Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

The dwarf squinted up at her and then shrugged. “Then you’d best lie down and die the next time someone attacks. You’ll save a lot of trouble—for yourself, not for the rest of the Realms.”

Shandril looked back at the smoking corpse, and then fixed tired eyes on his. “I don’t like killing. I’ll never like killing.”

Delg nodded. “If that proves true, ’tis good, very good, for us all.”

Shandril frowned. “What do you mean, ‘proves true’?”

The dwarf leaned on his axe. “Slaying’s never easy, lass. When you’re young, it’s a shock—the smell, the blood and all ….”

Narm added quietly, “And when you’re old, you see your own death in each killing … a part of you dies each time.”

The dwarf looked at Narm in surprise. “Wise words for one so young; right you are, indeed.” He stared off into memory for a moment, and added softly, “Much too right, lad.”

“And between youth and old age?” Shandril asked quietly. “What then?”

Delg squinted at her. “Ah,” he rumbled, “that’s the time when one who must kill is most dangerous. They get good at the task—very good, some of them—and they also get so they just don’t care about the lives they take.”

Shandril looked at him. “And if that happens to me?”

Delg looked into her eyes and then turned away. “I’ll try to kill you. So will Elminster, and the Knights—and, of course, the Zhents and everyone else in Faerûn who’s been hunting you all this time.”

“Tell me,” Narm said to the dwarf, his voice like a quietly drawn sword, “what you’d say if I stood by Shandril then, even if—gods forfend—she did come to love killing … what then?”

Delg looked at him. “Before you died,” he said gruffly, hefting his axe meaningfully, “I’d be very proud of you.” Then he walked away over the edge of the ridge, axe in hand, looking very old and very alone.

Narm and Shandril peered at each other. “I hope I’m never that sad,” Narm said quietly as he put his arms around her.

“I hope I’m never that short,” Shandril said with a sudden smile. The mood broken, they laughed uneasily—and then heartily when they heard Delg snap the words, “I heard that!” from the other side of the ridge.

After their laughter was done, they walked back together and found the dwarf gloomily surveying a scorched stone in the center of the clearing where the medallion had been. Delg sighed, lifted his eyes to Shandril’s, and said gruffly, “Just keep your fires away from my axe, lass. Oh, aye— and the seat of my breeches.”

Narm chuckled to rob those words of their sting, but Shandril did not manage a smile.

Not far away, men in black armor crept through the forest, their drawn blades blackened with soot. Their progress was marked by muffled curses and stumbling noises from time to time as rocks and tree roots disputed passage with the soldiers.

A swordmaster near the rear muttered, “A little more care and quiet, there!” Silence answered him, and after a few cautious breaths the officer turned his head and added, “Keep a good watch out behind, Simron—or you’ll wind up owlbear-meat.”

“Aye, sir,” Simron replied, low-voiced, and laid a restraining hand on the shoulder of the man beside him. They knelt unmoving until they heard the swordmaster scramble away.

Simron turned and surveyed the night in all directions behind them. After being satisfied that they weren’t followed, he turned back to his companion and said, “I’m in no hurry to move on yet and get cooked like an ox on a feast night. Have ye heard the one about the six dancing girls and the glow-worm? No? Well, then …”

“Enough, lass. It’s too dark to keep hurling flames about, even down in this vale. Your fires’ll draw the eyes of beasts—and worse—all around in these woods.” Delg put a cautious hand on her elbow, which was about as high as he could reach.

Shandril let the smoldering spellfire in her hands die away and then stood trembling, drenched with sweat. Managing a weary smile, she said, “Thanks, Delg. I suppose I got carried away—I even forgot about evenfeast.”

“It’s waiting,” the dwarf said, leading her briskly back to where Narm lay against their packs, dozing. “If the flies haven’t had it all by now—”

Whatever else he’d been going to say was lost forever in the sudden crack of a whip, very near in the darkness. A startled, tired Shandril watched light blossom here and there among the trees as lanterns were unhooded. More than one lamp was sent streaking through the air, borne by hurled spears—and in the light they shed, the horrified dwarf saw dark, sinuous shapes leaping at them.

“War dogs!” Delg swore. “Narm, ’ware! Narm! ” He was running as he bellowed, axe flashing out.

In eerie silence the dogs bounded toward him. Their tongues must have been cut out, Shandril thought in horror, as she raised weary arms and sent killing spellfire into the night.

Gods, but they were fast! Dogs dodged and leapt, bared fangs flashing as they came. She struck again, and blazing hounds writhed in soundless agony, rolling over and over, smoke rising from their flanks.

She saw Narm’s hands fall, a spell done—and a dozen or so dogs came to an abrupt, brutal stop, falling and thrashing about together in a confused mass. He must have conjured another spellweb. But many more dogs streamed around the fallen ones and toward them. Shandril hurled spellfire again, and in the midst of it, one dark form rose up, pawed the air for a moment, and then fell over on its back, dead. By the light of her spellflames she saw a score of leaping dogs still coming, snapping and snarling as they came.

Delg stood among them, axe rising and falling. The light grew stronger as torches were lit. Shandril saw the gleam of armor all around them in the trees as Narm, his dagger in hand, reached her—just in time to be bowled over by a leaping war dog.

Shandril screamed as fangs snapped at her throat. Frantic spellfire flared as she was struck by the beast, and the heavy, cooked dog bore her to the ground with the force of its leap. It left the stink of its charred, headless body all over her.

Shandril screamed again, rolling free, as a hurled spear hummed past her ear.

Amid the hissing torches, the Zhentilar Warcaptain watched her crawling as fast as she could for the cover of a tree. He grinned cruelly and said to one of his officers, “Now.”

The swordmaster whistled, and the air was suddenly alive with hissing crossbow bolts.

Crossbow bolts hummed hungrily through the night around Shandril. She crouched low, looking around frantically for Narm and Delg. There they were, among what was left of the dogs. Shandril’s stomach lurched and turned over uneasily at the bloody sight; she let her revulsion fuel the rage that was building in her.

Spellfire flared and raced down her limbs. Her tattered leathers caught fire, flaring up in bright flames that rose around her until they licked at her sweat-soaked hair.

Armored in spellfire, Shandril Shessair stood up and roared her anger into the night, flinging her arms wide. Spellfire blasted out of her in all directions, low over the heads of her loved ones, lancing into the Zhentilar warriors. The white flash of its striking was blinding.