Ed Greenwood - Shandril's Saga 02 - Crown Of Fire

K:\eMule\Incoming\Shandril's Saga 02 - Crown Of Fire - Greenwood, Ed.pdb

PDB Name: Crown of Fire

Creator ID: REAd

PDB Type: TEXt

Version: 0

Unique ID Seed: 0

Creation Date: 16-8-1973

Modification Date: 16-8-1973

Last Backup Date: 1-1-1970

Modification Number: 0

CROWN OF FIRE

by Ed Greenwood

Sequel to the Best-Selling Novel 'Spellfire'

The action of this novel occurs in the Year of the Prince (1357 Dalreckoning),

immediately after the

novel 'Spellfire', and before the Coming of the Gods.

Prologue

Something flashed as it moved - aye, there! Brann stepped up to the grassy

crest of the hill where his

flock was pastured and looked east, shading his eyes against the bright

forenoon sun. Whatever was

moving caught the light again, flashing against the dark, tree clad lower

slopes of the mountains

opposite him. Out of habit, Brann looked quickly around at his flock, counting

without thought. He

found nothing amiss and peered back to the east again, looking for that moving

glint to show itself

again.

The mountains stood high and dark, like a row of stone giants frowning down on

easternmost Cormyr.

The "Thunder Peaks", men called them, named for the fierce storms that often

rolled and broke among

them. They were hard and grim and splendid, and sometimes Brann just sat and

watched them for

hours.

Much as he was watching them now. They towered over him like a dark,

many-spired fortress wall,

forever hiding Sembia from the high meadows where he stood. Rich, splendid

Sembia, a land where fat

merchants lay at ease among piles of gold coins, glittering like that spot on

the mountains. Ships full of

coins from all over the Realms - even far, sinister Thay, where wizards kept

slaves, came to its shores

every day.

He'd not always be just a shepherd. Someday he'd go to Sembia's docks and meet

with adventure,

Brann promised himself... not for the first time. He sighed at that thought,

shook his head with a wry

smile, and glanced about at the sheep again. His count was right, and none of

them was straying,

shifting, or even looking particularly awake. Brann stared at the sheep in

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 1

growing exasperation. They

ignored him, as usual. Oh, for a little excitement! Nothing here seemed

amiss-also as usual. He sighed

again, and looked east.

The sky was bright and clear, and every boulder and stand of trees on the

familiar flanks of the Peaks

was as it had always been, unchanged-except ...

Except for that little winking flash of light, far away over the rolling,

grass-clad hills near the Gap.

Something shone back the sun at him again, something descending through the

high meadows, where

he spent most days alone with his flock It was something - or someone-that

wore or carried metal. It

wasn't on the road through the Gap, so it couldn't just be another trading

wagon hung with pots and

pans. Perhaps it was a knight of Cormyr, perhaps even one of the Dragon

Knights, who were the

personal swordguard and messengers of Azoun, the Purple Dragon, king of all

this land. With

quickening interest, Brann watched for another flash.

There it was again. Metal, surely, and bobbing in short, choppy moves - so it

wasn't a horse, or

someone riding. It looked ... as if some splendid knight in gleaming armor

were marching afoot across

the hills toward him.

Brann leaned on his staff and shaded his eyes for a better view. Then his

mouth fell open. A dwarf - a

real dwarf, with an axe and a beard and a mail shirt, and all! Brann stood

frozen in wonder. A tiny

voice inside him chuckled at his awe and reminded him that this was what he'd

wished for. Adventure

was striding to meet him, after all. Staggering, actually. The dwarf stumped

along on one side of a girl

who was being carried, and a slim young man struggled along on the other. The

dwarf was bearing

most of the girl's weight on his broad shoulders, but he was so much shorter

than the man that the two

were having trouble moving straight forward with their burden. "Keep on, lad,"

Delg grunted. "There's

a guard post not far ahead ... two hills ahead, and we should see it." Sweat

dripped from the dwarf's

dusty beard as he spoke.

Narm nodded grimly, saving all his breath for carrying his lady. Shandril was

slim and shorter than

most; she couldn't be this heavy. She hung loose between them, senseless. Narm

stumbled, caught

himself with a wordless hiss of apology to Delg, and shook his head

impatiently; stinging sweat had

run down into his eyes again. He looked ahead-and stiffened. Through the

blurring of sweat he saw

dark, moving blobs on the grassy hills ahead. "'Ware-" he panted.

