stones of Spell Court. Snarling in disgust, the high priest hefted his javelin and strode down the long forehall to slay Shandril.
Face twisted in pain, Shandril Shessair slithered on the tiles, crawling back toward the door, trying to get away from the strange glowing wheel that was drawing spellfire from her. It was turning slightly faster now, its pull slightly stronger, a wheel that spun for her death.
Through a haze of pain. Shandril saw Sarhthor standing in the doorway, face unreadable, Crumpled on the floor in front of him was Oelaerone, curled around the black arrow that had felled her.
From the floor beside Belarla's senseless form, Tessaril yelled, 'Old Wolf, your dagger!'
'Of course,' Mirt rumbled, dumping the body he'd been using as a shield atop a Zhent clawing at him from the floor, Coolly he ran the buried warrior through with his saber, turned, and held his own dagger up. Obliging his will, it glowed.
Fzoul stopped and flung another spell, It flashed at the Old Wolf, trailing streams of magical radiance as the spell engine's draining tugged at it. The weakened spell reached Mirt's dagger-and was absorbed into it, The Old Wolf gave the high priest a triumphant smile, Then he tossed the dagger and, in the same motion, swung back with a snarl to smash aside the reaching blade of the next Zhentilar.
The dagger sparkled end-over-end through the air and into Tessaril's sure grasp. The Lord of Eveningstar came up from the floor in a run, black skirts streaming, heading for Fzoul and the great wheel,
A Zhentilar shaft hummed from near the door and caught her in the back.
Tessaril gasped, staggered, and fell, twisting in agony, 'Strike the wheel with this, Old Wolf;' she gasped, holding up the glowing dagger in a hand that trembled, 'or we're all doomed!'
Mirt growled at the Zhenfilar he was fencing with, then reached over their singing blades to punch the man in the throat. Catching the strangling warrior's neck, he shoved the man aside, into the path of an arrow meant for him. As the corpse spun away, Mirt lumbered across the tiled floor like a angry bear. Arrows flew, Fzoul ducked one, only paces away from Shandril, and went hastily to his knees, bellowing, 'No more arrows!'
Mirt fell onto his knees and skidded the last few feet to Tessaril's side, He yanked a steel vial from his belt and forced it to her lips-spilling most of it down her chin as an arrow tore into him and he jerked involuntarily.
Roaring in pain, he snatched the glowing dagger from the floor, staggered to his feet, coming almost face- to-face with Fzoul-and hurled the trusty little blade over the high priest's shoulder. Dagger and wheel touched.
The flash and roar struck eyes and ears like a solid blow.
Wizards' Watch Tower rocked. The blast hurled dust and fragments of riven furniture and chipped walls the length of the forehall. In the gale, helplessly tumbling Zhents shrieked in fear, arrows and bows splintering around them as they came tumbling across the floor, Mirt was flung back into a decorative suit of armor that stood against one wall of the forehall, and together they tumbled ingloriously to the tiles.
Shandril's body burst into bright radiance as the spell engine's energy flooded into her. An arrow in her shoulder glowed, melted, and was gone. She shuddered, still racked with pain-and Fzoul was upon her, snarling, javelin descending.
The air flickered suddenly, and Sarhthor was there between them, a dagger in hand.
Fzoul's javelin plunged down-through the wizard's body. He stiffened as it pierced him, drove his dagger weakly into the high priest's neck, and gasped, 'For Those Who Harp!'
Mirt stared at Sarhthor, open-mouthed, 'A Harper? You?'
Fzoul lurched backward, gasping and tugging at the dagger in his neck.
Shandril pounced on him furiously. Spellfire blazed down her arms as she got both hands on the high priest's throat- His flesh sizzled, and ire screamed, eyes locked on hers. Shandril glared at him, flames rising from her eyes-and into his open mouth she spat a tongue of fire that went down to his vitals.
The high priest shuddered in her grip, clawing feebly at his weapons belt, and Shandril spat more fire, Fzoul's head arched back. He made a horrible rattling sound as spellfire exploded within him, Ribs burst out through his robes, and flames rose from his shattered body as Shandril shook him, still angry, and then shoved him away.
