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Oh Tymora, release me! Will this never end? And yet, look, you gods! Such
power! Nothing stands against me not the dracolich, not his worshippers, not
the stones themselves not even this mountain!
Shandril laughed. Her blazing fingers found the throat of her tunic and ripped
it open. From her bared breast poured out spellfire as she backed down the
tunnel. Rock cracked and burst into fragments.
The fires were less now. Shandril could feel herself shaking as the energy
raced through her, pouring out of her breast and mouth. She was on her knees
again, amid the scattered gold of the dracolich's treasure. Above her the
ceiling of the great cavern was breaking away and falling. Spellfire crackled
and spat.
Suddenly Shandril felt very tired, and she swayed on her knees. Her gaze fell
to her hands. The ring and armlet of etectrum and sapphires still gleamed and
sparkled. She managed to bring her arms up before her as she fell forward,
shivering, onto the cold stone.
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," Tbrm 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
ED GREENWOOD
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 Nairn'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 Tbrm, who nodded at Shandril. "Come on. Haste, the
man said."
"Aye." Narm reached out a tentative hand and fumbled at the open front of her
tunic.
"Leave it," Tbrm 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 Nairn's elbow, Jhessail
hip-to-hip beside him cradling Shandril's head. Shandril's eyes were closed,
her lips parted. She
SPELLFIRE
looked so beautiful. Narm started to weep again. Through the tears, he saw the
elf, Merith, guiding Tbrm 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 survive 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 Tbrm'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 voice from the
back of the cavern. "Rathan scrolls enough for both Lanseril and Shandril."
Elminster held out the rolls of parchment to the cleric as he came forward,
set aside his staff, and bent down. "I only hope the force within her did not
damage her overmuch."
"Damage?" Narm asked.
"The spellfire burns inside," Elminster said gently. "It can burn out lungs,
heart, and even the brain, if held overlong." He shook his head. "She seemed
to be master of it at the last, but she held more than I have ever known
anyone to bear before, without bursting into flames and being entirely
consumed on the spot."
"Cheerful, isn't he?" Tbrm put in lightly. Narm stared at him in horror, then [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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