Ed Greenwood - Spellfire

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SPELLFIRE

ZHENTIL KEEP

At Ctae Sign op Tbe Rising Moon

Neglect not small things, for all ruling and war and magecraft are naught but

small things, one built upon another. Begin then with the small, and look

close, and you will see it all.

Seroun of Calimport

"fifes of Far Ttevels

Yfear of the Rock

It was a good inn, but sometimes Shandril hated it. She was crying at the pain

in her scalded hands, the tears running down her chin and arms into the suds,

as she washed a small mountain of dishes.

ft was a hot Flamerule noon. Sweat stood out all over her like oil, making her

slim arms slippery and glistening. She wore only her old gray tunic, once

Gorstag's. It stuck to her here and there, but only the cook, Korvan, would

see her, and he would slap and pinch even if she were bundled up in furs like

some northern princess. She blew, sharply, and the lank blonde hair falling

from her forehead parted reluctantly in front of her eyes. Tossing her head to

fling her hair aside, Shandril narrowly surveyed the stack beside her and

concluded with a sigh that there were at least three hours' worth of dishes

left.

Not enough time. Korvan was starting the roasts in the hearth already. He'd be

wanting herbs cut and water brought soon. He was a good cook, Shandril allowed

grudgingly, even if he was fat and he stank and his hands were always hot and

sticky. Some folk came to The Rising Moon just because of Korvan's cooking.

ED GREENWOOD

Shandril had heard the story about how Korvan— younger and slimmer then—had

once been a cook in the Royal Palace of Cormyr, in the fair city of Suzail.

There had been some trouble (probably over a girl, Shandril thought darkly,

perhaps even one of the princesses of Cormyr), and he'd had to leave Cormyr in

some haste, banished therefrom upon pain of death.

Shandril wondered, as she eyed a soapy platter critically, what would happen

if she ever managed to get Korvan drunk senseless or knocked cold with a

skillet and somehow could drag him through the Thunder Gap and over the border

into Cormyr. Perhaps King Azoun himself would appear out of thin air and say

to the Cormyrean border guards, "Here he is!" and without hesitating they'd

draw their swords and hack off Korvan's head. She smiled at the thought.

Perhaps he'd plead for mercy or cry in fear.

Shandril snorted. Great chance, indeed, of that ever happening! He was here,

now, and too lazy to ever go anywhere—and too fat for most horses to carry

him, if it came to that. No, he was trapped here, and she was trapped with

him. She scrubbed a fork fiercely until its two tines gleamed in the sunlight.

Yes, trapped.

It had been a long time before she'd realized it. She had no parents, no

kin—and no one would even admit to knowing where she'd come from. She had

always been here, it seemed, doing the dirty work in the old roadside inn

among the trees. It was a good inn, everyone said. Other places must be worse,

Shandril reasoned, but she had never seen them. She could not remember ever

having been inside any other building, ever. After sixteen summers, all she

knew of her town of Highmoon was what she could see from the inn-yard. She'd

never more than thought of running away or just slipping off to have a look.

She was always too busy, too behind with her work, or too tired.

There was always work to be done. Each spring she even washed the ceilings of

all the bedchambers while tied to a ladder so she wouldn't fall off.

Sharp-eyed old Tezza did the windows, all those tiny panes of mica and a few

panels of blown glass from Selgaunt and Hillsfar, which were far too valuable

for Shandril to be trusted to wash.

SPELLFIBE

Shandril didn't mind most of the work, really. She just hated getting extra

tired or hurt while the others did little or, like Korvan, bothered her.

Besides, if she didn't work, or she fought with the others—all more necessary

to the running of The Rising Moon than Shandril Shessair—she'd upset Gorstag.

And more than anything (except, maybe, to have a real adventure), Shandril

wanted to please Gorstag.

The owner of The Rising Moon was a broad-shouldered, strong man with

gray-white hair, gray eyes, and a craggy, weathered face. He'd broken his nose

long ago, perhaps in the days when he had been an adventurer. Gorstag had been

all over the world, people said, swinging his axe in important wars. He had

made quite a lot of gold before settling down in Deepingdale, in the heart of

the forest, and rebuilding his father's old inn. Gorstag was kind and quiet

and sometimes gruff, but it was he who insisted that Shandril have a good gown

for feast-days and when important folk stopped at the inn, even though Korvan

said she'd serve them better by staying in the kitchen.