The body of the high priest of the Black Altar crashed to the floor in flames, The raging fire that consumed him was very hungry, Oily smoke rose from the tangled bones.
Behind Shandril, Sarhthor staggered upright and gasped bloodily, 'Sh-Shandril, listen. Touch my head…Use my life… and raise a crown of fire-the most powerful spellfire… Shatter towers… Take beholders… Hurry!'
As his words trailed away, the Zhentarim wizard convulsed around the javelin, falling to his knees.
'Do it!' Tessaril groaned from the floor, 'He speaks truth!'
Astonished, Shandril reached out and touched the wizard's head, They knelt together on the tiles, Sarhthor's eyes, red with pain hut bright with a fierce will, stared steadily into hers, Shandril felt the wizard urge his failing life-energy into her, It flowed through her fingers with an uneven tingling, and red-hued spellfire crawled slowly out of her, enveloping them both in a flickering aura.
The spellfire grew stronger, It brightened to blinding whiteness as the wizard's eyes darkened, He fell back, dead, mouth open and contorted, Shandril looked down at him sadly, then rose from her knees.
Roaring spellflames curled to form a crown around her head as she turned, white tipped and terrible. Her eyes were two leaping flames, spellfire surged out from her in beams that stabbed at the Zhentilar warriors all around the room. Men screamed as they died, but she did not seem to hear.
When no foes remained in the chamber, Shandril walked out into the Spell Court-Many of the Zhents had already fled, hearing and seeing the holocaust within the tower. Those brave or stupid few who had stayed at their posts realized their mistake immediately. Shandril's crown of spellfire lashed out again. A web of fiery rays leapt around the courtyard, felling the warriors there. The power roared out of her-and wherever she looked, men died.
In moments, Spell Court was cleared except for smoldering corpses. Shandril turned toward the nearest wall, her eyes blazing, and blasted the first doorway she found. Inside was a hallway filled with burnt bodies- wizards who'd been watching through slits in the door. no doubt. With roaring spellflames, Shandril sheared away through the corpse pile and stepped into the hall beyond, The heads of many an evil wizard peered out of doors and then hastily vanished. There were shrieks of fear.
Shandril smiled and sent killing spellfire after them, Faerun would be a better place without the Zhentarim. She strode on, sending flames swirling around the walls of every room she came to.
Ahead of her, a door slammed. Shandril sneered at it and let fly, The door and the man hiding behind it were immediately wreathed in spellflames. They turned to outlines of ash and fell-first the door, crumbling away like a torn curtain, and then the outline of the terrified man behind it.
Shandril shivered at what she'd done-and then remembered Delg, and the men of the Company of the Bright Spear who'd fallen before him, Laid low by wizards' spells. Deliberately she walked on, hurling balls of roiling spellfire into rooms right and left.
She came to the end of the hall; stone stairs ascended in a dark spiral, and she went up. The crown of fire still raged around her head and lit the way.
Dark armor gleamed in the light of her flames. A desperate Zhentilar suddenly leaned down from around the curve of the stairs, swinging a heavy morningstar. Spelllight twinkled and pulsed along its length; Shandril threw her hands upward and embraced the spiked end as it came, The weapon smashed her against tire wall. She crashed hard into the stone. Breath hissed out of her in plumes of flame, but still she clung to the weapon. The soldier above tried to tug the morningstar free, but Shandril smiled grimly al him and held on.
The magic of the enspelled weapon surged into her, the metal in her hands glowed white, melted, and ran through her fingers.
Cloaked in rising spellflames, she melted the sword that the terrified Zhentilar now swung at her-and then blasted into his helm, leaving it empty, blackened metal, The headless body fell limply to the stairs and rolled past her. She climbed on, hurling fire in all directions.
Fresh shrieking told her she'd come to another floor full of wizards. Futile spells lashed out, clawing at her in vain attempts to take her life; arrows of magic sizzled into nothingness as they leapt at her; balls of acid hissed into ash; and illusions of snarling dragons and diving beholders lunged at her, thrown by those who had nothing else to fight with, She blasted their upraised, spell-casting hands, the doors they tried to hide behind, and the floor
