Ed Greenwood - Shandril's Saga 01 - Spellfire

K:\eMule\Incoming\Nieuwe map\Ed Greenwood - Shandril's Saga 01 - Spellfire.pdb

PDB Name: Spellfire

Creator ID: REAd

PDB Type: TEXt

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Unique ID Seed: 0

Creation Date: 16-8-1973

Modification Date: 16-8-1973

Last Backup Date: 1-1-1970

Modification Number: 0

Spellfire

ZHENTIL KEEP

At Ctae Sign op The 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 Travels

Year 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.

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

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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.

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

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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

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 carry 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 Cormyr 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

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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

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.

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O

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

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

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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?"

"Yes, sir' Shandril replied, giving a slight bow.

"Herbs cut and ready?"

"Yes, 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.

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

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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!

• *

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,

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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

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. 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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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

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Page 10

Ed Greenwood - Shandril's Saga 01 - Spellfire

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