Spellfire struck Gathlarue's shield an instant after she was done. It splashed on bare earth, ignited grass-
and then clawed its way along the spell-shield. The flash of its strike left her eyes watering. She closed them hastily as a second attack came, striking with such fury that it shook the shield and Gathlarue beneath it.
Still flying, Shandril screamed with rage, but the magic defied her spellfire. She hurled fiery destruction a third time, feeling the deep ache that told her she had little energy left-and saw that bolt, too, lick harmlessly off the Zhentarim s invisible shield.
Panting, Shandril landed on the smoking meadow, staring at the woman in dark robes. The sorceress turned her cruel, frightened face aside and would not meet her eyes. Breast heaving, Shandril stared at her enemy-and then her eyes narrowed, and she spread her hands over her head. She lashed out at the cliff behind the woman.
Rock cracked, shook, and fell in a gathering roar. Mighty boulders crashed and rolled, and the Zhentarim disappeared beneath them. Dust rose.
Shandril stood ready, eyes hard, until it cleared.
One of the mage's hands protruded from the fallen rocks, straining vainly toward the open air and freedom she'd never reach.
Her fingers reached, twitched feebly, and then fell still. Puffing. Mirt rose from atop a rocky knob, the blood of Zhents all over him. The meadow was empty of living enemies at last. He raised his eyebrows and spared breath enough to mutter, "So young… so much power…" "Gods," Mairara whispered to herself, crouching white knuckled behind a rock in the heights above the meadow. Then her eyes widened in horror as the veteran Zhentilar beside her stood up and calmly hurled a dagger at the maid below, putting all the strength in his shoulder behind the smooth throw.
Steel spun through the night. The venomed blade had served Unthlar Highsword well over the years, slipping into many a rival's back or unwary eye. Its touch meant death. Unthlar watched his deathfang hurtle toward Shandril's stall, unprotected back, and he started to smile.
Too soon. Mirt saw the flicker of its flight. Groaning in his haste, he leapt between Shandril and the attack, throwing up both his own blades to knock the dagger aside.
At the same time, words of soft anger came out of the night beside the puffing merchant. The strongest spell Narm could hurl-one that always left him utterly drained of wits and strength-rent the night, exploding in the air right in front of Unthlar.
Mairara shut her eyes and flung her head to one side as wetness splattered the rocks around. She looked back in time to see Unthlar's lower half-all that was left of him stagger backward and fall heavily among the rocks beside her.
She heard curses and scrambling sounds from behind her as the few surviving Zhentilar fled in terror. Then Mairara looked down again-straight into the hard eyes of the maid who bore spellfire.
Shandril stood staring up at the Zhentarim sorceress. Her hair was moving about her shoulders with a life of its own, curling in slow menace.
"By Mystra's mercy," Mairara whispered, looking at Shandril with wide eyes, "make it quick."
Shandril granted her that last wish. When the roaring had died away, all that was left was drifting smoke and the cracking of overheated rock.
White-faced, Shandril looked down at Delg's still body, and then turned to look east. The tears that fell from her cheeks burned the ground they touched. "Right, then, Lord Manshoon," she said, voice brittle and quavering. "I've done all the running I'm going to do. Now you will learn what it is to be hounded!"
A skull that floated unseen in the darkness near the top of Irondrake Rock looked down and chuckled, the teeth of its perpetual grin chattering hollowly.
"It's not as though I've naught else to do, look ye," Elminster said, spreading his hands. Released from his grasp, the pipe floated off by itself to hang ready in the air nearby.
Storm glanced up from the strings of her harp. "More important than spellfire?"
Elminster's expression was sour. "Who’s to say what's more important – my giving a little boy a scroll to play with so he grows up to become an archmage-or passing on word of a foe to a nomad chieftain-or telling a Waterdhavian guildmaster of a plot against him? I've done all these in the last few days, and there's always much more still to do – the untended garden grows weeds best"
Shandril needs help now," Storm said quietly, her eyes in and troubled. "I can feel it"
“And she shall have it," Elminster said, hands moving in the opening gestures of a spell. "Why d'ye think we rode out of the dale, if not to keep it safe against spells I need to hurl-or the careless cruelty of those who might come looking to hurl spells at me? But know ye, timing is all-important in affairs of power-and tier moment is not come."
He cast a stern look at Storm's harp, and she obediently stilled the strings and shifted it to her shoulder. "I spent much of the night serving the Realms as ye slept, and saw-too much. Matters that must be dealt with now, l tell thee! The lass must find her own wings to fly with while I deal with Dzuntabbar of Thay-and the wizard Vlumn's plans to create ice golems the size of mountains in the High Ice-and a little matter of twisting awry some poison-creating spells that certain Calimshite satraps are perfecting before they get the idea such deadly craziness might work."
"All that, before highsun?"
"Aye, and more. Come!" The Old Mage squinted at the night sky and muttered, "With luck, we'll have time to look in on Shandril by now tomorrow."
"If she's not dead by then," Storm murmured in reply, just before Elminster’s spell swirled around them both.
Irondrake Rock trembled, melted. and slid down into liquid ruin. The stars around it wavered and fell, as Shandril looked away from the spire. She blinked, and fresh tears came. Again.
Mirt knelt beside her. 'Thy lad's okay," he said roughly, as he awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders. "But milord dwarf, here…"
Shandril nodded. She was crying freely now, tears raining into her empty hands.
Mirt looked at Delg s body, shook his head sadly, and said, "We haven't even time to bury him. Shan, will you take him to ashes? He'd prefer that to Zhentarim spell pestering, I'm sure."
Shandril nodded, trying to still her tears. "H-He was trying to give me something, when he died… in his hand…"
Mirt looked at Delg's fist, outthrust still in the agony of death. The broken ends of a fine golden chain hung from between the tightly clenched fingers. Mirt tried to pry them open, but he could as well have clawed at the fist of an iron statue. Pitting all his strength against the cooling hand, Mirt managed to ease the dwarf's fingers apart. Saying a silent prayer to Moradin in apology for this desecration, he slid out what lay within.
It was a silver harp pendant the badge of a Harper, torn from around the dwarf's neck. Mirt stared at it, openmouthed-and his vision blurred.
Shandril looked at the shaggy old warrior sharply. A thin, wheezing noise hissed from his bent head. She realized suddenly that the old merchant was weeping.
At her shoulder, Narm asked wonderingly, "Delg was a Harper too?"
Shandril nodded slowly. Mirt abruptly thrust the harp pendant into her hand, rose, and said gruffly, "Burn him, Will ye?"
Narm reached out a hand to him, and the two men embraced in the night like scared children.
Shandril stared at them for a moment. "then she carefully set down the pendant, raised her hands, and gave Delg a warrior's funeral, engulfing the dwarfs body in a pyre of spellfire by the red anger and grief that burned inside her. Flames roared up at the stars, even as the spellfire in Shandril's hands faltered, sputtered, and died.