It was also Gorstag who had insisted that she have a last name, when, years

ago, the chamber girls had called her "a nameless nobody," and "a cow too

runty to keep, so someone threw it away!" The innkeeper had come into the room

and spoken in a voice that had frightened Shandril into silence in mid-sob, a

voice that made her think of cold steel and executioners and priestly dooms.

"Such words—and all others like them—will never be spoken in this house

again." Gorstag never hit women or spanked girls, but he had taken off his

belt then, as he did when he thrashed the stable boy for cruel pranks. The

girls were both white-faced, and one started to cry, but Gorstag never touched

them. He closed the door of the room and set a chair against it. Then he

walked over to the girls, who were both whimpering and, saying nothing, he

swung the belt high and brought it crashing down on the floorboards so hard

that the dust curled up and the door rattled. Then he put on his belt, took

the shocked Shandril gently by the shoulder, and led her from the room,

closing the door again behind him.

He had led her down to the taproom and said thickly, "I call you Shandril

Shessair, for it is your truename. Do not

ED GREENWOOD

forget, for your name is precious." Then Shandril had asked him, voice

quavering, "Was I so named by my parents?"

Gorstag shook his head slightly and gave her a sad smile. "In the Realms,

little one, you can take any name you can carry. Mind you cany it well."

Yes, Gorstag had been good to her, and The Rising Moon was like him: kind and

good, well-worn and bluntly honest, and lots of hard work. Day after day of

hard work. It was her cage, Shandril thought fiercely, reaching for another

dish while the sweat ran down her back.

With some surprise, she saw that there were no more dishes. In her anger she

had washed and scrubbed like a madcap, and now she was done, and it was early

yet. Time enough to change to her plain gown and peek into the taproom before

cutting the herbs. Before Korvan could come in and give her extra work to do,

Shandril vanished, her bare feet dancing lightly over the narrow loft stairs

to her trunk.

She washed her face and hands in the basin of cool water she'd left for

Lureene, another young woman who waited on the tables and shared the

sleeping-loft with Shandril, except on nights when she had a man and Shandril

was banished to the cellar for her own safety. She changed her clothing and

crept quickly downstairs again along the passage to the deserted taproom.

Gorstag would be seeing to the food, she knew, and he would have started the

evening fire already. A party of adventurers had come in from Cor-myr earlier,

and Gorstag would be busy. The flagstones were cool under her feet.

The taproom was warm and smoky. Light blazed up from the crackling hearth and

the several sputtering torches mounted on the walls and hooded with grim black

iron. Shadows leaped on the walls and the great beams that ran low overhead

the length of the taproom, bearing the sleeping chambers of the inn's upper

stories upon their mighty backs. In the shifting play of light, the scenes on

faded, flaking paintings seemed to live and move. The high deeds of heroes of

the dales were remembered there, and the glories of battles long past. Massive

tables of dark oak planks with squat, thick-carved legs crowded the room, and

about them were plain, smooth benches and stout chairs covered in

SPELLFIHE

worn leather.

Over the bar hung a two-handed broadaxe, old but proud, well-oiled, and kept

sharp. Gorstag had borne it in far-off lands in days long gone and adventures

he would not speak of. When there was trouble, Shandril remembered, he could

still toss it from hand to hand like a dagger and whirl it about as though it

weighed nothing. Whenever Shandril asked him about his adventures, the old

innkeeper only laughed and shook his head. But often in the mornings, when

Shandril crept down the stairs to start the kitchen fires, she would stop and

look at the axe and imagine it in Gorstag's hands on sun-drenched battlefields

far away, or amid icy rock crags where trolls lurked, or in dark caverns where

unseen horrors dwelt. It had been places, that axe.

The bar itself was surrounded by a small, gleaming forest of bottles of all

sizes and hues, kept carefully dusted by Gorstag. Some came from lands very

far away, and others from Highmoon, not half a mile off. Below these were the

casks, gray with age, which the men filled from smaller traveling kegs at the

upper bungs, kept sealed with wax and emptied by means of brass taps. Gorstag

was very proud of those taps, since they had come all the way from fabled

Water-deep.

Above the bottles, just over the axe, there was a silver crescent moon, tilted

to the left just as it was on the creaking signboard outside the front door:

The Rising Moon itself. Long ago, a traveling wizard had cast a spell on the

silver crescent, and it never tarnished. The house was a good inn, plain but

cozy, its host well respected, even generous, and Highmoon was a beautiful

place.

