Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [15]
That could well change-soon. She had a spell that might handle even Lord Manshoon. More than that, she had one that might just foil spellfire. Gathlarue's smile deepened as she recalled finding the spell: she had discovered a place high atop a leaning, roofless tower in ruined Myth Drannor where a certain word and touch of a certain stone brought a portal into being in midair. The oval, shimmering door had led into some ancient wizard's long-abandoned hideaway. It was a cozy room tucked away in nothingness-a room whose walls were covered with shelves groaning under the weight of spellbooks.
More spells than she'd ever have time to learn. Yet she'd taken away enough, if the gods smiled on her, to rule any corner of Faerun she chose. Not that anyone but her knew that, yet.
Gathlarue had learned patience down the years, and now it was an old, comfortable friend. She nodded, sipping the wine, and looked out into the gathering darkness of the forest depths. Her amulet made the drink safe, whatever drugs or poisons Mairara or others might have. added to it. She bent her concentration again to the stone.
Ah-the three had their fire lit and their cooking begun. They'd relax soon and talk. She'd listen and learn, not rush into find death from the maid's spellfire. Even the great Shadowsil had perished in Shandril's flames and Manshoon himself had been forced to flee. No, she'd watch and wait, to strike when the chance shone brightest As she always had.
Gathlarue took another sip of the warmed, spiced wine, and stretched like a languid cat From behind her, across their forest camp, came the faint but unmistakable sounds of Tespril entertaining one of the guards in the deepening night Gathlarue made a face in that direction. Really – the quality of apprentices one was forced to settled for these days.
Delg had produced a rather strong-smelling bundle from the bottom of his pack, and at Shandril's wrinkled nose and raised eyebrow had said only, "Yes, it's Zhent stuff. From Thundarlun. Owner past needing it. Handy, carrying an axe-everyone should."
The meat, whatever it had been, made a flavorful stew. Delg tossed liberal handfuls of onions into the little blackened pot. The warm, sharp smell that followed made Shandril think of Gorstag's onionheavy stews back at The Rising Moon, the inn where she'd grown up. Her eyes were suddenly wet with tears. She'd been happy therehow happy, she hadn't known until too late. Now all that was lost forever; she dared not go back for fear her foes would slaughter her friends and burn the old Moon to the ground. She bit her lip and turned into Narm's arms, burying her face against his chest just before the hot tears came.
"What's wrong, Shan-" Narm began anxiously as she sobbed and shook against him.
Delg stumped up to him, shook his head to stop Narm's words, and reached out one brawny arm to stroke Shandril's heaving back. His stubby fingers moved gently, lovingly, as his other arm took hold of Narm's wrist, and guided the young mage's hand firmly to Shandril's back. Narm obediently began soothing his lady, and the dwarf stepped back, nodding in satisfied silence.
Shandril cried, seeing again the clutching claws of the gargoyles in ruined Myth Drannor, the cruel, mocking smile of the Shadowsil who'd captured her, the chilling eyes of the dragon who'd lived beyond death, and the burning, roasted men she'd left behind her in Thundarlun. Why, oh why, couldn't she just go back to Shadowdale or Highmoon and live in peace among friends-and never see a Zhentarim wizard or Cult of the Dragon fanatic again? Gods hear and answer, she thought, if you have pity-why?
Delg let the fire die low as he stumped around the clearing, peering watchfully into the dimness of the woods around him. It would do the lass good to cry awhile-past time for it, for one so young. He stroked the familiar curves of his axe head as he went, remembering Shandril's anger in battle, her eyes turned to blazing flames as she dealt death to the Zhents. He shook his head to banish those sights from his mind. More power than was