Behind him he heard Merith’s triumphant song as the elf thrust his blade between two of Orlgaun’s armored scales. Manshoon turned, raising his wand, but Florin was there, sword sweeping out. The blade burned across the lord’s fingers like liquid fire, and Manshoon saw the wand whirl harmlessly away in the air amid droplets of his own blood just before the magic missiles struck.
The dragon rider’s globe exploded with stunning force, showering everyone on the ground with a spray of dust and small stones. Larger fragments cracked sharply off the rocks they crouched behind. Only Elminster and a sorely wounded Jhessail still stood in view. The other knights lay still under the dust or crouched behind cover tensely. The earth’s shuddering nearly threw the weary Jhessail to her knees.
Under Narm’s heavy weight, Shandril was jolted into confused awareness of the tumult around her. Where was she now? Wearily she wriggled into the light, scarcely aware that she was pushing away a body, and completely unaware that it was Narm. She saw dust swirl everywhere. In the open pit of tumbled rocks and coins before her Elminster stood calmly, facing to her right and looking upwards.
Shandril peered upward, and saw a dark form approaching rapidly. It was Merith, blade in hand. He was flying somehow, and was hurrying. He seeks Jhessail, Shandril thought dully as she saw his dark, anxious face and where he was headed. Jhessail had just sagged down onto a rock, pain showing on her face.
But beyond the hurrying elf, in midair, Florin was flying with the aid of his shield, and as he hung from it he struck, again and again, at someone who was riding a gigantic black dragon. Whoever it was twisted this way and that under Florin’s blows until suddenly he straightened with a roar of triumph and there was a flash. Florin was hurled end over end through the air like a husk doll. The dragon turned ponderously under its rider’s urging, and thundered down out of the sky at Elminster.
The old mage stood alone. No, not alone, thought Shandril, as she felt roiling fire deep within her where there should have been nothing left. It glinted briefly in her eyes. Not while I live. She struggled to her knees, set her teeth, and pointed her arms at the mage on the dragon. She felt sick and as weak as a newborn kitten, and her head throbbed piercingly, but she could feel the fire flowing within her. Let it be as it was before, she thought. Whoever you are, evil one, burn! Burn! How dare you harm my friends!
She had screamed that last aloud, she realized dimly, as the last of the spellfire roared up out of her in a bolt of crackling fire that drained her utterly. Her knees gave way, and she could not even see if she had struck true as she fell on her face on the rocks.
Manshoon stared at the bolt in astonishment, an instant before it hit him. And then all he could do in the teeth of the blinding roar was scream.
Orlgaun fell away weakly, hearing its master cry out. The dragon drew back, uncertain. It dared not attack anything that had slain Manshoon-and if Manshoon was dead, there was no reason to tarry. It had hurts of its own, deep, raw pain that stabbed to the lungs at each wingbeat.
But Manshoon yet lived, clinging to his wits and his saddle grimly, barely able to hold himself upright. He could not survive another blast like that-and it had not even come from Elminster. The old mage still stood waiting, calmly, and Manshoon knew he could not continue this battle and live.
Beyond Elminster lay the young maiden who had come crawling out from the gods only knew where to smite him with what must have been raw energy: Spellfire! Manshoon shuddered, looked around quickly to ensure that neither of those who had flown to attack him was near, and urged Orlgaun away northward. He tilted the dragon’s body to shield himself from Elminster’s gaze and foil any magic missiles the old mage might now unleash. An attack he could not hope to survive, Manshoon thought despairingly.
Behind him, the air crackled and there was a flash of light as one last lightning bolt struck. Orlgaun convulsed beneath him and fell, the great wings shuddering. For terribly long moments they dropped before the dragon caught itself and began, raggedly, to fly again. He had escaped alive. Not quite the achievement he had expected.
“Shandril!” was all Narm said. It was all he needed to say. They hugged each other fiercely and cried for a long time. Around them, the Knights of Myth Drannor used art to heal each other, and packed yet more treasure, and saw to their weapons, and laughed. In their midst, Elminster, who had cast another spell and now stared off northward with a frown of concentration, stood like a statue. At last, when all were as whole as could be managed, and heavily laden with coins and bars and Jewels, Jhessail approached the embracing couple and touched Narm gently on the shoulder.