"They're sheep, lad," the dwarf said dryly. "Right dangerous, if ye're a clump

of grass, I suppose. Aye?

just sheep."

Narm shook his head wearily. His legs felt hollow and weak, his strength

draining out of them with

every step. He had to-to rest. "Stop, Delg just a breath," he panted, wiping

sweat away with his sleeve.

"Just a--"

"No," the dwarf said in tones of cold iron. "If you stop now, boy, you'll

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 2

never get on again in time.

They'll catch up with us and run us down out here like boar, and Shan will

have cooked twenty-odd

Zhents in vain. Keep moving! We're almost there."

Brann watched, astonished, as the bristle-bearded dwarf in armor and the young

man in mage robes

staggered past him, panting under the weight of the girl they carried. Her

long reddish-gold hair

dangled along one limp arm as they strode doggedly and unevenly on, up the

last hill before the village.

Brann looked east again, a view he knew very well. There was no sign of anyone

following them. He

turned and stared curiously at the sweat-darkened back of the young wizard as

the strangers went over

the hill and began to descend out of sight.

His mouth was suddenly dry. His hands, as they dipped to his belt, trembled;

he almost dropped the

horn. So this is excitement, he thought. Brann shook his head, and blew. The

horn call wavered and

then grew steady, high, and clear.

The high song of a shepherd's horn was ringing off the walls of houses as the

three tired adventurers

came down into Thundarlun. Before them rose the watchful stone bulk of the

guardhouse, where Delg

had known it would be. On benches along its wall, Purple Dragon soldiers sat

alert, watching with

interest in their eyes as the three approached.

DeIg guided Narm down onto the dusty road, and the soldiers frowned and rose,

catching up halberds

from where they leaned against the guardhouse wall. One shouted into the

building as the weary

travelers came close enough to see wary faces and ready weapons. A Purple

Dragon with a hard face

and a gray mustache appeared from within and strode out into the road to block

their way. The sword

of a guardcaptain gleamed high on the shoulders of his surcoat.

"Halt, travelers!" His voice was deep and level, but not unfriendly. "You seem

in some trouble and are

come to Cormyr, Realm of the Purple Dragon. State your names and what you seek

here."

Delg looked up at him and silently and imperiously gestured at a soldier to

approach. The man glanced

toward his commander. The guardcaptain appraised the dustcovered dwarf and

then nodded. Holding

his halberd warily, the soldier stepped closer.

Delg shifted the limp girl he held into Narm's grasp, staggering just a bit as

the burden left him. Under

her full weight, the young wizard sank to his knees in the dust. The soldier

moved to help; Delg

ignored them both. Keeping his hands well away from his axe, the dwarf strode

forward to confront the

Cormyrean commander. His beard jutted defiantly as he looked around at all of

the guards, raising his

hand to show them its emptiness before reaching slowly to his throat. He drew

something out from

under his mail, something that hung from a silver neck-chain, and cupped his

hand around it as he

showed it to the Purple Dragon guardcaptain.

The man frowned down at it, and then slowly raised his eyes to meet the

dwarf's steady gaze. They

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 3

looked at each other for a long, silent moment, and then the guardcaptain

waved to the soldiers on his

right. "Take her in, fast." He added, to Delg, "Our wizard's within."

Shandril's head swam. The light had changed; she was inside a building

somewhere, being bumped and

scraped along a rough stone passage and through a door. Then hard, smooth wood

was under her. She

slumped down on the seat, too exhausted to even be thankful, and heard the

soldiers who'd brought her

here go out again, swordscabbards clanging against stone. Then she saw the

flickering blue glow ahead

and forced herself to focus and be alert. She was in the presence of magic.

As her gaze cleared, she saw a man sitting at a table in front of her - a

stout, fussy-looking man with a

wispy beard. He seemed to be alone in this gloomy, bare stone room. Alone

until she arrived. He was

looking irritably over his shoulder at her, a shoulder that bore the purple

robes of a war wizard of

Cormyr. The flickering blue radiance - the only light in the room-was coming

from a thin, gleaming

long sword floating horizontally in the air in front of the wizard.

