Эд Гринвуд - Crown of Fire

Fzoul could not see the spell engine, but he knew that it now filled most of the room behind him: a great wheel that would begin to spin if spells struck it, absorbing the magic to power itself. Manshoon’s greatest work. It drank all magic cast at it.

Fzoul smiled tightly, opened the front door of the tower, and waited.

As though on cue, a man appeared in the doorway—a man in dark leathers, a bow slung at his back. He panted briefly, then caught his breath. “You sent for us, Lord?”

“Aye,” Fzoul said, looking out at the score of Zhentilar archers gathered there. “Thank you for your promptness; it is appreciated. Do any of you bear any sort of magic item with you? Anything that carries an enchantment?”

One man held up a dagger.

“Leave it outside,” Fzoul ordered, “and retrieve it later. To carry it into this chamber could mean your doom.”

Several other archers hastily divested themselves of small items; Fzoul hid a smile by turning away and saying, “Come!”

In the forehall, he turned to face them. “Ready bows, and conceal yourselves behind the tapestries in this room, and in doorways and entries all around the Spell Court. I want you hidden, mind, and silent until I give the signal, thus. Respond only to this signal: other archers will be stationed openly in the court. Orders to them to loose shafts, or their doing so, are not orders for you to fire.”

The high priest looked at them coldly. “When your signal does come, you are to fire at the intruders—not to kill, whatever they do, but only to bring down your targets. I will inform you verbally if there are any changes in these orders once battle begins.”

His face melted into a slow, soft smile that held no mirth or friendliness, and he added, “I don’t need to warn you what your fate will be if you should happen to send an arrow my way. The wizards of our Brotherhood are running short of people to test new spells on.”

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 back 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?” Oprion 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.