Spellfire Read online

  The mist lifted enough to reveal, trampled in the grass, the still bodies of many fallen foes—as well as far more enemies who were still alive and angry. Before them stood the company warriors, leaning on their weapons and panting.

  Thail looked worried as he turned to Burlane. “Perhaps I can use the Art to drive some to slumber, but too many remain … far too many.”

  Shandril knew he was right. The strangers had drawn back to gather and attack as one—nearly twenty men in leathers or chain mail. None bore any sigil or blazon; all were armed. Their leader was a stout warrior who wore a dark helm. At his gesture, his men spread out in a long crescent, curving around the company, advancing.

  Shandril turned to Burlane to warn him to pull back, to run, but as she saw his face—calm and bleak and a little sad—the cry died on her lips. Where was there to run to?

  She looked at their foes. So many, so intent on her death. Beyond their grim line, more men held the reins of a score of mules, all laden as the first had been. There was no escape.

  Shandril, her shoulder throbbing, gripped the Bright Spear, determined to please the war god Tempus even if Tymora, the Lady of Luck, had turned her face. She should never have left Gorstag and the Rising Moon.… But she had, and she was going to see this through. She hoped she would not run.

  “Clanggedin!” Delg roared hoarsely, as if to the ground at his feet. He flung down his axe. “Battle-Father, let this be a good fight!” He drew the war hammer at his belt and brought it down hard on the axe. Metal rang—a knell that thrummed and echoed around them before rolling away. Delg began to sing. The axe at his feet glowed and shimmered and lifted slowly into the air.

  The company and their foes alike stood amazed.

  Delg, his weathered face wet with tears and his voice cracking as he sang on, extended one stubby hand. The axe rose into it, winking with light. Delg seemed to grow and straighten. His beard jutted defiantly, and the war hammer he held began to glow faintly. Its radiance pulsed and grew as he sang, until it matched the sheen of the axe in his other hand.

  The dwarf stepped forward, singing old ballads in his rough voice. Pride and awe and gratitude rang in his songs as Ferostil and Rymel stepped forward to join him.

  Shandril looked to Burlane and whispered, “Does he do this every time? I mean—”

  Burlane roared his laughter aloud and clasped her to him.

  She felt foolishly happy. “Ah, if one is to die,” she said, quoting a wandering priest of Tempus who once stopped at the inn, “it is best to die in a good cause, fighting shoulder to shoulder with good friends.”

  That brought a sudden chill. Shandril raised the Bright Spear’s glowing point and tensed.

  Across the trampled grass, the enemy warriors exchanged a few barked commands and trotted forward, blades raised to slay.

  Delg sang on. The gleam of his weapons grew dazzling and then died away as the mist momentarily parted.

  In the sudden morning, two newcomers strode between the warring bands. One was tall and handsome, clad in forest green. A great sword was scabbarded at his hip, and a gray hawk rode on his shoulder. He strolled slowly to match the stride of his companion.

  That companion was an old and long-bearded man whose eyes shone with keen intelligence and good humor. He wore plain brown robes with a tattered gray half-cloak. Stains of spilled food and wine were dry but copious down his front. He spoke in a voice of aged, crotchety distinction. As the two stepped nearer, Shandril could make out the words:

  “… Silverspear distinctly told me, Florin, that if there were elves left to meet us anywhere in the Elven Court, they’d meet us here, and I’ve never known elves …”

  His companion had noticed the two groups of combatants. Darting swift glances about, he reached to draw his sword.

  The old man walked serenely on. “… to be untrustworthy, nor forgetful. Never. I doubt they’ve been either this time, say others what they may. Many hundred winters I’ve known them, and …”

  The tall warrior plucked gently at his companion’s shoulder. “Ah, Elminster …” he ventured, hand on hilt, eyeing the score of warriors on their left and the six on their right. “Elminster!”

  “… though that be but a short time to an elf, ’tis long enough for these eyes and ears to take the measure of—eh? Aye then, what?” Irritated, the old man peered about, following the warrior’s swiftly pointing finger right and left.