Shandril let her eyes close to slits and her chin fall to her breast. After a

moment, the wizard shrugged

and turned back to the floating blade. Murmuring something to himself, he

reached toward the blade

and made a certain gesture. Blue lightning crackled suddenly, coiling and

twisting along the gleaming

steel like a snake spiraling around a branch. Then there was a brief,

soundless flash, and the reaching,

blue-white tongues of lightning were gone. The wizard nodded and wrote

something on a piece of

parchment in front of him.

Then he tugged at his beard for a moment, spoke a single, distinct word

Shandril had never heard

before, and made another gesture. This time there was no response from the

magical blade. The wizard

made another note.

Delg squinted up at the Purple Dragon commander. "In a breath or two, I'll

tell you all that," he said, "if

you've time to listen by then. There's near thirty Zhentilar riding on our

heels, they'll be here very

soon."

The commander stared at him, saw that he was serious, and said, "Zhentil Keep?

Twill be a pleasure,

Sir Dwarf, to turn them back." He made no move to call his men to arms, but

nodded his head at the

guardhouse into which Shandril had been taken. "So speak, what befell?"

Delg turned to look east. His hand glided swiftly to the reassuring hardness

of his axe. "She won time

for us to escape, blasting a score of Zhents out of their saddles.

Unfortunately, there are more, and all

her, ah, magic is gone."

The captain was not a stupid man. His eyes widened for a moment as the dwarf

spoke of magic-

younger than most spell-hurlers, that lass. His eyes narrowed again an instant

later as he too turned to

look at the horizon. His face changed, and he shouted, "Down! Ware arrows!"

A hail of shafts answered him, thudding into the turf many paces short of

them. Up over the nearest hill

bobbed many darkarmored heads, rising and falling at a gallop. The Zhentilar,

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 4

riding hard and with

arrows to waste, had come. Faces paled and jaws dropped. Then the men who wore

the Purple Dragon

were scrambling for crossbows and cover. As the minstrels of the Dales say,

they scarce had time for

last wistful wishes before death swept down on them.

Shandril heard a faint yell, then another. Somehow she found strength and was

on her feet, her head

swimming. The world rocked and swayed. There was nothing in her but sick,

helpless emptiness.

Sweat glistened on her hands with the effort. She swayed and caught at the

back of the wizard's chair

for support.

Astonished and irritated, the mage looked up into her face. She pushed past,

leaned on the table for

support, and reached out with weak, trembling fingers. The blade was cold but

tingling as she touched

it; trembling with weakness and relief, she felt the magic it bore begin to

flow into her."What're you -

that's magic, lass - no - don't!" the wizard blurted. Then he stared in

surprise; the blade flashed with

sudden light and seemed to waken. Pulses of radiance ran down it and up the

arms of the young girl,

who grasped its hilt in both hands and gasped. She closed her eyes and

shuddered as small arcs of

lightning leapt from the blade and spiraled around her.

From outside came sudden tumult: thudding hooves, screams and yells, and then,

very near, a horrible,

gurgling moan.The wizard tore his gaze from Shandril just long enough to roll

his eyes and snarl,

"What now? Oh, Mystra aid me!" Snatching a wand from his belt, he strode out

of the room. What in

the name of all the gods was going on? The sudden reek of something burning

came to him as he flung

wide the oaken door of the guardhouse - and stopped in astonishment, again.

Across the threshold, he saw Guardcaptain Ruldel's face twist in pain as he

sagged back into the arms

of a young man in mage robes. Many arrows stood out of the dragons on the

warrior's surcoat and

shield, and already his armor was dark with blood. Above him stood a dwarf,

face grim, bloody axe in

hand. The war wizard goggled at them all from the doorway, frozen in

disbelief. As the commander

sank into the boy's arms, he groaned, struggled to speak for a moment, and

looked up at the dwarf.

The words came in a rough hiss. "Tell Azoun, I ... we were togeth . . ."The

rest was lost forever in a last

rush of blood.

Delg shook his head as he tugged the shield out of the man's lifeless hand;

the fool had not even had

time to get it properly on his arm. Now he was past needing it. DeIg crouched,

holding the shield-it was

as tall as he was-up to protect Narm. The young mage was drenched with sweat,

exhausted from

deflecting far too many arrows with a feeble, invisible magic meant for

hanging cloaks on pegs or

fetching small things from across a room. The spell had failed in the end, and

Narm barely clung to

wakefulness.

