good at the task-very good, some of them-and they also get so they just don't care about the lives they take."

  Shandril looked at him. "And if that happens to me?" Delg looked into her eyes and then turned away. "I'll try to kill you. So will Elminster, and the Knights-and, of course, the Zhents and everyone else in Faerun who's been hunting you all this time."

  "Tell me," Narm said to the dwarf, his voice like a quietly drawn sword, "what you'd say if I stood by Shandril then, even if-gods forfend-she did come to love killing… what then?"

  Delg looked at him. "Before you died," he said gruffly, hefting his axe meaningfully, "I'd be very proud of you." Then he walked away over the edge of the ridge, axe in hand, looking very old and very alone.

  Narm and Shandril peered at each other. "I hope I'm never that sad," Narm said quietly as he put his arms around her.

  "I hope I'm never that short," Shandril said with a sudden smile. The mood broken, they laughed uneasily-and then heartily when they heard Delg snap the words, "I heard that!" from the other side of the ridge. After their laughter was done, they walked back together and found the dwarf gloomily surveying a scorched stone in the center of the clearing where the medallion had been. Delg sighed, lifted his eyes to Shandril's, and said gruffly, "Just keep your fires away from my axe, lass.

  Oh, aye-and the seat of my breeches."

  Narm chuckled to rob those words of their sting, but Shandril did not manage a smile.

  Not far away, men in black armor crept through the forest, their drawn blades blackened with soot. Their progress was marked by muffled curses and stumbling noises from time to time as rocks and tree roots disputed passage with the soldiers.

  A swordmaster near the rear muttered, "A little more care and quiet, there!" Silence answered him, and after a few cautious breaths the officer turned his head and added, "Keep a good watch out behind, Simron-or you'll wind up owlbear-meat."

  "Aye, sir," Simron replied. low-voiced, and laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of the man beside him. They knelt unmoving until they heard the swordmaster scramble away.

  Simron turned and surveyed the night in all directions behind them. After being satisfied that they weren't followed, he turned back to his companion and said, "I'm in no hurry to move on yet and get cooked like an ox on a feast night. Have ye heard the one about the six dancing girls and the glow-

  worm? No? Well, then…"

  "Enough, lass. It's too dark to keep hurling flames about, even down in this vale. Your fires'll draw the eyes of beasts-and worse-all around in these woods." Delg put a cautious hand on her elbow, which was about as high as he could reach.

  Shandril let the smoldering spellfire in her hands die away and then stood trembling, drenched with sweat. Managing a weary smile, she said, "Thanks, Delg. I suppose I got carried away — I even forgot about evenfeast"

  "Ifs waiting," the dwarf said, leading her briskly back to where Narm lay against their packs, dozi
ng. "If the flies haven't had it all by now-"

  Whatever else he'd been going to say was lost forever in the sudden crack of a whip, very near in the darkness. A startled, tired Shandril watched light blossom here and there among the trees as lanterns were unhooded. More than one lamp was sent streaking through the air, borne by hurled spears-and in the light they shed, the horrified dwarf saw dark, sinuous shapes leaping at them.

  "War dogs!" Delg swore. "Narm, 'ware! Narm!" He was running as he bellowed, axe flashing out.

  In eerie silence the dogs bounded toward him. Their tongues must have been cut out, Shandril thought in horror, as she raised weary arms and sent killing spellfire into the night

  Gods, but they were fast! Dogs dodged and leapt, bared fangs flashing as they came. She struck again, and blazing hounds writhed in soundless agony, rolling over and over, smoke rising from their flanks.

  She saw N arm's hands fall, a spell done-and a dozen or so dogs came to an abrupt, brutal stop, falling and thrashing about together in a confused mass. He must have conjured another spellweb. But many more dogs streamed around the fallen ones and toward them. Shandril hurled spellfire again, and in the midst of it, one dark form rose up, pawed the air for a moment, and then fell over on its back, dead. By the light of her spellflames she saw a score of leaping dogs still coming, snapping and snarling as they came.