But to Shandril, it seemed more and more to be a prison. Every day she walked

the same boards and did the same things. Only the people changed. The

travelers, with their unusual clothing and differing skins and voices, brought

with them the idle chatter, faint smells, and excitement of far places and

exciting deeds. Even when they came in, dusty and weary from the road,

snappish or sleepy, they had at least been somewhere and seen things, and

Shandril envied them so much that sometimes she thought her heart would burst

right out of her chest.

ED GREENWOOD

Every night folk came to the taproom to smoke long pipes and drink Col-stag's

good ate and listen to the gossip of the Realms from other travelers. Shandril

liked best those times when the grizzled old men of the dale who had

themselves fought or gone adventuring in their younger days told of their

feats, and of the legendary deeds of even older heroes. If only she were a

man, strong enough to wear coat-of-plate and swing a blade, to set foes

staggering back with the force of her blows! She was quick enough, she knew,

and judged herself fairly strong.

But she was not strong like these great oxen of men who lumbered, ruddy-faced,

into the inn to growl their wants at Gorstag. Even the long-retired veterans

of Highmoon, some \ nodding and shrunken with age, others scarred or maimed in

ancient frays, seemed like old wolves—stiff, perhaps, slower and harder of

hearing, certainly, but wolves nonetheless. Shandril suspected that if ever

she looked in the house of any of these old men of Highmoon, an old blade or

mace would be hanging in a place of honor like Gorstag's axe. If ever she got

to see any of the other houses in Highmoon, it would be a wondrous thing, she

reflected sourly.

She sighed, her scalded hands still smarting. She dared not smear goose-grease

on them before getting the herbs, or Korvan would fly into a rage. His aim

with kitchen utensils was too good for her health, Shandril knew. Smiling

ruefully, she took the basket and knife from behind the kitchen door and went

out into the green stillness of the inn garden. She knew by now what to cut,

and how much to bring, and what was fit to use and what was not, although

Korvan made a great show of disgust at her selections and always sent her back

for one more sprig of this, and chided her for bringing far too much of that.

But he used all she brought, Shandril noticed, and never bothered to get more

himself if she was busy elsewhere.

Korvan was still absent when she returned to the kitchen. Shandril spread the

herbs out neatly in fan patterns upon the board and exchanged basket and knife

for the wooden yoke and its battered old buckets. I'm used to this, she

realized grimly. I could be forty winters old, and still I'd know nothing but

lugging water. Hearing Korvan coining down

SPELLFIRE

the passage into the kitchen, grumbling loudly about the calm thievery of the

butcher, she slipped out the back door. She darted across the turf to the

stream, holding the ropes of the pails with practiced ease to keep them from

banging against each other.

She felt eyes upon her and looked up quickly. Gorstag had come around the

corner of the inn. Trotting head down, she had nearly run into his broad

chest. He grinned at her startled apologies and danced around her, making

flourishes with his hands as he did when dancing with the grander ladies of

the dale. She grinned back after a moment, and then danced to match him.

Gorstag roared with laughter, joined by Shandril. Suddenly, the kitchen door

banged open and Korvan peered out angrily. Opening his mouth to scold

Shandril, he closed it again with an audible snap as the innkeeper leaned over

to smile closely at him.

Gorstag turned back to her and said, for Korvan's benefit, "Dishes done?"

"\fes, sir/' Shandril replied, giving a slight bow.

"Herbs cut and ready?"

"Tfes, sir." Shandril bowed again hastily to hide her growing smile.

"Going straight out for water. I like that ... I like that indeed. You'll make

a good innkeeper yourself someday. Then you could have a cook to do all those

things for you!" They both heard Korvan's sniff before the kitchen door

slammed. Shandril struggled to swallow her giggles.

"Good lass," Gorstag said warmly, giving her shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

Shandril smiled back at him through the hair that had fallen over her face

again. Well, at least someone appreciated her! She hurried off down the

well-worn, winding path of beaten earth and exposed tree-roots to the

Glaemril, to draw staggeringly heavy buckets of water for the kitchen. Tonight

would be a busy night. If Lureene did not bed with one of the travelers, she'd

have much to tell as Shandril hissed questions in the darkness of the loft:

who came from where, and where they were bound, and on what business. News,

too, and gossip—all the color and excitement of the world outside, the world

that Shandril had never seen.

ED GREENWOOD

Gratefully she waded out into the cool water, her bare feet avoiding the

unseen stones with long practice as she filled the old wooden buckets. Then,

grunting with the effort, she heaved them up onto the bank and stood for a

moment, hands on hips, looking up and down the cool, green passage of the

stream through Deepingdale's woods. She could not stay long, or swim or bathe

and get herself wetter than she was, but she could look... and dream. Past her

feet, the Glaemril—Deeping Stream, some called it-rushed laughingly over rocks

to join the great river Ashaba that drained the northern dales and then turned

east to slip past rolling lands, full of splendid people and wondrous things,

lands that she would see, someday!