Arrows hissed and hummed past them, reaching hungrily through the air close by

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 5

... toward the open

door of the guardhouse. The war wizard stood there, still looking astonished

as the shafts tore into him.

Irritation joined puzzlement on his face before he gurgled and toppled slowly

sideways, an arrow

through his throat. Errant shafts cracked off the stone wall beside him. There

was a barked command

from whence the arrows had come. Through the sudden stillness that followed,

one man came riding,

trotting up to confront the young man and the dwarf. The frightened faces of

villagers peered from

windows. All around the Zhentilar, the soldiers of Cormyr lay sprawled in

blood, pinned down by

many arrows. One warrior hung limply out the open window of a cottage that was

already crackling

into rising flames.

As he reined up in front of Delg, the dark-armored Zhentilar swung a drawn

long sword lazily through

the air, trailing drops of fresh blood. He looked down at the grim dwarf, over

at the sprawled wizard in

the guardhouse doorway, and then around at the frightened, watching faces, and

his cruel face

brightened in satisfaction. He rose in his saddle with insolent grace and

brandished his bloody sword

again.

"Come out, wench!' he bellowed at the open guardhouse door. "Come out, or well

burn this village, and

you with it".

A murmur of fear went up. The bewildered folk of Thundarlun could not believe

so many strong,

capable Purple Dragons - a soldier for every three villagers could be slain so

quickly and easily. In

numb silence, they looked down again at the still forms and the blood. Had the

gods forsaken

Thundarlun?

The Zhentilar beckoned impatiently without looking behind him; one of his men

obediently rode up

with a blazing torch in hand. With a cold smile, the Zhent swordmaster looked

around at the stunned,

fearful faces of the watching villagers. Slowly and deliberately, he wiped his

blade on the flank of his

horse-it snorted and shifted under him-and he sheathed it. Then he reached

out, took the torch, and

brandished it like a blade, trailing rippling flames through the air. His

horse rolled its eyes in fear, the

Zhent pulled back sharply on the reins to prevent it from bolting and swung

his new weapon in arcs of

flame. "Come out!" he snarled, or taste fire!"

Silence fell ... and lengthened, hanging heavy on the smoky air. Villagers

murmured in fear as the wait

continued, and the swordmaster's face grew stony. He raised the torch and sat

his saddle like a statue of

impending doom. The silence stretched. The fire he held on high spat and

crackled.

The dwarf stood watching it, eyes narrow and shield raised over the kneeling

form of Narm, who had

grown pale and seemed to be having trouble swallowing. And then a slim girl in

dusty travel leathers

stood in the doorway. Yellow-white fire seemed to dance around her eyes and

hands, blazing like the

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 6

torch in the swordmaster's hand.

"You called for me, Zhentilar?" The words were calm and cool, but flames

flickered from her lips as

she spoke. At the sight, Zhents and villagers alike murmured and fell back.

Then the girl shuddered,

and her face creased in pain. It cleared again. She straightened almost

defiantly, looking up at the Zhent

swordmaster, her hands going to her hips. An arrow sang toward her. The

swordmaster's furious order

was too late to halt its flight but Shandril looked at it calmly, not moving.

Under her gaze it caught fire,

blazed like a tiny, leaping star, and was gone in drifting sparks and smoke.

The moan of awe and fear

from the watching villagers was louder than the startled oaths some of the

Zhentilar uttered.

"You called me out," Shandril said in a terrible, hoarse whisper. Her eyes,

blazing with fire, fixed on

the Zhentilar swordmaster. As she glared, flames roiled around her face - and

then lanced out.

The Zhentilar's face paled as hissing flames leapt at him. He flung up an

armored arm to shield his face.

The flames swelled to a sudden, savage roar. Then the swordmaster cried out in

sudden pain, twisting

in his saddle. Smoke rose from the half-cloak about his shoulders. His mount

reared under him,

neighing, and the torch fell from his smoldering hands. Shandril raised one

blazing hand, and in her

eyes he saw his death. "By all the gods," she said in fury, flames rising

around her hair in a leaping

crown of fire, "you'll wish you hadn't."

One

A COLD CALLING

Tongues wag their ways on great adventures with ease. Feet oft find it harder

to follow.

