The Battle Ne’er Done
The worst trouble with most mages is that they think they can change the world. The worst mistake the gods make is to let a few of them get away with it.
Nelve Harssad of Tsurlagol
My Journeys Around the Sea of Fallen Stars
Year of the Sword and Stars
“I wonder,” Torm said slowly, coins of silver and gold clattering through his fingers, “just how long this bone dragon had been gathering this stuff.” He looked across a glittering sea of gleaming metal.
“Ask Elminster,” Rathan said. “He probably recalls the day of Rauglothgor’s arrival, what-or who-he ate at the time, and all.” The cleric was methodically scrutinizing handfuls of coins, plucking out only the platinum pieces, and adding them to an already bulging purse. Nearby, Merith was shifting coins carefully with his feet, looking for more unusual treasure amid the coinage.
“Is this what we go through all the blood and battle for?” Jhessail said, coming up to him with her hands full of sparkling gems.
“Yes. Depressing, isn’t it?” Lanseril replied from where he knelt with Narm beside Shandril. The onetime thief of the Company of the Bright Spear lay still and white, for all the world as if dead. Elminster puffed on his pipe thoughtfully as he stood looking down at her, but he said nothing.
Lanseril gave Narm a shove. “Enough brooding, mage. Get up and find some gems and platinum coins and the like while it’s still lying about for the taking.” At Nann’s dark look, he said more gently, “Go on. We’ll watch her, never fear. You’ll need the gold, you know, if you plan to learn enough art to see you both past all the enemies you’ve made these past days.”
Narm looked at him again, doubtfully. Thoughtful eyes met for a time. The young man nodded slowly. “You may be right. But… Shandril…” He looked at her helplessly again. The druid laid a hand on his arm.
“I know it’s hard. You do the best for her, and for yourself, though, if you get up and go on with your duties. The plans of gods and men unfold even while you sleep, as the saying goes. You can do nothing for Shandril sitting here. Go, lad, and play among the coins. You’ll see few enough of them before you die, as it is.” Lanseril pushed him again. “I’ll keep your spot warm, here by her shoulder. I even promise to call you if she should awaken and want to kiss someone, or the like.” He grinned at Narm’s expression. “Go on.”
Narm rose on painfully stiff legs and looked down at Shandril again for a moment. He traded quick glances with Lanseril and Elminster, nodded wordlessly, and hurried away. Lanseril sighed. “These younglings… their love burns so.” He looked up suddenly as he realized Elminster was grinning at him.
“Aye, indeed, old one,” the mage said gravely, leaning on his staff. The two friends looked at each other for a moment in silence and then spoke as one, the druid who had not yet seen thirty winters and the mage who had seen some five hundred.
“Well, when you get to be my age,” they quoted the old saying together and broke into chuckles. Around them the knights were striding back and forth with small, clinking bundles, gathering Rauglothgor’s hoard at a great rate. They could see Narm in the distance, peering curiously at a ruby in his palm. A fistful of gold coins was beginning to creep between the fingers of his other hand.
“Not much magic-damnation upon that baihiir,” Torm said to Jhessail, a dozen brass rings spilling from his hand as he brought them within range of her detect magic spell. They did not glow with the radiance that betokens magic.
Jhessail spread her hands. “It is the way of balhiirs,” she said simply. Then she smiled, eyes twinkling. “Poor Torm,” she said in mock sorrow and commiseration. “You’ll have to settle for mere gold, gems, and platinum… and so little, too!” She waved at the scattered riches that lay all around the knights.
Torm grinned. “Scant compensation, good lady,” he said in courtly tones, “for the discomfort and danger attendant upon almost my every breath, these days. What good are coins to a dead man?”
“Precisely the thought that prevents most sane beings from taking up thievery,” Jhessail replied mildly. Torm chuckled and bowed to her in acknowledgement of a point well made.
Lanseril looked beyond them to the broken ridge of rock that marked the edge of the devastation Shandril’s spellfire had wrought. Florin stood there, watchful, bearing a special shield Elminster had brought back with the healing potions. The ranger’s blade was in his hands. He was silent and alert, eyes flicking here and there over the cold gray peaks above and the tree-clad land below.
Elminster, too, was silent and intent, but his eyes were upon Shandril. Even as Lanseril looked down at her, she moved slightly and frowned, murmuring something so faint they could not hear it. Lanseril leaned forward to reach for her, and the long, knobbly end of Elminster’s staff came down before him, warningly. The druid looked up its length at he who bore it and asked, “Do we tell Narm?”
Elminster smiled. “No need.” A crashing noise, growing swiftly louder, heralded Narm’s progress through the coins toward them. “Shandril!” he cried, and then met their gently silent gazes. “Is she-”
“She stirs, no more,” said the sage. “If ye must shake her, do it gently, and only once or twice.”
Narm threw him a frightened look and then fell to his knees beside his chosen’s unmoving form, scattering coins in all directions. “Shandril!” he pleaded at her ear, laying a timid hand upon her shoulder. “Shandril! Can you hear?” He shook her gently. Beneath his hand, his lady moaned and moved one hand. “Shandril!” he said with sudden urgency, and shook her. “Sh-” and he broke off as Elminster’s staff tapped him firmly on the shoulder.
“And how is she to heal her wits if ye awaken her with shakings and other such violence?” the sage asked gently. “Leave be for a time, and see how she does on her own.” Lanseril nodded, but it was Elminster’s face Narm was staring up at, throat tight and eyes very full, when Florin shouted. Elminster’s head snapped up, his eyes lighting like lamps as he looked to where the ranger’s blade pointed. ‘“Ware, all!” came Florin’s voice, and all about them knights drew weapons, and looked.
Far off in the sky to the north a dark winged shape moved, drawing nearer. It was large and serpentine.
“Dragon!” Florin and Elminster said together, and the knights began to move.
“Gods’ laughter/’ Torm muttered as he ran past, jingling and bulging with loot, “will this never end?” The adventurers scattered, seeking the cover of the larger boulders. Merith and Florin arrived on the run to where Narm and Lanseril sat by Shandril. Elminster stood over them, apparently unconcerned but watching the sky. Then he put his staff in the crook of his arm and quietly began to work a spell.
Narm looked up to him for guidance, but it was Florin who spoke. “We must move your lady,” he said, and jerked his head toward a spur of rock far off to the right. “There, I hold that place best for protection. Stay with her there, unless you have spells up sleeves and down boots that we don’t know about.” His tone, for all its gentleness, was a command, and Narm made no protest as they gently lifted Shandril together and bore her in stumbling haste across the scattered rock and treasure.
Jhessail and Elminster were both casting spells. Rathan was quaffing hastily from a skin Torm was holding. The cleric held his mace ready in his hand.
“This is not a good time for us to fight a dragon,” Narm said in helpless frustration, as they laid Shandril down gently in the lee of the rocks.
“Lad,” Florin told him with rare humor, “it’s never a good time to fight a dragon.” The knights turned away from the young spellcaster quickly, Lanseril squeezing his shoulder for a moment, and were gone across the open rubble-pit, weapons flashing as they were drawn. A faint belch echoed in their wake. Torm turned once to wave and grin as the dragon roared down upon them.