"Soon," she said firmly, as she climbed from the stream and took up the worn

wooden yoke. A heave, a momentary stagger under the great weight and she began

the long climb up through the trees back to the inn. Soon.

Adventurers were staying at The Rising Moon this night; a proud, splendid

group of men by the name of the Company of the Bright Spear. Lean and

dangerous in their armor and ready weaponry, they laughed often and loudly,

wore gold rings on their hands and at their ears, and drank much wine. Gorstag

had been busy with them all afternoon, for as he told Shandril with a wink as

he strode down the cellar stairs in search of old and cobweb-covered bottles

of wine, "It pays to keep adventurers happy, and it can be downright dangerous

if you do not." They would be in the taproom by now, Lureene already flirting

and flouncing saucily as she brought them wine and strong cider and aromatic

tobacco. Shandril promised herself she'd watch them from the passage, while

Korvan was busy with the pastry.

Shandril kicked the rusted pot by the back door so that the cook would hear

and let her into the kitchen. The chain rattled as Korvan threw up the

half-bar and snarled, "Get in!" The expected pinching and slap came as she

staggered across the uneven floor with the water. "Don't spill any of that,

mind! There are dishes waiting, sluggard! Move that shapely little behind of

yours!" Korvan rumbled, ending with his horrible, barking laugh. Shandril set

her teeth grimly under the yoke. Someday she'd be free of this!

• 14*

SPELLFIBE

The evening grew cool, as it often did in the dale after a hot day, mist

gathering in the trees. The Rising Moon's taproom filled up quickly. The

townsfolk of Highmoon had done business with the Company of the Bright Spear,

and the veterans had come to take their measure and perhaps swap some tales.

Shandril managed one quick peek at the taproom and saw the company holding

court, all boisterous Jests and laughter, at the central tables. A scattering

of local veterans sat nearer the bar, and at the small tables along the wall

were other visitors. Shandril noticed two lady adventurers close to the bar.

Noticed, and stared.

They were beautiful. Tall, slim—and free to do as they pleased. Shandril gazed

at them in wonder from the shadows. Both of the women wore leather and plate

half-armor without color or blazon. Long, plain scabbards at their hips held

swords and daggers that looked to have seen heavy use. Their cloaks were also

plain, but of the finest cloth and make. Shandril was surprised at the soft

beauty of the two and the quiet grace of their movements—no red-faced oxen,

these. But what struck her most was their calm self-assurance. They were what

she longed to be. Shandril stared at them from the darkness of the

passage—until Korvan came out of the kitchen with a roar. He plucked Shandril

up by grabbing a fistful of tunic and hauling roughly and carried her down the

passage and into the kitchen.

"Do /stand and gawk? If I did, what would the guests eat then?' was all Korvan

said, in a fierce whisper with his stub-bled face an inch from hers, and

Shandril feared for her life. If there was one thing Korvan cared about, it

was his cooking. For a wild moment, as he thrust a bowl of potatoes at her,

Shandril considered attacking her tormentor with a kitchen knife, but that

wasn't the sort of 'adventure' she wanted.

But as she washed and cleaned out three hares under Kor-van's hot glare,

Shandril knew that she'd had more than enough of this treatment. She was going

to do somethingto get out of here. Tonight.

"A good place, I've heard," said the mage Marimmar in the

ED GREENWOOD

last blue light of dusk, as their ponies carried them down through the trees

toward the lanterns of Deepingdale. " Mind you say nothing of our business or

destination, boy. If asked, you know nothing. You are not even all that

interested in Myth Drannor?'

Narm Tamaraith nodded In weary silence, and his master turned on him sharply

in the gloom. "Do you hear, boy?

Answerf

"Aye, Lord, t—nodded, not thinking you would not see. 1 beg full pardon. I

will say nothing of Myth Drannorf' Nairn's master, Marimmar "the Magnificent"

(Narm had heard him called other things occasionally, but never to his face),

snorted.

" 'Not thinking*! That's the problem, boy, too much of the time. Well, think!

Deep but sharp, boy, deep but sharp— dont let the world around escape your

notice, lest it sticks a blade in your ribs while your wits are off somewhere

considering Xult's Seven SigUs! Got it?"

