Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [174]
"Here I must leave what I know occurred and relate to you some guesswork-of my own, of the sage Elminster, and of some others. We believe that a cult mage, one Erimmator- none know where his bones lie now to question him-cursed Garthond in an earlier battle of art. The curse bound a strange creature called a balhiir from another plane of existence"-Shandril gasped, and Narm nodded grimly-"in symbiosis with Garthond. Perhaps it was a cult experiment to find the possible powers of any offspring of a spellfire wielding incantatrix's union with a mage 'ridden' by a balhiir."
"I fear so," Narm replied. "But your tale, Gorstag… what happened after they were wed?"
"Why, the usual thing betwixt man and maid,"
Gorstag said gruffly. "In Elturel they dwelt, then, in quiet. In due time a babe-a girl, one Shandril Shessair-was born. They did not return to the Tower Tranquil and the dales, where the cult waited in strength and the danger to their babe was greater, until she was old enough to travel. Eight months, that wait was."
Gorstag shifted in his chair, eyes distant, seeing things long ago. "They rode with me. East, overland, we went, and the cult was waiting for us, indeed."
The innkeeper sighed. "Somehow-by art, likely-they knew, and saw through our disguises.
They attacked us at the Bridge of Fallen Men on the road west of Cormyr.
"Garthond was thrown down and utterly destroyed, but he won victory for his wife and daughter, and for me. That day he took nine mages of the cult with him, and another three swordsmen. He did not die cheaply.
"He was something splendid to see that day, Shan.
I've not seen a mage work art so well and so long, from that day to this, nor ever expect to. He shone before he fell." The old warrior's eyes were wet again, as he stared into dim night and saw memories the others could not.
"Dammasae and I were wounded-I the worse, but she could bear hurt less well. She carried less meat to lose and twice the grief and worry, for she feared most, Shan, for you. The cultists were all slain or fled from that place, and we rode as fast as we could to High Horn for healing. We made it there, and Dammasae had some doctoring. She needed the hands and wisdom of Sylune, though, and we could not reach Shadowdale in time.
"Your mother is buried west of the dale, on a little knoll on the north side of the road, the first one close to the road west of Toad Knoll. A place holy to Mystra, for she appeared there to a magister once, long ago."
Gorstag looked down at the flagstones before his chair. "I could not save her?' he added simply, old anguish raw in his voice. Shandril leaned toward him, but she said nothing.
"But I could save you," the warrior added with iron determination. "I did that." He caught up his axe and hefted it.
"I took you on my back and went by way of the woods from Shadowdale south to Deepingdale. It was in my mind to leave you with elves I knew and try to get into the Tower Tranquil to get something of Garthond's art and writings for you, but I was still on my way south when elves I met brought word that the cult had broken into the tower and plundered it, blasting their way into its cellars. Then they used the great caverns they'd created as a lair for a dracolich- Rauglothgor the Proud- whose hoard had outgrown his own lair.
"So I counted on my obscurity in the eyes of the cult-that few who had seen me riding with Dammasae and Garthond yet lived to tell the tale-and came openly to Deepingdale, where I used some gems Td amassed on my travels to buy a run-down inn and retire.
"I was getting too old for rough nights spent on cold ground, anyway. Few of my former companions-at-arms were alive and hale, and an old warrior who must join or gather a new band of younger blades is but asking for a dagger in the ribs at first argument.
"I brought you up as a servant here, Shan, for I dared not attract attention to you. Folk talk if an old retired warrior lives alone with