Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [57]
The fire was gone, and she was so cold, so numbingly cold.
"Shandril!" Narm screamed, slipping out of Elminster's grip at last. He crashed full tilt into the old mage's unseen wall of force, clawed his way along it in helpless frustration, and screamed at Elminster, "Let me go to her! Is she dead?"
The sage shook his head, understanding and pity in his eyes. "No. But she may not live. I had no idea how much art that balhiir had absorbed. Careful now." And the barrier was gone. Narm stumbled forward, falling twice on his way to Shandril.
"Gods," Florin said simply, as he followed. Beyond the place where Shandril lay, the mountain had been blasted open into a vast crater. They stood now in daylight.
" 'Rare in the Realms,' you said," Torm noted to Elminster as he came past. "And a good thing, too!"
The other Knights of Myth Drannor had already joined Narm, kneeling beside Shandril's body. As Elminster walked up to them, the young apprentice raised a tearful face and asked the mage, "Can I… will it hurt her if I touch her?" He gulped and bit his lip. Shandril lay before him face down and motionless, her long hair spread out over her back like a last lick of flame.
Elminster shook his head. "No. No, it cannot. And yet… Rathan, can ye heal yet?"
The cleric nodded. "I've only a little favor of the Lady, I fear," he rumbled. "I used most on Lanseril, back there."
Elminster nodded. "Use what you can then. Narm?"
The tear-tracked face lifted, almost challengingly.
"After Rathan heals thy lady, carry her back to the cavern where ye waited for me. Haste matters more than gentleness. I shall go to Shadowdale at once for healing scrolls left hidden by Doust Sulwood, when he was lord, and then meet ye at that cavern." Rathan was already chanting softly, kneeling by the fallen girl.
Narm nodded, slowly. "Yes." Then, roughly, he burst out, "You knew it would kill her! You knew!"
Elminster shook his head. "No, Narm. I feared it might but saw no other way." He turned away. "Do not delay me now, or Shandril may die."
Rathan touched Narm’s shoulder. "I am done, lad.
Let us get her moved-if Elminster counsels haste, ye may be sure haste is the thing."
Narm nodded slowly, tore his eyes from the old mage's back, and sighed. "Yes. I trust him. Sorry."
He looked down and burst into tears.
"Look" said a voice by his other ear, "stop blubbering and lift your lady by the shoulders. I'll take her feet. Jhessail, hold her head as we carry."
Narm found himself looking at Torm, who nodded at Shandril. "Come on. Haste, the man said."
"Aye." Narm reached out a tentatI’ve hand and fumbled at the open front of her tunic.
"Leave it," Torm said firmly. "I promise you I won't look-much."
Narm shouted at him, a raw torrent of words that made Torm broaden his grin and finally break into a chuckle. Seething, Narm stopped when he realized he had no idea what he was saying.
They climbed up over broken rocks, Rathan at Narm’s elbow, Jhessail hip-to-hip beside him cradling Shandril's head. Shandril's eyes were closed, her lips parted. She looked so beautiful. Narm started to weep again. Through the tears, he saw the elf, Merith, guiding Torm through the tricky entrance to the smaller cavern beyond where he and Shandril had been trapped together. The smell of burned flesh was strong around them. Narm looked down at Shandril in disbelief. He had seen it, yes. How much force had it taken? How much had she held? And how in the name of all the gods could she survI’ve it?
"The scrolls-is Elminster back yet?" he asked frantically as they stumbled forward into the now-familiar, low-ceilinged cavern. Lanseril, in his own form again, sat against a wall with lit torches on either side of him.
"I felt the mountain shake," he said. "Was it Shandril?" At Torm's nod, he said nothing but only shook his head. And then a thought struck him.
"Bring her over here. No, not straight across-Elminster might teleport in right there- around this way."
"Good thought, but unnecessary, as it happens," came a familiar