"Aye, Lord," Narm replied, sighing inwardly. It was to be one of those

evenings. Even if this inn was nice, he'd scarcely have the chance to enjoy

it, with Marimmar holding forth on all of Nairn's many shortcomings. Narm

could see now why the Mage Most Magnificent had so readily agreed to take on

an apprentice. Marimmar needed someone around to belabor, and no doubt few

stayed long to listen. His master's art was good, though; Narm knew enough of

magic to be certain of that. But Marimmar certainly knew how to ruin the

delight and enthusiasm of any adventure— or even daily chores, for that

matter. Narm turned into the yard of The Rising Moon, pronouncing silent

curses upon his master. Maybe there would be pretty girls inside. . . .

After the hares and four pheasants and too many carrots and potatoes to count,

Shandril stole away for another look at the inn's guests. The company of

adventurers might talk of their deeds, or even show off some treasure.

Moreover, she might learn who the two ladies were. Flitting barefoot down the

passage in her greasy tunic and apron, Shandril peered out cautiously into the

noise and bustle.

SPELLFTRE

Across the smoky taproom sat an imperious man in fine gray robes, a thin pipe

between his fat fingers as he spoke to his companion, a much younger man. This

one was handsome, even in nondescript gray robes that were too large for him.

He was dark-haired and slim, with a very serious face. His eyes were intent on

the cup of wine he clasped on the table before him. Shandril was about to turn

away when suddenly his gaze met hers.

Oh, his eyes! Belying that stern face, they were dancing. They met hers

merrily and did not ridicule her wild-tousled, long blonde hair and greasy

garb, but winked at her as an equal—one, moreover, lucky to be in the shadows

and not facing a steady barrage of questions.

Shandril flushed and tossed her head—and yet could not go. Snared by his gaze,

by being regarded as a—person and not a servant, Shandril stood watching,

mute, hands clenching in the folds of her apron. Abruptly, the youth's gaze

was jerked away, as a hooked fish is pulled from the water regardless of its

will to stay, by the impatient snapping of the older man's fingers.

Shandril stood alone in the shadows, as always, trembling with excitement and

hope. These folk who traveled about the world outside were no greater than

herself. Oh, they were rich enough, and had companions and business of import,

and experience—but she could be one of them. Someday. If ever she dared.

Shandril could look no longer. Bitterly she turned back to the kitchen,

railing inwardly at the fear that always held her there, despite the endless

pots and scalding water, despite Korvan.

"Get in!" Korvan rumbled, red-faced, as she came to the kitchen. "There's

onions to chop, and I can't do it ail, you know!" Shandril nodded absently as

she walked toward the chopping board at the back of the kitchen. Korvan's

bruising, pinching fingers as she passed, and the roar of uneven laughter that

followed, were expected now; she hardly noticed. The knife rose and fell in

her hands, twinkling. Korvan stared at her. Shandril had never before hummed

happily while chopping onions.

EDGHEENWOOD

It was hot and close in the low-beamed room. Narm blinked wearily. Marimmar

showed signs of neither weariness nor relaxation in the cozy warmth of this

place. I suppose all inns are the same, more or less, Narm thought, but to

take this—his gaze strayed again around the noisy camaraderie of the room—all

for granted!

But before Marimmar snapped at him to mind his studies and not the antics of

drunken locals, Narm noticed that the girl who had stared at him from the dark

passage across the room was gone. The darkness there didn't seem right without

her. She belonged in that spot, somehow. And yet—

"Will you heed?" Marimmar snapped, really angry now. "What has hold of your

senses, boy? One drink and this? You'll have a short life indeed, if you gad

about like this when you're in the wild! Some creatures would look upon you as

a quick meal. And they'll not wait for you to notice them before they feed!"

Obediently, Narm faced his master and dragged his attention back to queries on

casting spells: casting in the dark, casting when the proper components were

lacking, casting (Marimmar added acidly) when drunk. Again, Narm's head swam

with the picture, his forever now, of the girl gazing into his eyes from the

shadows. He almost looked to see if she was there, but checked under his

master's gaze.

One of the adventurers bad chanced to spill a platter of food, so Shandril was

there when it happened. The Company of the Bright Spear were six in number,

led by an important, square-bearded, young giant of a man who was fast

becoming too drunk to keep his seat. His name was Burlane. Gold gleamed and

winked in the firelight at his ears and his throat, upon his fingers, and at

his belt. He belched and chuckled and reached vaguely for his tankard again.

Tb his left sat a real dwarf, the worn and baggy leather of his breeches not a

foot from Shandril's bent bead as she scrubbed and scraped beneath the table.

