Spellfire

ceaselessly, blade ready. Abruptly Rathan released his hold upon the glowing disc. It did not fall, but hung silently in midair. Rathan said to it:

'By Tymora's power and Tymora's grace,

Be revealed now wherever I face,

All lives and things that evil be

Unveiled truly now before me!'

The cleric took hold of the disc as his words ended; the disc flared with silvery light, and then the radiance slowly faded away. Rathan, holding the disc before him, was already peering ahead down the path, eyes keen. 'Aha!' he said, almost immediately. 'Six creatures on the trail, moving this way!' He dragged a long, heavy mace from his belt and whacked his armored knee lightly, swinging his arm to limber up his shoulder. 'Ready, Torm?' he asked. 'Narm, watch the rear, will ye?'

'Six?' Narm asked. 'What if they're devils?'

Rathan Thentraver stared at him blankly for the space of a breath and then shrugged. 'I do worship the Lady of Luck,' he replied, as if to an idiot child. 'Torm?'

The slim thief slipped back into his saddle, and grinned. 'It's your head, oh smeller-of-evil. The mules are hobbled.'

Rathan nodded briefly and jerked his horse's reins. His mount reared, pawing the air. The cleric clipped the disc onto his shield with practiced ease, mace held in the crook of his arm. When the horse came down, the mace was in his hand and he leaned forward, bellowing, 'For Tymora and victory! The Knights of Myth Drannor are upon ye! Die!'

Narm gulped as the horse and the roaring man atop it tore away through the trees at full gallop. Torm was right at Hainan's heels, waving his longsword in circles. Far ahead he heard yells echoing in the forest and then the slash and skirl of steel upon steel. There was a short shriek, quickly cut off, much thudding of hooves, more steel, and then a few scattered yells.

Narm wondered uncomfortably what he should do with the mules if the two were slain. He had no wish to be thought of as an enemy of Shadowdale, or a thief, but…

He heard crashing on the trail ahead, nearer than the sounds of battle, and he nervously drew his dagger.

'Ho, Narm!' Torm's voice came floating through the trees cheerfully. 'Haven't the mules eaten all the leaves on that stretch yet?' The thief rode into view with a cheery wave, eyed the dagger Narm was sheathing without comment, and swung lightly down from the saddle to see to the mules. 'Adventurers out of Zhentil Keep-priests of Bane, and a worker-of-illusions out to make a name for himself,' he explained briefly.

'Dead?' Narm asked.

Torm nodded. 'They weren't willing to surrender or flee,' he said mildly, holding the reins of the mules firmly as he thrust the hobble-ropes through his belt and swung up into his saddle again. Narm shook his head. 'Eh? Why so?' Torm asked, eyeing him. Narm grinned weakly.

'Just the two of you,' the ex-apprentice said, 'and Rathan bellowing war cries… and three breaths later you come back and tell me they're dead.'

Torm nodded. 'It's what usually happens,' he said, deadpan.

Narm shook his head again as they walked their horses forward. 'No, no,' he said. 'Mistake me not… How can you just ride forward like that, knowing you face six foes, and at least one a master of art?'

'The war cries and all? Well, if you're risking death, why not have fun?' Torm replied. 'If I wanted to risk death without having fun, I'd be a tax collector, not a thief. Come on-if we're much longer, Rathan'll have finished all the food and wine, and we're not even there yet!'

Where was she? The smell of earth and old, dank stone hung around her in the darkness. Shandril lay still on something hard and uneven and collected her wits. Her mouth was dry, her head ached, and her back and shoulder throbbed. Oh, yes… she had fallen into this… while crawling away from a well. She was in a large ruin in a forest, inhabited by devils and other fearsome monsters. It was probably Myth Drannor, and she would probably neither get out nor survive. Shandril rolled over; metal slithered and shifted under her. Oh, yes. Coins! She clutched one in her hand and rolled onto her knees. It was too dark to make out what sort of coin it was. Overhead, faint light could be seen through the gap where the stones above had collapsed. She could not reach the opening.

