Spellfire

what it is to be hounded and will defend you with fierce anger.'

He turned back to the cutting-board. 'I daresay you would hear much the same advice from those who travel, if you could trust one to ask.' Narm and Shandril traded glances in silence. Then Narm spoke.

'We have heard such directions before, yes,' he agreed, 'almost word for word. If the best way is so obvious as all that, will your enemies not be looking for us to take it, and be waiting?'

'Aye, most probably they will,' Lhaeo agreed, with the ghost of a smile. 'So you must take care not to get caught.'

They both stared at him for a moment in frustration, and then Shandril laughed. 'Well enough,' she said. 'We shall try to follow your advice, good Lhaeo. Know you any ways of avoiding those who search?'

'You both work with art and walk with those who are mighty in art, and you ask me?' Lhaeo replied, eyebrows raised. 'If you would learn the ways of stealth and disguise without art, ask Torm. I have escaped thus far, true, but in my case I was cloaked in the Lady's Luck.' He turned to Narm. 'If you must pace about like a great cat in a cage,' he added, 'could you slice potatoes while doing it?'

Elsewhere, things were not so peaceful. In Zhentil Keep, two men faced each other across a table.

'Lord Marsh,' said the mage Sememmon carefully, 'does it seem to you that the priests of The Black Altar, through some unfortunate internal dispute or other, have fallen into confusion and disarray too great for us to leave the city with it unaddressed? I know my fellow mages feel that eye tyrants cannot be trusted and should not be given more authority than the minimum one is obliged to accord them to win their support. All reports indicate that the beholder Manxam presently holds sway in the temple, and the corpses of many hundred clergy, great and lesser, that lie there have begun to stink.'

'I have heard those same reports,' Lord Marsh Belwintle agreed smoothly. 'I am forced to the same conclusions… as, I hold, any reasonable man would be. This matter of one girl who can create fire will simply have to wait, unless or until she shows up at your gates to do us harm. Whereupon I am fully confident that the power and skill of the gathered mages of the city would defeat her, so long as they have not all been destroyed or weakened in the interim by being sent off here and there on missions by one who had rather transparent reasons for wishing them out of the city.'

'Exactly,' Sememmon agreed. 'I had thought to discuss with you the advisability of setting just one of your mages of power-Sarhthor, perhaps-to observing this maiden's doings, so that her seizure by any of your foes or other concerns could be noted or countered by us. Were she to reveal any power or method whereby she gained spellfire, we could benefit merely from such a watch, with no blood lost to us and no art or coin wasted. Prudence would seem to indicate some sort of vigilance on your part.'

'An excellent plan, indeed,' Lord Marsh agreed, reaching for a glass of blood-red wine before him. 'The fighting arm of the Zhentarim would certainly concur with-and even expect-such a tactic. An eye must serve us where a claw might be cut off, if we are not to be taken unaware by some creeping enemy and ultimately overwhelmed. More wine?'

'Ah, thank you,' replied Sememmon, 'but no. It is excellent, indeed, but its taste lingers on the tongue and makes the sampling of potions when concocting them a chancy business, at best. Such onerous duties call, I fear.'

'Quite so, quite so,' Marsh agreed, rising. 'Well then, we are agreed. I shall not keep you longer. We may have to speak with each other later, and speedily, should the beholders prove troublesome. But for now, olore to you and your fellows-in-art.'

'Olore to you,' Sememmon agreed. He walked away.

An eye that neither of them saw floating under the table watched Sememmon go and then winked out.

'The Wearers of the Purple are met. For the glory of the dead dragons!' Naergoth Bladelord said. The leader of the Cult of the Dragon was, as always, coldly calm.

'For their dominion,' the ritual reply answered him, more or less in unison. Naergoth looked about the large, plain, underground chamber. All were present save the mage Malark. Well enough. To tongue-work, then, the faster to feast in some fine festhall of Ordulin, above, and then bed and then sleep. The ruling Council of the Cult waited expectantly.