The breeches smelled of woodsmoke. The dwarf was called Delg, "the Fearless,"

as one of his companions had added mockingly, to everyone's amusement. Delg

wore a dagger strapped to his

leg just above his boot; its hilt shone enticingly inches from Shandril's

face. Something rose up within her and, trembling a little, yet with infinite

care, she reached out. . .

One of the veterans of the dale, Ghondarrath, a stern-eyed old warrior with a

gray-white beard edging his hard jaw, was telling of the treasures of the

ruined City of Beauty, Myth Drannor. Shandril had heard it before, but it was

still fascinating. She listened intently, scarcely daring to breathe, as she

took hold and pulled ever-so-gently. The dagger came free, cold and hard and

heavy in her hand.

"... So for many long years the elves kept all others away, and the woods grew

over the ruins of Myth Drannor. The Fair Folk let it alone; not a harp or

spellbook or gemstone did they take. There it all lies in the woods still, not

a week's ride north of here. Waiting for the brave—and the foolish— to try for

it, for it is guarded by devils... and worse."

The old man paused, his audience intent upon his every word, and raised his

tankard. His free hand slid across his chest like a striking snake.

One of the adventurers, a thin man with short blond hair and a ratlike face,

was passing behind him, and old Ghondarrath grunted and set down his tankard.

He raised his other hand, and all could see the adventurer's wrist clasped

within. In that captured hand was Ghondarrath's purse.

"Well," Ghondarrath said dryly, "look what I've found." The room fell silent,

save for the crackle of the fire. No one moved. Shandril clutched the dagger

fiercely in excitement. She knew she should creep away quickly, lest the dwarf

reach for his blade . . . and yet, she couldn't miss this!

There was a flurry of movement; the thief whipped a slim dagger out of a

sheath at the back of his neck with his free hand, stabbing downward.

Ghondarrath jerked him coolly sideways, and he crashed helplessly forward onto

the table. Ghondarrath's free hand came down upon the back of the thiefs neck

with a solid crash, like a tree falling. "Dead?" asked one of the other

dalemen in a hoarse whisper. For a second more there was silence, and then

with a roar the Company of the Bright Spear was on their feet.

"Get him!"

"Sword the graybeard!"

*!£>*

ED GREENWOOD

"He's killed Lynxal!"

The dwarf nearly took Shandril's nose off as he kicked back his chair and

sprang to his feet, but Shandril jerked back just in time. Chairs overturned

and men shouted. Adventure, she thought ruefully as she scuttled on hands and

knees beneath the table, was upon her at last.

"They'll kill you, Ghondar!" said one of the old warriors, face white. Beside

him, Ghondarrath stood defiant, his chair raised before him in his hands. He

had no other weapon.

"I was never one to back down," he said roughly. "I know no other way. Better

to die by the blade, Tempus willing, than grow old shamed and craven."

"So be it, graybeard!" said one of the company's warriors viciously, striding

forward, blade out.

"Stop!" the old man bellowed with sudden force, startling all there. "If it's

to be a fight, then let us go outside. Gorstag's a good friend to us all—I'd

not see his house laid waste!"

"\bu should have thought of that a breath or two earlier;' sneered another

company member through the general laughter of his fellows. They surged

forward. Shandril reached her feet just as Gorstag and Korvan pounded past

her, the cook swearing, a cleaver in his hand. She turned in time to see two

blades flash in the firelight as, catlike, the two ladies Shandril had noticed

earlier leaped in front of the old man. One of those blades glowed and

shimmered with blue-white fire. A rumbling gasp of wonder shook the room

at the sight.

"I apologize to this house and to its master for drawing steel," said its

silver-haired owner in a clear, lilting voice. "But I will not see butchery

done by young fools with quick tempers. Put up your blades, company"—her voice

twisted that into a shaming quotation rather than rightful name— "or die, for

we shall surely slay you all."

"Or," her companion added pleasantly over the point of her own ready blade,

"this can be forgotten, and all keep peace. The thief was caught and drew

steel. The fault is his and his alone, and he has paid. That's an end to it."

With an oath, one of the adventurers plucked at his belt, meaning to snatch

and throw a dagger. The man grunted and then cried out in fury and

frustration, but his hand was

SPELLFIHE

held in a grip like unmoving iron. Gorstag said quietly, "Drop your blade. All

others, put away your weapons. I will not have this in my house."

At the sound of his voice, everyone relaxed, the dagger clattered to the

floor, and blades slid back into scabbards.