Tymora spit upon all! If this was adventure, perhaps it was worth Korvan and unending drudgery at The Rising Moon, after all! Shandril looked about her helplessly. It was too dark to see anything. She would have to blunder around in the dark, feeling for a way out… if there was a way out. Shandril sighed. The Lady of Luck smiled indeed…

Then, above her, she heard a shout. Running feet, screams. More shouting, and the clang of weapons. A horrible groan, more running feet, and then, suddenly, someone hurtled down from above Shandril in a shower of dirt and paving stones. Shandril slid down the heap of coins desperately. A stone fell on her foot, already half-sunk in coins, and another glanced numbingly off one elbow. There was a great crashing and slithering among the coins, and a rough male voice said triumphantly in the darkness, 'Ha! Got you! Thought you c-'

' Ilzazu! ' hissed a second voice, and there was a blue-white flash and a crackling, sizzling sound, followed by a horrible, dying moan.

This was just about enough, Shandril decided, and fainted again.

When she knew the world around her again, the light overhead was much brighter. Shandril found herself lying at the edge of the pile of coins, feet up on the slithering riches, head down and aching. She felt weak and dizzy; it seemed like days since she fled from that gargoyle.

She got up and looked around. The coins-thousands of them, rusty-brown with age and damp-looked to be all copper. Sigh. Above her, atop the heap, lay two bodies on their backs, feet entangled, both human. One wore armor, much blackened; about him there still clung a faint reek of burned flesh. The other wore robes, and clutched the crumbled fragments of a stick of wood. A sword protruded from his rib cage, and a small shoulder bag lay half-crumpled beneath him. Shandril clambered up the mound of coins again. Food? Perhaps one carried water, or wine?

The armored corpse was cooked black; Shandril avoided it. The other had a dagger, which she took quickly, boots-too large, but her feet had bled enough for her to take any boots over no boots-a skin of water, which she drained thirstily, and the shoulder bag. She tugged it free of the body and examined the scraps of wood curiously. The thickest piece, from the butt end of the stick, bore the word 'Ilzazu,' but nothing happened when Shandril cautiously said it aloud. She scrambled down the heap again.

The bag proved to contain hard, dark bread, a wheel of cheese sealed in wax, another half-eaten wheel speckled with mold (Shandril ate it anyway, saving the other for later), and a small book. Shandril opened it cautiously, saw crawling runes and glyphs, and slammed it again. There was also a hopelessly smashed hand lamp, a flint, and a metal vial of lamp oil. She put everything but the flint and oil back into the bag and slung it on her shoulder. She crawled back to the dead magic-user again and tore off what she could of the man's robe, doused it in oil, and wearily struck the flint against coin after coin, and finally upon the scorched armor of the other corpse to strike sparks onto the soaked cloth, until at last it began to smolder. Then she gingerly borrowed the blackened sword from the fallen warrior and lifted the bundle on its point. It flared up, and she clambered hastily down the heap of coins, looking for a door or stairs or anything that might lead out of here.

Above her was a stone rack that ran along the ceiling, supported by arches between the squat pillars that held up the ceiling itself. Upon the rack lay three huge barrels. From each hung a dusty, cobwebbed chain. With a shiver, Shandril realized that a fourth barrel had hung over the heap of coins; looking back, she saw the shattered wooden ribs of the fallen barrel. And at the base of the heap on this side, where she had not ventured before, the rusty end of the chain projected out of the heap beside a pair of skeletal legs. Trembling, Shandril opened her mouth to scream and then shut it again. Soon the cloth would all have burned, and she would be unable to see in the full darkness away from the hole again.

She hurried on, through a chamber as vast as the hall that must be above it. She had come far enough, Shandril realized, to be well beneath that vast hall. She knew there were no stairs nor door in the top level she had arrived in except perhaps down at the end she had not investigated, where the stirges had come from. She turned in that direction, the daylight growing dim behind her.

The flickering, feeble light of her flame revealed a stone stair spiraling up from the floor, without railing or