Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [77]
Shandril looked around at the ruin she had wrought. Smoke rose in wisps from the blackened turf. A man was crawling slowly through the scorched grass toward her; she raised a hand to destroy him.
Then she recognized Narm's head. A cold shiver ran through her as she realized just how close she'd come to slaying him. It could have been done in a moment; he would have been dead forever. It was all too frighteningly easy…
"Now! Hit her now-before it's too late!"
Without taking time to look, she hurled spellfire up at that shrill voice and was answered by more despairing screams-followed by a sharp cracking sound as rock shattered and began to slide.
The ground shook. Smoldering figures in dark armor bounced and rolled amid tumbling stones. The ledge above the meadow where the Zhents had been broke off and slid down toward her. One slim figure floated in the air for a moment, rising above the cascading stones, and then flew to another rocky height, robes rippling.
A Zhentarim! Shandril bared her teeth and hurled a gout of spellflame, blasting the rock where the dark-robed mage stood. Her foe rose above the shattered stone and hung in the air, mockingly. Arms raised, the Zhent began the gestures of spellcasting.
With a shriek of fury, Shandril dashed her hands towards the ground, hurling spellfire downward. A moment later, she rose on columns of spellfire that pummeled the rock and turf beneath her, and she raced through the air toward the Zhent. A startled face gaped at her. The Zhent was a woman!
Shandril charged right at her, eyes blazing fire. Gathlarue knew real fear for the first time in a long, long while. It hurt even to meet the maid's gaze-raw, burning pain that would have torn her apart if she'll not twisted free. Gathtarue turned in the air and fled, flying as fast as she could.
Spellfire tore the night apart above her.
Gathtarue found herself falling. Rocks rushed up to meet her. Her mind snatched desperately at spell phrases; she magically steadied her descent and came: to rest on smoking grass. Her hands trembled as she wove a shieldshaped wall of magical force before her, curving it to meet the cliff at her back.
Spellfire struck Gathlarue's shield an instant after she was done. It splashed on bare earth, ignited grassand 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 dsappeared 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 whiteknuckled 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