"Have I your peace white you stay at The Rising Moon?" the innkeeper asked.

The company members nodded, said "Aye" in reluctant chorus, and returned to

their seats.

Across the room, the silver-haired bard sheathed her glowing blade and turned

to Ghondarrath. "Forgive me, sir/' she said simply. "They were too many. I

would not shame you." The chair trembled in the old man's hands.

"I am not shamed" he said roughly. "My friends sat all around, and when it

came to the death, I was alone, but for you two. I thank you. I am

Ghondarrath, and my table is yours. Will you?" He gestured toward a chair.

The two ladies clasped hands with him. "Aye, with thanks. I am Storm

SUverhand, a bard, of Shadowdale."

Her companion smiled, too. "I am Sharantyr, a ranger, also of Shadowdale. Well

met."

Gorstag passed them wordlessly, reached the bar, and turned. "The night is

hot," he said to the crowd, "so the house gives you all chilled wine from far

Athkatla." There was a general roar of approval. "Drink up," he added, as

Lureene hastily started around with flagons, "and let this incident be

forgotten!" He lifted the limp body of the thief, its head dangling loosely,

and carried it away.

Across the room, Marimmar removed a restraining hand from Nairn's arm. "Well

done, boy," he said. "Continue to hold your peace, and life will be far easier

for you."

"Aye," agreed Narm dryly. His master had certainly given him much practice in

holding peace. All around them laughter and the clink and clatter of eating

built up again. Tempers had been restored, and it was too soon to talk of the

near-brawl. The company seemed in fairly good humor, as if the thief hadnt

been liked much anyway. Narm looked about for the girl he had locked eyes with

earlier, but she was nowhere to be seen. There was something about her. . . .

Ah, well...

Narm turned his attention to the chilled wine the serving

ED GREENWOOD

girl had just brought, before Marimmar could forbid him to drink more. Now, if

the old man would just take up his tale of the treasures of lost Drannor, and

the city's ruin by devils again. . . .

But Ghondarrath, it seemed, had no more tongue for tales this evening. He sat

talking quietly with the two tall, lithe ladies whose ready blades had saved

his life. His eyes shone and his face was ruddy, and he seemed more alive than

for many a long winter. Several of the locals called on him to resume his

tale, but he paid them no heed. Finally, the calls became more general,

floating across the taproom to the travelers from afar.

To Narm's quiet embarrassment, Marimmar cleared his throat importantly,

squared his shoulders, and turned about grandly in his chair. Oh, gods,

thought Narm despairingly, deliver us all. His eyes sought out the ceiling.

Before the Mage Most Magnificent could draw breath, however, one of the

company of adventurers had turned to another and said, "Rymel! A tale! Give us

all a tale!" "Aye! A tale!" echoed other companions. "Well, J don't know,"

Rymel began, but he was drowned out in a roar of protests.

"Tell you what?" Rymel asked. "What would you hear?" "Wha—well, man, you know!

Anything. Delg," the man added, turning to the dwarf, "you choose. You know

more of the old days, and—"

"Odd things, aye," the dwarf of the company said sourly. "Odd myself, am I

not?" He chuckled away their protests, hefted his drink consideringly, and

said, "Well, Rymel, if you will, tell the tale of Yerevan's last race. It's

been awhile, and I would hear it again."

Narm noticed that Marimmar, who had been hemming and puffing in his seat,

forgot his vanity at hearing the dwarf's request and leaned forward in

interest. The two ladies who had defended Ghondarrath also fell silent and

turned to listen. The bard Rymel looked about at all the attentive faces and

said slowly, "Well enough then. It's a little tale, mind, not a great saga of

love and battle and treasure." "Tell on," the lady called Sharantyr bade him

simply from across the room. Rymel nodded, and spoke quietly. Silence

SPELLFIRE

fell but for the snap of the fire as those in the taproom leaned forward to

hear the better.

The bard was good, and his gentle words brought the tragic tale of the last

king of Westgate to chilling life. All listened, in the cozy room where the

old axe hung.

The mood of the evening had changed, the danger past and forgotten, Gorstag

affably at ease again. Marimmar the mage never did tell his tale... .

The Company of the Bright Spear drank much and went up to their room late.

Rymel, his lute left upstairs with their travel gear, had led the locals in a

score of ballads with his fine voice atone. Delg the dwarf had lost his

favorite dagger somewhere and was moody and suspicious. The burly fighter,

Ferostil, was very drunk, and—as usual—trading coarse jests in voices loud and

slurred, and the wizard Thail, grim and sober, was guiding him up the stairs

with many a sigh and jaundiced look.

