Ed Greenwood - Crown of Fire

He looked around briskly, "Any questions?" Silence, He clapped his hands, "Right-string bows, and hide yourselves! Be ready!"

When they were hidden, Fzoul strolled quickly around Spell Court, nodded his satisfaction, and went hack to the forehall.

Standing not far inside the doors, he drew a deck of cards from a pocket in his robes, and idly began to play a betting game he was fond of, Without other players, he merely dealt two cards off the top of the deck to see what hand Tymora, the goddess of luck-or his own lord, Bane-had given him.

The first two cards were a magician and a priestess, one of the two best hands in the game. Fzoul smiled in satisfaction. The second hand consisted of two priest cards, and his smile faded, They were the weakest hand one could draw. Whoever devised the game had not been fond of priests, he thought darkly, and drew another hand.

This time, he drew the other highest possible hand, and hummed to himself contentedly as he shuffled the deck. He'd barely finished humming that first song when suddenly, figures appeared in Spell Court, very near the Wizards' Watch Tower. Fzoul recognized the slim, curvaceous Lord of Eveningstar; a fat, aging man whom Fzoul knew to be a Lord of Waterdeep; two pleasure-queens of the citadel; the young mage-and his mate, the lass who wielded spellfire. An odd band of heroes, to be sure.

Fzoul smiled tightly and gestured with his free hand, Arrows sang as they flew.

Shandril, behind her companions, raised her hands, and spellfire poured out. A bright net of spellflame suddenly surrounded the party. The arrows striking it burst into white pulses of light, hissing, and were gone.

"Come!" she cried, and strode to the door of Wizards' Watch Tower, keeping the bright net of flames behind them all. The Zhentilar soldiers around the edges of the courtyard did not follow, their faces fearful.

From where he stood near the door, Fzoul watched her come, and he knew his own moment of fear, The maid's spellfire seemed stronger than ever. Her eyes blazed like two small stars, and her feet left flaming footprints in the spell-guarded stone, He dragged his glance up from that astonishing sight.and managed to greet her with a polite smile on his face.

"Welcome, Shandril Shessair. I've been waiting for you, Fzoul Chembryl, at your service."

Fzoul willed the playing card in his right hand to melt into its true shape: a wand. It fired, He was still smiling as its radiant bolts leapt out to strike Belarla, Oelaerone, Tessaril-and Narm.

Shandril snarled at him wordlessly, and her spellfire roared out to form another defensive net, She glanced behind her to see if her companions were within her shield of flames, Narm was crumpling to his knees, face twisted in pain, and Tessaril was staggering as she tried to hold a swaying Belarla upright.

Shandril also saw Zhentilar guards in black leather as they stepped out from behind tapestries to block the doorway behind her. Beyond them, the archers whose arrows had greeted their arrival were closing in across Spell Court, bows in their hands.

Anger rose and coiled like spellfire within her, "You're good at trapping things, Zhentarim," she spat angrily, "but let's see if you're any better than Manshoon at holding them." She drew back her hand and hurled a blazing ball of spellfire at Fzoul.

He stood watching calmly as it roared toward him, spitting flames. Then it seemed to swerve sideways, smashing into-a great, shining wheel of translucent force that appeared behind Fzoul. Spellfire splashed furiously along its edge, glowed, and was absorbed.

Fzoul bowed mockingly. "I'm sorry for any humiliation this might cause you, Shandril-but I fear I must ask you to kneel and cast away any weapons you may be carrying. Or die, of course."

Elthaulin strode angrily into the nave of the Black Altar, his soft shoes slipping on the polished marble underfoot. "Neaveil! Oprion!" he called, his voice echoing irreverently in the lofty darkness, Startled heads turned, but he paid them no heed. If Fzoul was going to interrupt devout rituals, Elthaulin could trample on a few meaningless traditions.

"Yes, Master of Doom?" Option was at his side swiftly. as always.

Elthaulin smiled approvingly at him, "Assemble all temple troops here, and any underpriests you deem more loyal to me than to Fzoul."

Oprion's eyes widened. "What has befallen?"

"Fzoul's facing the wench with spellfire in the citadel right now! He may well perish, or be left so weak we can seize power once and for all. Assemble everyone you can! Haste, for the love of Bane! All of you!"

Priests scrambled away at his bidding. Unseen, one dodged out an archway and took a hidden way to the street. There his features changed, melting into those of a powerful and well-known wizard. Sarhthor was an old hand at quickly and quietly slipping away.

"Kneel before you?" Shandril flung the incredulous question like a weapon at the high priest as she leapt toward him, tugging out her dagger.

Fzoul gestured with one hand.

Shandril heard bows twang. She screamed as a shaft took her in the shoulder with numbing force, spinning her around, A second shaft that would have found her breast missed as she fell, humming over her straight into the throat of a Zhentilar warrior blocking the doorway-just as the bloody point of Mirt's sword burst through the man's black leather tunic.

Grunting with the effort, Mirt snatched up the guard's body and staggered forward, using it as a shield.

Fzoul shouted orders, Arrows whipped and whirred around the room, The guard's body was rapidly transfixed with shafts that leapt, hissing, into the limp flesh as Mirt slowly advanced.

Long paces in front of him, alone on the forehall floor, Shandril yanked the shaft from her shoulder and writhed in agony, trying to master enough will to use spellfire to heal herself, Radiance leaked out between her fingers as she clutched her shoulder and groaned, thrashing back and forth on the tiles, Each time spellfire pulsed, some of it drifted away from her like glowing threads of smoke, drawn inexorably into the slowly turning wheel of the spell engine.

"Cease firing! No more shafts!" Fzoul snapped, and strode toward Shandril, a javelin raised in one hand. Narm rose from his knees and, through clenched teeth, hissed the words of a spell, Lightning flashed and flickered around the room, and Zhentilar archers groaned as they fell. Behind the charred and toppled bodies, the bluewhite bolts crackled along the walls and into the spell engine. Most of the Zhents lay still; others were moaning and moving feebly; perhaps six still stood, and few of them held boors.

Trembling uncontrollably, Narm fell, lifeless, onto his back.

Fzoul's angry counterspell lashed past him and out the doors, striking harmless smoke and sparks from the stones of Spell Court. Snarling in disgust, the high priest hefted his javelin and strode down the long forehall to slay Shandril.

Face twisted in pain, Shandril Shessair slithered on the tiles, crawling back toward the door, trying to get away from the strange glowing wheel that was drawing spellfire from her. It was turning slightly faster now, its pull slightly stronger, a wheel that spun for her death.

Through a haze of pain. Shandril saw Sarhthor standing in the doorway, face unreadable, Crumpled on the floor in front of him was Oelaerone, curled around the black arrow that had felled her.

From the floor beside Belarla's senseless form, Tessaril yelled, "Old Wolf, your dagger!"