  Delg stood among them, axe rising and failing. The light grew stronger as torches were lit. Shandril saw the gleam of armor all around them in the trees as Narm, his dagger in hand, reached her just in time to be bowled over by a leaping war dog.

  Shandril screamed as fangs snapped at her throat. Frantic spellfire flared as she was struck by the beast, and the heavy, cooked dog bore her to the ground with the force of its leap. It left the stink of its charred, headless body all over her.

  Shandril screamed again, rolling free, as a hurled spear hummed past her ear.

  Amid the hissing torches, the Zhentilar warcaptain watched her crawling as fast as she could for the cover of a tree. He grinned cruelly and said to one of his officers, "Now."

  The swordmaster whistled, and the air was suddenly alive with hissing crossbow bolts.

  Four

  Great Murdering Battles-and Worse

  It is one thing to face a rival with your blade in hand and make a bloody end to all rivalry between you. It is quite another to wage war with coins in the shadows and softly striking words in hidden chambers. The second way can kilt just as surely-but no one who follows it is lauded as a hero, or grudgingly granted as brave even by one's enemies. There is something in us all that admires those who stand tall and bold in the bright light of day-even when they pay for this boldness with their lives.

  Azlundar, lion of Neverwinter, One Warrior's Life,Year of the Sighing Serpent

  Crossbow bolts hummed hungrily through the night around Shandril. She crouched low, looking around frantically for Narm and Delg. There they were, among what was left of the dogs. Shandril's stomach lurched and turned over uneasily at the bloody sight; she let her revulsion fuel the rage that was building in her. Spellfire flared and raced down her limbs. Her tattered leathers caught fire, flaring up in bright flames that rose around her until they licked at her sweat-soaked hair. Armored in spellfire, Shandril Shessair stood up and roared her anger into the night, flinging her arms wide. Spellfire blasted out of her in all directions, low over the heads of her loved ones, lancing into the Zbentilar warriors. The white flash of its striking was blinding. Trees cracked and fell, blazing. Men screamed briefly amid the roaring. Crossbow bolts flared into flying cinders. Heat-shattered armor fell from blackened skeletons, which toppled slowly after them to the smoking ground.

  The spellfire died slowly and raggedly. There was a last rolling burst, and then only a slow sputtering of flames, fading to nothing.

  Shandril stared wearily around at the smoldering devastation, smoke rising slowly from her hair. She moaned, her eyes went dark, and she crumpled to the ground.

  Delg struggled to his feet, hurling bloody dog corpses aside. "Lass!" he bellowed, face white, "Shandril! I'm coming!"

  Bloody axe in hand, the dwarf staggered across the beaten turf to where Shandril lay. A few flickering lanterns were still alight, and by their dim glow the dwarf found her. She was breathing and apparently unscathed, though very pale. Moving as stealthily as he could, he dragged Shandril to cover behind a tree. Then Delg straightened to see what foes remained.

  A few Zhent warriors were still standing in the lee of two smoking trees. They seemed dazed; Delg counted seven-no, eight: a huge man in cracked and blackened plate armor rose among them, sobbing and clawing at his helm with spiked hand-gauntlets that were each as large as Delg's own head.

  Narm was moving feebly among the dogs.

  "Narm!" Delg roared. "Up, lad-I've need of your spells! Hurl a few balls of fire at yon Zhents!"

  The dwarf knew well that Narm's Art was too feeble to work such magics, but if he read them right, the Zhentilar soldiers might run like rabbits at the thought of facing more fire. If he was wrong-well, one doom was as good as another.

  He was half right. Delg heard curses, and saw men running off into the night.

  "Simron, come back, you craven dog!" A swordmaster bellowed. "The curses of Bane and the Brotherhood on you!"

  "Rally them!" This hoarse voice belonged to the giant with the spiked gauntlets. "Rally them, Swordmaster and spellfire shall yet be ours! Does the priest live?"

  "By the grace of Bane," a cold and smooth voice answered him, "I do indeed. How fare you, Warcaptain?"

  "My eyes, man! Cast a healing on me, by the Black Altar! I cannot see!"