  He peered at the Bright Spear in Shandril’s hands and paused to nod at Delg. Stopping, Elminster gestured to his right.

  The warrior Florin obediently turned to face the company, half-drawing his blade. It glowed with its own blue-white light. He did no more but stood, wary eyes raking them all.

  Shandril swallowed, staring. Here was a man other men would follow to the death and obey with loving loyalty.

  The company stood unmoving.

  The mage Elminster chanted as he drew two small items from his robes and brought them together, his hands moving with a curious, gentle grace. He drew them violently apart. Light pulsed—and the items were gone. Elminster faced the charging warriors, flung his hands wide, and spoke a last quiet word.

  The warriors came to a halt just short of the old mage. They wavered and backed away, trotting awkwardly. They turned, roared out their bafflement, and gathered speed. In wonder, Shandril watched mules, warriors, and all charge away as fast as they could, crying out in rage and frustration. The mist swallowed them long before their cries died.

  Elminster glanced again at the Bright Spear, made a “move away” gesture at the company, and strode on unconcernedly into the mist. “Now, as I was saying, I was told to expect them on the banks of the Sember, and I’ve never known Silverspear to speak falsely. There’s many a time …”

  Florin cast a long look at the company. The green eyes of the hawk on his shoulder had never left them. He turned and strode on to catch up with his friend. As the mists swallowed them both, the tall warrior calmly gazed at them once more, and Shandril could have sworn that he winked.

  The company stood in shocked silence.

  Burlane dragged Shandril with him to where the others stood. “Come on!” he hissed, “Delg! Enough! Clanggedin has heard! Let us go, before they return!”

  “Who was that?”

  “Go? Where?”

  “Aye, while we can!”

  “Did you see that? A wondrous thing!”

  “Later!” Burlane said sharply, and the company fell silent. “Thank you, Delg—let us not waste the good fortune Clanggedin has given us! You check the bodies! Thail and Rymel, collect the horses! Be back here before I count six. Then we flee!”

  “What? Af—”

  “Later,” Burlane said, and they went. He sheathed the Bright Spear’s glowing blade while the others searched. Ferostil and Shandril bound Burlane’s shoulder with strips of cloth.

  No coins were found on the bodies, and the weapons did not measure up to their own. A few extra daggers and one good pair of boots was their booty. Rymel and Thail arrived back in haste with the horses, which had not strayed far.

  Burlane pointed ahead and to the right. “We go this way,” he said. “Quick and—at all costs—quiet. They’ll expect us to flee. Men so strong in numbers and so quick to slay will not expect us to pursue them.” He strode forward.

  “What?” Ferostil hissed angrily. “Slink away with nothing to show for it? There was coin on that mule, maybe on all of them! Wha—”

  “Later,” said Burlane again, almost mildly, but Ferostil flinched as if a sword had struck him. “I’ve no wish to let slip treasure, nor let pass those who draw our blood without so much as a greeting. Our skulker can trail them. We’ll follow and strike when death is not such a close and certain answer.”

  He smiled down at Shandril as they pressed on over the grass. “Ho, little skulker. A task for you … most dangerous. Will you?” Faces turned to her, curious.

  Shandril flushed under Burlane’s smile and replied firmly, “Yes. Tell me
what and how, and I’ll do it.”

  “Well said.” Burlane’s smile was grim. “A simple thing, and yet difficult in this mist. Hide—belly down was Lynxal’s usual way—and lie near where we fought. Not close to the bodies, mind; they’ll check those. Keep close and quiet. Follow us this way only if they haven’t come back before you get hungry. I think they’ll be back soon, and expecting us. If they hunt us, come to us and cry alarm. Otherwise, follow them, unseen. Return to us if they camp or night falls, or they go where you cannot follow. We’ll try to keep near, but I can promise nothing in this mist. No fighting, mind—just eyes and ears. Understood?”

  Shandril’s nod brought another pain-twisted smile to his face. “Good; enough talk. Pass me your reins and wait here. May Tymora and he who watches over the shoulders of thieves smile on you.” Burlane did not name the god Mask. To any who did not worship the patron of thieves, utterance of the god’s name brought ill luck.

