Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [155]
At last Sememmon turned angrily back to the crystal ball, but it was dark. No one waited at the matching globe at the other end any longer. Sememmon cursed the shadows about him, but they did not answer.
The sun was low again. Shandril and Narm passed a skin of hot spiced tea between them as they rode, their bellies full of warm roast phledge, the plump ground-partridge of the woods, smoky-tasting and delightful in a thick pea gravy. No one had acted suspicious of them at the inn Florin had recommended.
"How do you feel, my lady?" Narm asked suddenly, not meeting her eyes. "About the spellfire, I mean.
Does it… change one?"
A little startled at the suddenness of the question, Shandril looked at him with something close to pity in her eyes. "Yes, no doubt. But not in the larger sense, I think. I am still the Shandril you rescued from Rauglothgor." She hesitated, then added in a much softer voice, "I am still the Shandril you love."
Narm looked at her, and there was a little silence as they regarded each other. And then the attack came.
Shandril felt something was wrong an instant before the boulder struck Narm’s shoulder, and his head flew back. The jarring made her bite her lip. Narm was whirled about, his arm striking her head solidly as he spun, and he toppled and fell.
Stunned, Shandril stared at the huge, mossy boulder as it settled past her to hang above Narm's head. He lay crumpled, unmoving. The boulder sank slowly, and over the grassy bank beyond where Narm lay, Shandril saw a man in robes.
He grinned at her without humor. His eyes glittered black and deadly. She drew breath to scream, as wild fear rose and choked her from within.
15: The Crushing of the Soul
I have known the crushing of the soul that defeat brings, and the burning, sickening pain of deep wounds-and would not have it otherwise. Such dark things make the bright spots burn the brighter.
Korin of Never-winter
Tales Told By The Warm Fireside
Year of the Blazing Brand
"No… make no sound," the man in robes warned.
"Speak not. Cast no spells. Use no spellfire, Shandril Shessair-or I will let fall the rock on the head of your husband." His eyes bore into hers. "Do not think to trick me or take me unaware," the man added calmly, "for I am not such a fool- and yonder stone can hardly miss its mark."
Shandril sat still in her saddle, cold fear trickling slowly- slowly and chillingly-down her spine.
She stared at the mage and wondered for an instant who this one was. How to win free? her mind screamed then. How to win free?
"I am Malark " the man said with cold pride, "of the Cult of the Dragon. I come for revenge, and I will have it." His eyes flickered. "Get down off your horse slowly, and stay just where you land, or your husband will die."
Shandril did as he commanded, never taking her eyes off his. He watched her with the cold patience of a snake.
"Lie down. Slowly. To your knees, and then upon your belly, arms outstretched toward me. Do not touch any weapon." Shandril did so, heart sinking as she pressed her face into the rocky ground. "Good," said the voice coldly.
"Spread your arms and legs apart. Do not try to rise."
He was nearer. Shandril obeyed, wondering how much she'd have the courage to endure. She gathered spellfire within her, silently. Malark walked around her, staying at a safe distance. Angry warmth filled her chest and throat. She glared at the grass before her eyes, and it began to smolder. She hooded her fire, hastily, and held herself ready. Tymora aid me!
"You have cost us much indeed, Shandril Shessair.
The Shadowsil, the dracolich Rauglothgor, his lair, and the fortified tower above it, with all his treasure, the dracolich Aghazstamn, many devout worshippers-the worth of all these, you owe us.
The price is your spellfire-that, and your service and that of your husband. You may serve us, or die.
Lie still." The cold voice began the mutterings of