“Are you well?” she asked softly, as the other knights gathered around, Torm and Rathan grinning openly.
“Yes,” Narm said thickly into Shandril’s hair. “Right well.” Then he disengaged himself from Shandril anxiously. “How are you, my lady?”
Shandril smiled back at him. “I live. I love you. I am most well.”
Narm smiled in his turn, and then asked very softly. “May I take you to wife, Shandril Shessair?”
Jhessail turned away to seek out Merith’s eyes and found his gaze already upon her. They shared a smile of their own.
The knights waited. Shandril’s face was hidden in her hair, her head bent down. Someone-Florin-looked away in sudden dismay. Silence fell. Then Shandril’s shoulders shook, and they realized she was crying. Her slim hands reached out and found Narm’s shoulders, and she clung to him and pulled herself into his embrace and said brokenly, “Oh yes. Yes. Please the gods, yes.”
The knights let out a great roar of pleasure and congratulation, and hands were pounding the shoulders of the young couple. Jhessail and Merith embraced, Rathan raised a wineskin, and Torm laughed and tossed a dagger high and caught it out of the air as it fell twinkling. Then the thief raced over to Elminster, who still stood motionless with his back to them all. Torm caught at his sleeve, tugged the startled mage around, and shook him in glee.
Elminster spoke mildly. Only his eyes glinted. “Ye’ve ruined the spell, and I’ve lost him. Wd better have a good reason for this, Torm, son of Dathguld.”
Torm stopped in mid-laugh, startled. “You know who my father was?”
Elminster waved a hand in vague dismissal. “Of course, of course,” he said peevishly. “Now, I asked thee thy reason for all this hooting and slapping me about and dancing up and down even now upon my very toes!”
“Oh.” And for once in his life, Torm could think of little more to say, until his own feet were clear of the old mage’s, and his hands free of Elminster’s clothing. Then his joy and his purpose both returned to him in a rush, and he said grandly, “Narm and Shandril are to be wed! What say you? Wed, I say!”
The mage looked bewildered for a moment, and then cross. “Is that all?” he demanded. “Oh, aye-any fool could see that. Ye spoiled my spell and lost me my hook on Manshoon for that? Garrrgh!” He stamped his foot and turned away sharply in a swirl of dusty robes, leaving Torm to stare after him in astonishment. The thief recovered his customary grin when he saw that Elminster was heading straight for the laughing, still-embracing couple.
“Dolt,” said Rathan affectionately, and pressed his wineskin into Torm’s hands. “Come and sit, and have drink.”
Torm shuddered. “I hate this swill!” he protested. “Can’t we just play pranks on each other, instead?”
“I have wondered, friend Torm,” came Florin’s grave voice behind them, “just what you do when really happy.. and now I know. Truly, wonders anew unfold before my eyes every passing day. But the message I bear is to your damp companion. Rathan, Narm and Shandril would speak with you and myself as soon as the gods will.”
Rathan looked at him, momentarily surprised, and then nodded in understanding. “Aye. Of course.” He thrust the skin into Torm’s hands, and said, “Mind this for me then, Torm? Thankee.” Two steps away, he checked, whirled about, and said sternly, “And no pranks, mind!”
Torm shrugged and spread his hands in mock innocence. “Is it my open, honest face? My kind, forgiving manner? My gentle disposition?”
“Nay,” said Elminster dryly from behind him. Torm jumped, startled. “ Tis the length of thy tongue.” The old sage put his hand under the thief s elbow as he passed and drew him along. “Come,” he commanded, simply, “thy presence is required.”
Narm was looking up at Rathan, his arm about Shandril and a kind of light about his face. Yet out of his eagerness, he spoke gently and hesitantly. “I-I have no gift to give you, good guide of Tymora,” he said. “But I-we-could you wed us two, and soon?”