"Lend me a hand, Burlane," he pleaded, as Ferostil nearly fell back on top of

him. "This lout is nearer your size."

"Aye," their burly leader said good-naturedly. "We've lost enough tonight." He

leaned back to grab Ferostil's shoulder. "Come then, Lion of Tempus," he said,

hauling hard. "Now, where's that room?"

"This one," the wizard said, and threw the door wide.

Within, all was as they had teft it—packs strewn about, cloaks thrown over

racks. A single lantern had been lit.

"My spear!" Burlane roared suddenly. "Where is the Bright Spear?" They peered

all about, alert upon the instant, but there was no place in the room that

could have concealed its flickering radiance. Their greatest treasure was

gone.

"By all the gods!" Burlane bellowed. "I'll have this inn apart stone by stone

if need be! That thieving bastard of an innkeeper! Delg—quick, run to demand

it of him! Thail, look to our horses! Is anything else missing?"

"Aye," said the wizard thickly. His hands trembled above his opened pack. "All

my spells." His face was ashen; he sat down on the bed suddenly and stared at

nothing, dazed.

ED GREENWOOD

"Thail!" Burlane roared, shaking him. "Come, we must—"

"My axe also," the dwarf's sour voice cut through Burlane's rage. "I see no

sign of our charter from the king, nor Ferostil's shield. RymeP"

The bard was standing sadly by his pack. His shrug and empty hands told them

his lute was gone as well. The men of the company stared at each other mutely.

Everything dearest and of most value was gone.

Into the shocked silence came a knock upon the door.

Delg was nearest. Dourly he flung the door wide, expecting trouble. Over his

shaggy head they all saw the pale, solemn face of a young girl with large,

dark eyes. In one hand, she held their charter from the King of Cormyr. In the

other, she gripped a spear that flickered with a pale blue light. She stepped

calmly into the room past the astonished dwarf, cleared her throat in the

tense silence, and said softly, "I understand you need a thief."

in tbe Mist

If discomfort and danger be always at hand, why then adventure? There is

something in mankind that leads some always on to such foolishness, and the

rest of us benefit by the riches and knowledge and dreams they bring us. Why

else tolerate such dangerous idiots?

Helsuntiir of Athkatla

Musings

Ifear of the Winged Warm

The Company of the Bright Spear were six in number. The tall warrior Burlane

bore the magical Bright Spear and led the company. A younger bladesman rode

with him, the merry Ferostil. Delg, the dwarf, was also a warrior. His

constant companion was the bard Rymel, probably the brightest of them all. The

wizard Thail deferred to his younger, louder companions. Last and least of the

company was the thief, one Shandril, a bright-eyed, soft-spoken waif in

ill-fitting old breeches and a much-patched tunic.

They had nearly slain her when she had appeared with their missing gear, which

she had slipped away and stolen while the ladies Storm and Sharantyr were

facing down the company in the taproom. After their rage had subsided (under

Rymel's laughter), only Delg had protested against her joining, but the

fighter—with the same avid look in his eyes that Korvan got—was enthusiastic.

So far, however, Ferostil had not bothered her.

Shandril had slipped out of the inn that same night to wait for the company in

the trees on the edge of Deepingdale,

ED GREENWOOD

leaving only a hastily scribbled note for Gorstag. She had spent anxious hours

in the dark with small forest creatures rustling and scuttling unseen around

her, afraid that the company would change their minds and ride off without

her. Shandril's heart had leaped when they had come into view through the dawn

mists, leading Lynxal's empty horse for her. She had trembled so with

excitement that she could hardly speak, but she had gotten into the saddle

somehow, though she had never before ridden a horse. She was relieved to

discover the dead thiefs weapons and gear strapped securely to the saddle,

though she had no idea how to use them either. She would just have to learn...

and

fast!

She'd taken nothing from the inn but the clothes she wore, and the single nice

gown that had been made for her. Robbing Gorstag seemed a poor way to repay

him for his kindness, and Shandril was not a thief at heart.

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SPELLFIREZHENTILKEEPAtCtaeSignopTbeRisingMoonNeglectnotsmallthings,forallrulingandwarandmagecraftarenaughtbutsmallthings,onebuiltuponanother.Beginthenwiththesmall,andlookclose,andyouwillseeitall.SerounofCalimport"fifesofFarTtevelsYfearoftheRockItwasagoodinn,butsometimesShandrilhatedit.Shewascryingat...

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Ed Greenwood - Spellfire

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