Mespert of Baldur's Gate

The Book of the Coast

Year of the Talking Skull

Most of the long, high hall lay in chill darkness. Here and there, lamps shed

eerie, feeble glows into the

cold vastness. Menacing shadows swirled where this lamplight was blocked by a

long stone table, the

many highbacked seats drawn up around it, and the robed men who sat in them.

"So you have all come," came a calm, purring voice from one end of the table.

"Good. The Lord

Manshoon will be pleased at your loyalty and eager ambition. We are looking

for those who in days to

come will lead this fellowship in our places. It is our hope that some among

you will show themselves

suited to do so. Others here, I fear, will reveal just as surely that they are

not"

Sarhthor fell silent The men around the table knew his slim, graceful form

would remain as still and as

patient as stone until he wished to move a finger or change his expression.

Right now, as the silence

stretched, his calm, keen-eyed face was-as usual-expressionless. It might have

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 7

been carved from the

same gray stone as the pillar behind his seat. Sarhthor's dark eyes, however,

glittered with cruel

amusement, a look familiar to many seated there. They were the most ambitious

and daring of the

apprentice magelings of the Zhentarim, and had all been trained or inspected

by this man. Many long,

tense breaths were drawn as quietly as possible in the dimly lit cold as the

wizards sat and waited,

trying not to show their fear, their personal hatreds of each other-and their

mounting impatience.

At length, one of the seated men spoke. "Teacher Sarhthor, we have come to

hear High Lord

Manshoon's will of us, and to serve. May we know his plans?" Sarhthor smiled.

"But of course, Fimril.

Lord Manshoon will tell you what you are so eager to hear." He added a little

smile, and then let it slide

slowly and coldly into calm inscrutability. In the mounting silence, the men

around the table regarded

his face for a long time, trying to match the calm, unreadable expression

Sarhthor wore. Some came

close to succeeding.

Someone coughed, and heads turned, glaring. The heavy silence returned and

slowly grew old.

Sarhthor sat at the end of the table as though he was the tomb statue of some

dead king and watched

them all with cold patience. Finally one of the magelings stirred in his seat.

He was a handsome, fine-

featured man whose upswept beard was scented and adorned with small, highly

polished moonstone

teardrops. They glistened here and there among his beard's curled hairs as he

spoke. "I am patient,

Teacher, but also curious. Where is the high lord?"

"Why, here, as it happens," said a new voice, full and rich and only gently

menacing. Heads turned all

down the table.

At the far end of the table from Sarhthor sat a regal, dusky man robed in

black and dark blue. A

moment before, there had been no man and no chair in that spot. The High Lord

of Zhentil Keep smiled

at all the turning heads. Before him on the table sat a serving platter

covered with a silver dome, steam

rising gently from around its edges.

"I've only now escaped from the pressing business of governing this great

city" - the voice dipped only

slightly in silken irony "- to meet with you all. Well met. I trust the

patience taught by Sarhthor and

wise others among us has kept you all occupied, and I beg you to excuse my not

offering you any of

my evenfeast I am" - his voice dipped in soft menace - "hungry this night."

Then the Lord Manshoon flashed his teeth at them all in a smile that shone

very white, and he

uncovered the platter before him. Wisps of richly scented steam rose from the

deep red ring of firewine

sauce. It lay in a channel in the platter, surrounding the lord's evening

meal: a dark, slithering heap of

live, glistening black eels from the Moonsea, lying on a bed of spiced rice. A

slim, jeweltopped silver

skewer appeared in the lord's hand from the empty air before him- Smoothly, he

stabbed the first

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 8

coiling, twisting eel, and dipped it delicately in the hot sauce.

"Despite my apparent ease," Manshoon said, waving his laden skewer as he

looked down the table,

"our Brotherhood - nay, the world entire - remains in peril. You have all

heard of the recent commotion

among our fellows of the Black Altar, and of the matter of spellfire."

He paused for a moment. The silence of the listening Zhentarim wizards had

changed subtly, and

Manshoon knew he had their keen interest now. He smelled the sharp edge of

their fear as they faced

him and tried to look unmoved and peerless and dangerous. He almost chuckled.

"That matter remains unresolved. A young lady by the name of Shandril walks

Faerun somewhere

south and west of us, guarded only by a dwarf and her mate - a knave by the

name of Narm, who is

weaker in Art than the least among you has been in some years. This Shandril

alone commands

spellfire, imperfectly as yet. She seeks training from Harpers and can expect

some Harper aid along her

way."