  As quietly as he could, Delg clambered over a tangle of grounded spears and the contorted bodies of dogs in order to reach Narm. With a grunt, the dwarf rolled a dead canine aside and dragged the still-groggy wizard to a sitting position.

  "Up, lad!" he said sharply, slapping Narm's face. "Up, and take this!" He thrust his belt dagger into Narm's hand; startled eyes fell on it and then rose to meet his.

  "Awake, lad? Good. Guard your lady; I've work to do." Delg pointed out where Shandril lay, clapped Narm on the back, and set off through the smoking ruin to where the Zhents clustered.

  Only five still stood there-the priest, the blinded but still-blustering warcaptain, a swordmaster, and two warriors. The last three had swords in their hands, and the swordmaster was snapping orders at the men to gather lanterns and make ready to look for the lass.

  The dwarf went forward slowly, keeping his axe low and behind him, lest its blade flash back light and warn of his approach. Smoke still drifted lazily amid the blackened trees, but it seemed Shandril was not fated to burn down Hullack Forest this night.

  Good. Thank all the gods for that. Now, if they'd just spend a skybolt or two to deal with five Zhents… Perhaps he'd not been devout enough. Or perhaps as a dwarf, he thought wryly, he was expected to act for the gods. Whatever, no bolt came from the sky. Delg grinned savagely at the thought of what spellfire must have seemed to the Zhents who'd run. Oh, there'd be tales of tanar'ri or gods making the rounds of the Moonsea North before long-unless the owlbears and wolves were thorough tonight.

  Delg's boot found a stone, painfully. With iron control, he halted and bent to feel it. Small enough. Good. Setting aside his axe, he took up the stone, leaned back almost to the ground with the rock in his raised hand, and came upright in a throw sped by all the weight of his stout body. The hurled stone sailed up into the night-and crashed down in the brush behind the Zhents.

  "Who's that? By Bane, answer!" Silence gave the warcaptain the reply he feared. "It's one of them, getting away-swordmaster, see to it! Bring him down!"

  The swordmaster looked about helplessly, caught the priest's cold and level gaze, and reluctantly took up a lantern, tersely ordering the two warriors to his flanks.

  A moment later, they waded cautiously into the brush, swords raised. Delg, axe held ready, used the noise they made to cover
the sounds of his own cautious advance. He crept to the lit area where the warcaptain was pleading with the priest to heal him, and the priest was insisting that the helm come off first.

  "It won't," said the big man, voice approaching a sob. "I've tried… it feels stuck to my skin. Gods!"

  Keep sniveling, the dwarf thought savagely. Just a breath or two longer, and I'll-

  The axe came up quickly as Delg rounded the last tree, but it was impossible to move silently in the bad light. The priest saw and heard-and was very fast. He shoved the warcaptain into Delg and fled cursing into the darkness.

  The fearful Zhentilar felt the impact, heard the priest's fearful oath, and concluded something was wrong. He lashed out.

  Delg had stumbled clear-but not quite far enough. One of those war-gauntlets caught him square in the ribs. He grunted and sat down with a crash. The stout dwarven mail held, but the breath had been driven out of him, leaving a searing pain behind.

  The sightless man reached forward. He sensed where his foe lay. Delg dropped his axe and rolled aside, pivoting on his own knee to come in close to the warcaptain.

  Those blindly grasping gauntlets triumphantly closed on the axe handle and used its blade to flail at the ground. Delg winced as his axe struck sparks from more than one rock-and then his reaching hands found the man's belt dagger and tore it free.

  The Zhentilar turned at the tugging, and Delg climbed the arm that swept around to strike him, clambering up it to drive the short blade hilt-deep through the helm's eyeslit and the unseen and unseeing orb beneath.

  Dark, hot blood splashed him as he leapt free, to the sound of startled shouts from the swordmaster and warriors, who saw the warcaptain topple dead with no apparent foe. Delg lay prone in the darkness and waited.

  A moment later they were fleeing, crashing in headlong flight through the trees. Delg retrieved his axe and scrambled atop the warcaptain's corpse so he could see farther.