Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [73]
The old mage stood alone. No, not alone, thought Shandril, as she felt roiling fire deep within her where there should have been nothing left. It glinted briefly in her eyes. Not while I live. She struggled to her knees, set her teeth, and pointed her arms at the mage on the dragon. She felt sick and as weak as a newborn kitten, and her head throbbed piercingly, but she could feel the fire flowing within her. Let it be as it was before, she thought. Whoever you are, evil one, burn! Burn! How dare you harm my friends!
She had screamed that last aloud, she realized dimly, as the last of the spellfire roared up out of her in a bolt of crackling fire that drained her utterly. Her knees gave way, and she could not even see if she had struck true as she fell on her face on the rocks.
Manshoon stared at the bolt in astonishment, an instant before it hit him. And then all he could do in the teeth of the blinding roar was scream.
Orlgaun fell away weakly, hearing its master cry out.
The dragon drew back, uncertain. It dared not attack anything that had slain Manshoon-and if Manshoon was dead, there was no reason to tarry. It had hurts of its own, deep, raw pain that stabbed to the lungs at each wingbeat.
But Manshoon yet lived, clinging to his wits and his saddle grimly, barely able to hold himself upright.
He could not survI’ve another blast like that-and it had not even come from Elminster. The old mage still stood waiting, calmly, and Manshoon knew he could not continue this battle and live.
Beyond Elminster lay the young maiden who had come crawling out from the gods only knew where to smite him with what must have been raw energy:
Spellfire! Manshoon shuddered, looked around quickly to ensure that neither of those who had flown to attack him was near, and urged Orlgaun away northward. He tilted the dragon's body to shield himself from Elminster's gaze and foil any magic missiles the old mage might now unleash. An attack he could not hope to survI’ve, Manshoon thought despairingly.
Behind him, the air crackled and there was a flash of light as one last lightning bolt struck. Orlgaun convulsed beneath him and fell, the great wings shuddering. For terribly long moments they dropped before the dragon caught itself and began, raggedly, to fly again. He had escaped alive. Not quite the achievement he had expected.
"Shandril!" was all Narm said. It was all he needed to say. They hugged each other fiercely and cried for a long time. Around them, the Knights of Myth Drannor used art to heal each other, and packed yet more treasure, and saw to their weapons, and laughed. In their midst, Elminster, who had cast another spell and now stared off northward with a frown of concentration, stood like a statue. At last, when all were as whole as could be managed, and heavily laden with coins and bars and Jewels, Jhessail approached the embracing couple and touched Narm gently on the shoulder.
"Are you well?" she asked softly, as the other knights gathered around, Torm and Rathan grinning openly.
"Yes," Narm said thickly into Shandril's hair. "Right well." Then he disengaged himself from Shandril anxiously. "How are you, my lady?"
Shandril smiled back at him. "I live. I love you. I am most well."
Narm smiled in his turn, and then asked very softly.
"May I take you to wife, Shandril Shessair?"
Jhessail turned away to seek out Merith's eyes and found his gaze already upon her. They shared a smile of their own.
The knights waited. Shandril's face was hidden in her hair, her head bent down. Someone – Florin – looked away in sudden dismay. Silence fell. Then Shandril's shoulders shook, and they realized she was crying. Her slim hands reached out and found Narm's shoulders, and she clung to him and pulled herself into his embrace and said brokenly, "Oh yes.
Yes. Please the gods, yes."
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