Rathan grinned back at him. “Of course I will. But a gift indeed ye have.” He gestured at the broken litter of rock about them, where coins still gleamed here and there amid the dust. “One of those, perhaps,” he said gruffly. “Mind it’s a gold one, look ye.” Narm thanked him and clasped his hand and plucked up a gold piece. Rathan held it high, and said, “Tymora looks down upon us and She finds this good, and shines the bright face of good fortune upon this union. By the sign of her favor, I declare ye two handfast, and to be wed before nine days and nights are out. All ye who are here, cry, ‘Aye.’“
And as the chorus of “Ayes” rang out, the sun above them shone with sudden brightness, and a beam of golden light touched the coin in Hainan’s fingers. There was a flash, and it was gone. Narm, who had secretly doubted the stout cleric’s sincerity until that moment, opened his mouth in awe. Rathan spread his empty hands in benediction, stepped forward to take one each of Narm’s and Shandril’s hands and clasped them together under his own. He stepped back and bowed, and then he was Rathan again, smiling and blinking and looking about for his wineskin.
“Our thanks, Rathan “ Shandril said huskily, and he bowed again and said, “Tymora’s will, but my pleasure/’ and made of the formal words the approval and joy of a friend.
Narm spoke then. “My lord Florin,” he said to the tall ranger in the scorched and claw-scraped armor, “may we come to Shadowdale for a time, with you all? We have no home, and my lady-no, we are both weary of running and fighting and never knowing rest, or a home. It is much to ask, I know, but-”
“But no more drivel,” said Torm unexpectedly. “Of course you will come to the dale… where else would you go?”
Florin looked at him sternly, and then grinned. “In truth, Torm,” he said, “I could have put it in no better words myself… you are welcome for as long as you both desire it. I daresay you can study art better in Shadowdale’s peace and quiet-relative though that may prove-than out here, as one mage after another hurls it at you.”
“Study?” asked Narm faintly, staring at Elminster, who stood puffing his pipe expressionlessly.
“Yes, with Illistyl and I,” said Jhessail. “He,” she added, nodding at Elminster, “will be studying your bride. It’s been a long time indeed since someone last mastered spellfire so ably-and survived its use so well.”
Flames flickered red and angry orange in two braziers. They stood in a vaulted stone hall, and between them was an altar of black stone, polished glossy-smooth and shaped like a gigantic throne, forty feet high. At the foot of the Seat of Bane was a much smaller throne, and upon it sat a cold-eyed man with pale brown hair and wan features. His high-cowled robe was deep black and simple, and his hands gleamed with many rings. None living knew his truename, save himself; few knew his common name. He was the High Imperceptor of Bane, and he was very angry.
“Give me good reason,” he said coldly to those who knelt before him, “why I should not put you to death. You have failed me. Manshoon was to have received our message at this meeting with his lords. Ws cannot move against the traitor Fzoul with Manshoon in the city, or we shall know certain defeat. You had the message; you delivered it not. What can you say to stand against this?”
“M-my Lord,” said one of those kneeling, hesitantly, “the message was about to be passed on to Manshoon, in a believable manner-and for that, we needed those assembled to be on the topic, or he might well have smelled out our ruse. The meeting was scarce begun, and the fool Kalthas telling all grandly that garrisons across the northlands were wasteful and needless, when Manshoon stood up, all of a sudden, and upset the table and all. He-he began to cry, Dread Lord. He whispered a word, ‘Maruel’ or something similar, and then summoned a scrying-crystal. He was not even looking at us. He looked into the globe when it came to him-”
“The word of summoning!” the High Imperceptor interrupted sharply. “What was it?”
“Ah-a moment. Dread Lord, it began, ‘Zell… ah, it was ‘Zellathorass’ the kneeling man said triumphantly. The High Imperceptor nodded.
“Rise, and continue,” was all he said. Bowing, the man did.
“The-the word he dismissed the globe with, Dread Lord, was ‘Alvathaitfl do recall. He seemed furious after that and dismissed us. He said, ‘Sirs, this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once.’ And he called down gargoyles upon us from above, and-and we fled.”
“Did you see where Manshoon went?” asked the High Imperceptor eagerly.
“N-no, Dread Lord. He was not seen in the city all the rest of that day.” The speaker spread his hands. “We came straight to you, leaving that night, for fear of delivering our message wrongly, once the chance you had directed us to take was lost.”