The quality of the listeners' silence changed again at the mention of the

Harpers. Manshoon smiled and,

with slow bites, emptied his cooling skewer.

"Sarhthor will tell those of you who are professionally interested all about

the known strengths and

subtleties of spellfire. Such professional interest will be exhibited only by

those who have volunteered

for the dangerous but fairly simple task of seizing or destroying this

Shandril, and bringing what

remains of her in either case here to this hall.

"You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of

late. This chaos may or

may not be linked with spellfire - but it prevents us from surrounding the

maid and overwhelming her

with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can

act unobserved, and the

unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or

concern.

"All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be

placed entirely at the

disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such

probity will earn an

immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl

Shandril will have as many

chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always."

His eyes

smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl

casually, and vanished with

it in a flickering instant.

The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam

remained behind,

curling in slow silence.

The magelings stirred, shoulders visibly relaxing here and there down the

table. Heads turned, throats

were cleared - but these stirrings came to a hushed halt an instant later as

Sarhthor's purring voice came

again from the near - darkness at the other end of the table.

"So who here volunteers to seize or destroy spellfire for us? Yield me your

names, or" - he smiled

faintly - "recall urgent business elsewhere and take your leave of this place

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 9

... and also, I fear, of the

Lord Manshoon's favor." He looked around, meeting the wary eyes of several

wizards too brave or

foolish to look away. "Your patience we have seen this night. We have also

taught you to be decisive;

show me the result of that teaching now."

In the clamor that followed, a smile slowly appeared and crawled across

Sarhthor's face like an old and

very lazy snake. But as each man there volunteered, Sarhthor's eyes met theirs

briefly and bleakly, like

a sudden, icy lance-thrust in a night ambush. In his dark gaze, the magelings

saw that he expected them

to die in this task. Sarhthor felt he owed them at least that honesty.

"What's wrong with you, then?" Delg asked, drawing himself up as much as his

four battered feet of

height allowed. The dwarf stood over Shandril, beard bristling as he squinted

down at her. A pan of

fried onions, mushrooms, and sausages sizzled in his hand. "Or don't you like

an honest pantry?'

Shandril smiled wanly up at him from the bed of cloaks and furs she'd shared

with Narm, and she

raised a warding hand.

"I'm seldom hungry these mornings." Her slim face was as white as the snowcaps

of the Thunder Peaks

behind her. She shuddered and looked away from Delg's steaming pan, wondering

if she'd ever arrive

at far-off Silverymoon. To reach it, they still had to cross half of Faerin.

The ruined village of

Thundarlun was only a day behind them, and even draining the fallen war

wizard's wand had not fully

restored the spellfire that smoldered within her.

On the other hand, twenty more Zhentilar would ride and slay no more; she'd

left them twisted bones

clad in ashes. Shandril shivered as she heard the screams again. Then Delg

brought the pan so close to

her nose that its sizzle jolted her back to the chilly morning. She pulled

away from the smell, biting her

lip to keep from gagging. She clutched the furs closer around herself.

"Well, why?" the dwarf demanded, frowning fiercely. "Are you ill?"

"No'" Narm said gently from behind him, "she's with child."

The dwarf almost fell as he lurched and tottered about speedily to face the

young mage. "She's what?"

he demanded. "Did you have anything to do with this?"

Shandril giggled. "We are married, Delg," she added sweetly.

"Aye. But-but-what of the babe, with you hurling spellfire about, an' all?"

"I-" Shandril began, then fell silent, spreading her hands in a gesture of

helplessness. The dwarf saw

something almost desperate in her eyes, and he whirled about again to face

Narm. The young wizard

also spread his hands anxiously but said nothing. Then he shrugged.

"You don't know," said the dwarf heavily. "You truly don't know what you'll

give birth to after all this

hurling fire and collapsing and hurling fire again. . . ." Delg let his words

trail away as he looked at

them both challengingly, but the two young humans were silent.

The dwarf sighed heavily and tossed up his arms in resignation. Mushrooms and

sausages left the pan

to soar into the air, still steaming.

Narm leapt forward but missed catching one. Most of the others landed on

ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html

Page 10

Ed Greenwood - Shandril's Saga 02 - Crown Of Fire

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: