Spellfire

Shandril had come up to her elbows. She now drew her legs under her and extended her hand. From her spread fingers spellfire spat, crackling down the hall in a long tongue of flame. She ended it almost immediately, and it died away, curling into air. 'As before,' she said briefly. 'I can still-'

A pain-wracked groan came out of empty air down the hall. Florin and Mourngrym drew blades instantly and stepped in front of Shandril to shield her. Shaerl drew her dagger and reached out with its pommel to pound a gong close at hand.

Its echoes had barely died away before the form of a robed man with hawkish features and glossy black hair came into view in midair. His face was twisted with pain, his robe still smoldered, his shoulder and breast were burned bare. He hissed the word that unleashed the power of the wand in his hand.

Lightning sprang into being and a forked bolt struck both Florin and Mourngrym. The Lord of Shadowdale staggered aside and fell heavily, blade clattering. Shaerl cried out and ran to him. Florin, too, fell, driven to his knees by the energy hurled against him, but he was struggling up into a weak charge, face black with pain and effort. Shandril stood up and lashed out in heartsick anger with spellfire.

'Wherever I go!' she said bitterly, on the verge of tears. 'Always, beset! Always friends and companions hurt! You come seeking spellfire? Well, then-have it!' Spellfire roared out of her in a tumbling inferno that lasted for but a breath but raged down the hallway in a blistering wall that swept over the flying mage like a wave crashing over rocks in a storm.

Narm had awoken, looking dazed. He struggled to his knees to work art, to protect his lady from this new menace. His hands halted in midair as he gazed at the blackened, crippled thing that the spellfire left behind on the scorched rugs of the hall.

Shandril raised a hand again as the man moved weakly and twisted cooked lips in hissing words of art, but she did not unleash her flames. The head sank down between smoking shoulders that shook with pain. The mage vanished, gone as though he had never been. Only the smoldering of rugs showed where he had lain.

'Wherever we go,' Shandril said wearily, turning to Rathan, 'your healing services are needed. I hope you will not grow tired of it all before this comes to an end.'

'Lady,' Rathan said as he hastened to where Mourngrym lay. 'This never ends, I fear. Worry not about my patience-it is what I walk these Realms for.' He knelt by the Lord of Shadowdale, and looked back at her over one shoulder. 'You do a most impressive job, I must say,' he added with the barest trace of a grin.

Jhessail arrived then, robes held high as she sprinted along in the forefront of a large group of guards. 'Shandril?' she cried. 'Florin? Mourngrym?' Merith was at her side, blade out.

'Healing, we need,' Rathan said. 'The time for blasting and all that is past.' He looked up. 'Send ye four guardsmen for Eressea at the temple… I have no more power to heal now, and Mourngrym yet needs it.' Jhessail spun about to relay his orders and then back to face them all.

'What happened?' she asked.

'Another mage. Flying about, this one was, and invisible. Shandril touched him with spellfire purely by chance when I asked her to test her powers. He struck Florin and Mourngrym with lightning from a wand. Shandril burned him but did not slay him. He teleported away,' Rathan explained. Jhessail looked at Shandril and then sighed.

'You slew him not?' she asked.

Shandril nodded, eyes on hers. 'I could not,' she said. 'It was… horrible. Who knows? He may have meant me no harm at all.'

Jhessail nodded. 'I cannot fault you,' she said slowly. 'Yet I bid you remember this: when you fight, art to art, seek to slay-and mind you finish the job. An enemy who escapes will return for revenge.'

'Aye,' said Shaerl, eyes hot. 'A man who dared to strike down my lord lives yet! I blame you not, Shandril. It must be terrible to hold such death within you, always knowing you can slay. Yet, if that man were within my grasp right now, I would not hesitate to strike and slay. One who would harm my Mourngrym does not deserve to live.'

As she spoke, they heard the sounds of running feet. A guardsman reached the head of the stairs, yelling, 'Lord Mourngrym! Lady Shaerl!'

Shaerl turned. 'Say on.'