'Brothers,' he said, 'we are gathered to hear of an affair that preoccupies your mages: this matter of spellfire and all that is drawn into it. Brother Zilvreen, what say you?'

'Brothers,' Master Thief Zilvreen said with soft, sinister grace. 'I have learned little from your loyal followers of the fates of the dracolich Rauglothgor and the mage Maruel. But it appears likely that Rauglothgor, its treasure, the she-mage, and even another sacred night dragon, the wyrm Aghazstamn, whom Maruel called on for aid and rode upon back to Rauglothgor's lair, have all been destroyed. Destroyed by the accursed archmage of Shadowdale, Elminster, a group of adventurers who call themselves the Knights of Myth Drannor, and by this young girl we have heard of, this Shandril Shessair, who can cast spellfire!'

'All?' rumbled Dargoth of the Perlar merchant fleet. 'I can scarce believe they can all have been destroyed. What is so powerful, save an army of a size that we could see gathering for many days?'

'No such swords have been raised,' Commarth, the bearded general of the Sembian border forces, added dryly.

'Men sent back by Malark have described the site of Rauglothgor's lair as a pit of freshly strewn rubble,' Zilvreen answered. 'Draw your own conclusions.'

'So just what is this spellfire,' Dargoth asked, 'that it can destroy great mages and great wyrms alike?'

Naergoth shrugged. 'A fire that burns and can be hurled as a mage casts bolts of lightning,' he said, 'and that affects magical items and spells as well as things not of art. More than that we do not know-which is why we sent Malark.'

'What of him?' Commarth asked. 'Has he spoken to you more recently than we know?'

Naergoth shook his head. 'No, I have heard no more than I have told you. He is in or about Shadowdale now, as far as we know, seeking a time and a way to get at the girl.'

'Shessair,' one of the others mused.' Wasn't that the name of the mage that your brothers of art who preceded Malark slew at the Bridge of Fallen Men, in the battle that bought them their deaths?'

'Aye, it was,' Naergoth said, 'but no connection is yet apparent. We have at least three eyes in Sword Coast cities who have the last name of 'Suld' that I know of… and none are blood-related or even know of each other.'

'What boots it?' Dargoth said. 'Ancient history only warms long tongues-it can have no bearing on what we decide to do in this matter.'

'It certainly won't, if we do nothing,' Commarth agreed in dry tones. 'Have you any plans in mind, brothers?' Naergoth and Zilvreen shrugged.

'You first, brother,' Zilvreen prompted.

Naergoth nodded and spoke. 'The price of getting our hands on this spellfire seems far too high, and others-the Zhentarim, and the priests of Bane outside Zhentil Keep, for two-are known to seek it. Yet it is we who have already paid a price, and I am loath to turn away empty-handed. The price may seem too high to you… and yet we cannot afford not to gain spellfire for our own. No one can. I expect much bloodshed yet.' He looked around the table. 'How we go about getting it, I leave to you, brothers.'

'Let the mages win it for us,' said Zilvreen smoothly. 'Waste no more swords-and especially no more of your bone dragons-on this.'

'Well enough,' Dargoth agreed. 'But spellfire or no, we must not let this girl, or the knights, go unpunished for what they have done. We must never forget that we have lost much treasure, two dracoliches, and The Shadowsil over this. The girl must pay. Even if she becomes an ally, she must die after we have gained her secrets and her power. This must ride over all.'

'Well said, brother,' Naergoth agreed. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. 'We are agreed, then-for now, we let your brother mages handle this affair?'

'Aye, it is his field,' came one reply.

'Aye, it would be folly to do otherwise,' said another.

'Aye-and if he comes not back, we can always raise other mages to the Purple.'

'Aye to that, too!'

'Aye,' the others all put in, in their turn. So it was agreed, and they all rose and left that place.

It was late in Shadowdale, and in the Twisted Tower the candles burned low. In an inner room of Lord