  Shandril shivered at the thought of what the evil god’s aid might be. She stopped and watched the company hasten on until the mist swallowed them all. Better to trust in Tymora, Lady Luck, capricious though her luck might be.

  Finding a likely hiding spot, Shandril sank to her knees in the wet grass, ignoring the pain in her shoulder. The dew made the grass glisten silver-gray. Shandril slipped the tail of her cloak in front of her and lay down. The unseen sun brightened the mist, revealing the ground nearby. Wet grass tickled her nose.

  Shandril peered intently all around. She had not yet escaped death today … and there would be no Elminster to rescue her this time if the twenty warriors saw her. She lay very still.

  With heart-stopping suddenness, a familiar-looking warrior loomed out of the mist, perhaps forty paces away. Another followed, and another; the men returned, free from the magic that had driven them back. They advanced carefully in the wet grass, weapons ready, close together, and unspeaking.

  Shandril tried to keep count. She did not want to creep out at their backs only to find others behind her. If I am caught, she thought with a sudden chill, a quick death would be a kind end. Adventure? Aye, adventure.

  She counted warriors. Like creeping shadows they passed in front of her … sixteen, eighteen, twenty-one. Then came the mules laden with chests and canvas sacks. Shandril counted fifteen before the procession ended. She waited for the space of two long breaths, fearing a rearguard.

  Her caution was rewarded when six silent swordsmen stalked into view, swords drawn. One seemed to stare at her all the while they passed. Shandril lay still, hoping he’d not be too curious or diligent.

  He was not. The gods were with her. She drew a trembling breath and waited until she had drawn two more before she eased herself up and crept after them.

  The mysterious warriors headed roughly west, close to Lake Sember. They moved warily but rapidly, as if they still had a long way to travel. An occasional tree loomed darkly out of the mist as Shandril followed. On higher ground, she worked her way closer, but in wet areas, where one slip and splash might bring them down on her, she dropped back. Soon she was soaked and shivering.

  So this is what Gorstag meant when he said adventure was pain and weariness conveniently forgotten later, Shandril thought, recalling a fireside talk. Grinning, she crept closer. She’d seldom felt more alert, more alive, more excited. He never told me it was this much fun.

  She came to the crest of a little rise and dropped to her belly in the tall grass. It was well she did. The mist rolled briefly away—revealing six warriors standing just below the brow of the hill. The rearguard. Beyond them, mules labored up the next hill, into rising land.

  Shandril could hear the low mutter of the rearguard but could not make out the words. She dared not crawl nearer; three peered her way. The mist began to close in again. They were waiting here to deal with anyone following them. It would mean her death to go over the ridge, even with the mist.

  Shandril lay still on the damp ground. What should she do?

  Without warning, a man strode out of a white wall of fog two steps away. He stalked past her, the wet grass whispering around his boots, and was gone, walking back the way she had come. He held a strung bow and a shaft ready, and wore a long knife at his belt but no armor. He looked young and bleakly confident. After a moment, another archer followed, passing farther away. Shandril gasped in horror. They were going back to slay the company!

  In her mind she could see arrows leaping from the mists to bring down Delg, Burlane, Rymel, Thail—one by one, convulsed and writhing in the grass, their slayers quickly gone. Any chase would run straight into a storm of arrows.

  How to warn the company? Shandril doubted she could get around the archers without being killed. There was only one thing to do.

  Fighting down a sick, sinking feeling, she rose out of the grass and drew Lynxal’s blade—her sword, now. Fun, she reminded herself wryly, as she went off to war.

  She hurried as quietly as she could, picturing the faces of her companions as she strolled up to them and tossed two heads at their feet. Her stomach lurched at the thought. She stared at the sword, cold and heavy in her hands, with real revulsion.

  She looked around in the mist, feeling suddenly lost and helpless. A sharp blade is little comfort when you know you can’t use it, and even less comfort once anyone else knows.