'My lady, the prisoner is gone! We had him in the cell, and his hands were bound-yet he vanished before our eyes!'

'The man Culthar?' Shaerl asked. 'How could this happen?' She turned to Jhessail, and then back to the guard at Jhessail's calm-faced nod. 'My thanks. I hold you blameless. Return to your post, with our thanks.'

The guard nodded, bowed, and hurried off.

Jhessail shrugged. 'A teleport ring, perhaps, or even a rogue stone. There may be other ways of art Elminster and I don't yet know. All would require outside aid. The Zhentarim, perhaps, or the priests of Bane. He was the eyes for someone, here in the tower.' She spread her hands with a ghost of a smile. 'All the ravens are gathering.'

Shaerl sighed. 'Yes, I'm growing tired of it.'

Rathan looked up. 'Ye're growing tired of it! What of we who heal?'

'Ah, but you have divine aid,' said Mourngrym weakly from below him. 'Mind you see to Florin, too,' the Lord of Shadowdale added. 'I need him healthy and alert.'

The man who had declined the lordship of Shadowdale, and led the knights from their early days, was leaning against a wall in pain-wracked silence. 'Florin?' Jhessail hailed him tentatively, as she drew near. 'Are you badly hurt?'

'As usual.' Florin's voice was rueful, and he lowered it so that only she could hear his next words, so faintly that she almost missed them. 'I fear I am growing too old for this constant battle, Jhess. It's not the thrill it used to be.'

'Oh, no, you don't,' Jhessail said briskly, putting a slim arm about his great shoulders. 'Not now. We need you.' Awkwardly she drew him down until he was sitting against the wall. 'You'll feel much better once you've been healed.' Merith joined them. Florin nodded gratefully to them both, and then quietly fainted.

Jhessail let his head rest heavily on her shoulder and said to her husband, 'My lord, please run to the strongbox for one of our potions. He's hurt worse than I thought.'

Shandril, watching this, turned her face to the wall and leaned her forehead upon her arm. 'I–I-we must leave you. You are always hurt for our sake, one attack upon another. You are my friends! I must not do this to you, day after day, mages attacking and all…' She burst into tears.

'Must we have all this weeping?' Rathan complained. 'It's as bad as all the fighting! Nay, worse-ye can stop the fighting by slaying your foe!'

Narm rose to defend his lady, but Rathan pushed him down again with two strong fingers. 'Don't start! Ye're not fully healed yet, not nearly. I'm not having ye rushing around getting hurt and dispensing worldly sage-speech and crying all about the place, yet. D'ye hear? Just lie back down and wait. We'll see if there's time for me to spare to listen to such foolishness later.'

Merith went to Shandril then, and tickled her gently under the ribs on one side, until in irritation the young lady turned from the wall. Then he swept her up in his arms and kissed away her tears. 'Nay, nay, little one, you need not be ashamed or upset on our account. It is a hard road you walk, an adventurer's road. Would you not walk it together, with us? It is not so lonely or hard, with friends.'

'Ohh, Merith,' Shandril said, and sobbed upon his shoulder. Merith carried her over to where Florin and Jhessail sat, and sat her down upon his own lap before them. Jhessail and Florin both looked at her with smiles.

'You must not cry so,' Jhessail chided her. 'Does the hawk weep because it has wings? Does the wolf howl because it has teeth? We do what we can with our art or our skill-at-arms. Is your spellfire so different? Use it as you see fit, and don't hold yourself responsible for the attacks others make on you, or this place. We do not blame you for them.'

She reached over and patted Florin's knee. 'Let's all go down to the great hall as soon as Eressea has done her healing,' she said, 'and see if there's aught to eat or drink. Violence always makes me hungry.'

In a turret that curved out from the inner face of the walls of Zhentil Keep, in a small, circular chamber, Ilthond lay on a familiar floor. He lay upon the painted circle that he had practiced teleporting to over and over again, and groaned in pain. None were there to see or hear; he was alone behind three locked and hidden doors.