Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [167]
"Yes," Zilvreen agreed, "and yet the Sacred Ones can look after themselves far better than we can defend them, if we know not where the blow may fall.
Better we go after this Shandril ourselves and destroy her. If we cower in lairs awaiting her attack, we have already conceded the victory."
"Yes, yes, we have heard this line before and agreed to it," Naergoth said. "Our absent mage may have died following H."
"Let this Shandril and the fledgling mage Narm go, then," Dargoth said. "The cost is too high."
"Too high already," agreed the cleric Salvarad in a soft voice that warned of sharp things beneath its purr. The triple lightning bolts of Talcs, worked in silver, gleamed upon his breast. "Yet, brothers, consider the cost if it becomes widely known that a young girl-a young girl who commands an unusual and powerful ability of art-has defied us and destroyed so many of us! Can we afford to let her go-at any price-now? What think you?"
"Oh, aye, for the cost of a loss of reputation, let her go," Zilvreen said. "What loss is that? A few butcherings and mannings and menaces and that sort of loss is mended, at least among those folk with whom it works at all. But can we afford to pass up our chance of wielding spellfire, when our enemies could end up using it against us? There is the real price, brothers."
"Yes, we cannot afford to face this spellfire-that we have seen clearly. But we cannot let our foes gain it!" one of the warriors said. The man beside him turned to look in surprise.
"You think your enemies can stand against it? Hah!
I've heard it whispered that Manshoon of Zhentil Keep was put to flight by this girl! I say we keep our ranks safe and war no more upon this Shandril-unless time and Tymora weaken her so that our chances are improved. Let others go after her and be the weaker for it! We shall reap the reward of their folly as the vulture dines upon the fields of fallen.
"Swords have got us where we are today. Aye, not without art and divine favor, I'll grant, but swords have kept rulers and bandits at bay. We do not need this spellfire. Waste not our best blood on it!"
"Well said, Guindeen. Yet," Salvarad responded,
"can we afford to let our foes win spellfire to wield against us? We should all then be destroyed."
"You bring us to the hard choice, indeed," Naergoth Blade-lord said quietly, "and that brings us to the choice behind it: Who wants to go up against this young maid?" He looked around the table, but the silence that followed grew heavy.
No one moved or spoke. After a very long time, Naergoth said softly, "So be it. We are agreed. We put spellfire behind us and go on to work for the greater glory of the dead dragons in other ways."
There were reluctant nods, but no one said anything.
It is difficult to laugh at fear when one regularly dealt it often to others.
They rode west, steadily. Narm peered warily all about as they traveled, expecting another attack. But Shandril found this forest somehow friendlier than the Elven Court. Amid the thick tangle of trunks and gnarled limbs, one could see into the deep, hidden places. Vines hung in spidery tangles from high branches to trunks. Ferns grew thick upon the ground, broken only in places where limbs had fallen.
Shandril looked here and there, at moss upon rocks and trunks, and at great thick trees as large about as some cottages. But Narm saw only danger, possible ambushes, and concealing shadows. But as the day grew older and no attack came, he too began to enjoy the road to Deepingdale.
"It is beautiful," he said, as they came to the crest of a gentle rise in the road and saw sunlight streaming down through the trees in a small clearing.
"Aye," Shandril said in a small voice. "I've never seen these woods before, even though I lived just a day's ride from