  Shandril stopped to lean against a gaunt, bare tree. She carefully sheathed her sword. The tree was dead but damp; when she tugged at one branch, it broke with a dull sound, not the sharp crack she’d feared—leaving her holding a curved, twisted, and surprisingly heavy bough. Shandril hefted it a few times and stalked on through the mist.

  She came upon him quite suddenly. The archer who’d passed close to her was standing alone, bow ready, listening. He heard her and half turned. His eyes met hers, and his mouth opened in surprise.

  Shandril leaped forward, heart pounding, and brought the tree limb down as hard as she could across his throat.

  The force of the blow numbed her hands and knocked her off balance. Slipping in the wet grass, she slid right under him, getting tangled in his legs. The archer fell, making a horrible gurgling noise. His knee hit her forehead hard.

  Dazed, Shandril lay staring up at the mist, the breath knocked from her lungs, her back and bottom aching.

  Sudden footsteps thudded nearer.

  “Bitch!” a man snarled nearby.

  Shandril rolled to one side and looked up.

  The other archer charged her, a gleaming knife drawn up to strike.

  Shandril screamed in helpless terror as the knife leaped at her throat, so bright and quick. She flung up her hands—the branch gone, her sword too slow to draw—and tried to jump aside.

  Too late. The archer’s grasping hand caught her left shoulder with cruel force, spinning her sideways as his biting blade repeatedly stabbed her shoulder and back.

  Shandril screamed at the slicing pain. She tripped, and they fell together on top of the first archer’s sprawled body. Her shoulder felt wet and afire.

  Her attacker’s furious, glaring face was inches from her own.

  Shandril struggled furiously to avoid his clutching hands and block the knife—clawing, biting, and driving her knees viciously into him. Somehow she got both hands on his wrist and forced the knife past her … but he was stronger, and pulled it slowly back to menace her again.

  Suddenly the snarling face inches from her own gasped, eyes darkening. Blood dribbled from slackening lips. The archer’s strength ebbed away, and strong hands lifted his weight off her. Through tear-blurred eyes, she saw the bright and terrible tip of a blade growing out of a dark, spreading stain on the archer’s chest. His head lolled as he was lifted aside.

  Anxious faces looked down on her. Shandril smiled weakly as she met Rymel’s eyes, and saw Delg, Thail, and Burlane behind him. She caught a shuddering breath, steadied her shaking hands, and managed to say, “My thanks. I … think these two were … sent back … to slay you all with their arrows … I … had to
stop them.”

  She winced as gentle hands touched her shoulder to raise her. Burlane murmured something comforting as Thail’s fingers probed cautiously. With crimson fingers, the wizard took a flask from his belt and said simply, “Drink.”

  The liquid was thick and clear and slightly sweet. It soothed and refreshed, sending a delicious warmth through Shandril’s stomach.

  “My thanks,” she said roughly, as the pain started to fade.

  Her eyes sought Burlane. “I followed them,” she said. “They went west … the land rises. Two hills away the rearguard split. Four swordsmen followed up the mules, and these two came back to slay any who pursued!”

  The pain was almost gone now, and her sick, dizzy feeling with it. “What was in that vial?”

  “A potion,” Thail said simply. “Can you walk?” He raised her gently to her feet.

  Surprisingly, she did not fall. As she took a few cautious steps and turned, reaching a wondering hand to her shoulder.

  Delg patted her hip and growled, “Well done, ladymaid!”

  Shandril gave him a smile and looked at the others. Ferostil seemed relieved that her eyes no longer misted in pain. Rymel wordlessly held out to her the knives of the two archers.

  “Can you use a bow?” Burlane asked quietly.

  Shandril shook her head, but took the knives and slid one down either boot. Rymel nodded approvingly.

  Burlane laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said. “I would have this treasure we’ve bled for.”

  With a general rumble of agreement, the Company of the Bright Spear moved forward.

  Shandril glanced over her shoulder at the twisted bodies of the archers. She had killed a man. It had been so quick … so frighteningly easy. She stumbled, almost falling despite Burlane’s steadying arm, and halted to throw back her head and draw a shuddering breath.

  “Shandril,” Burlane asked quietly, “are you—well?”

  “I … ah, yes. Yes. Better now!”