Ed Greenwood Spellfire

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could begin reading again.
Orlgaun wheeled again, and Manshoon shook where he sat on the broad, scaled
back from the aftereffects of the mighty disjunction he had worked. The hand
that had nearly slain him was gone, as were the other, lesser magics that had
assailed him but below on the rocks, the old mage and the younger maid still
stood calmly. Their hands moved again in the gesture of spell-weaving, and the
elf and the ranger still flew after him, low and beneath Orlgaun's body where
he could not reach them, one on either side.
Manshoon snarled in frustration and tore another globe from the necklace he
wore as the black dragon dove again toward his enemies. Orlgaun moved more
slowly and heavily with each pass. Both spells and steel had struck the
dragon, and struck deeply. The black dragon had felt nothing worse than the
sting of arrows for a long time. Nor have I met such resistance in a fair
while, Manshoon thought darkly, as he hurled the globe he held. He then
watched magic missiles rise up toward him in a bright dancing group of lights.
He was powerless to stop them.
Behind him he heard Merith's triumphant song as the elf thrust his blade
between two of Orlgaun's armored scales. Manshoon turned, raising his wand,
but Florin was there, sword sweeping out. The blade burned across the lord's
fingers like liquid fire, and Manshoon saw the wand whirl harmlessly away in
the air amid droplets of his own blood
SPELLFIRE
just before the magic missiles struck.
The dragon rider's globe exploded with stunning force, showering everyone on
the ground with a spray of dust and small stones. Larger fragments cracked
sharply off the rocks they crouched behind. Only Elminster and a sorely
wounded Jhessail still stood in view. The other knights lay still under the
dust or crouched behind cover tensely. The earth's shuddering nearly threw the
weary Jhessail to her knees.
Under Nairn's heavy weight, Shandril was jolted into confused awareness of the
tumult around her. Where was she now? Wearily she wriggled into the light,
scarcely aware that she was pushing away a body, and completely unaware that
it was Narm. She saw dust swirl everywhere. In the open pit of tumbled rocks
and coins before her Elminster stood calmly, facing to her right and looking
upwards.
Shandril peered upward, and saw a dark form approaching rapidly. It was
Merith, blade in hand. He was flying somehow, and was hurrying. He seeks
Jhessail, Shandril thought dully as she saw his dark, anxious face and where
he was headed. Jhessail had just sagged down onto a rock, pain showing on her
face.
But beyond the hurrying elf, in midair, Florin was flying with the aid of his
shield, and as he hung from it he struck, again and again, at someone who was
riding a gigantic black dragon. Whoever it was twisted this way and that under
Florin's blows until suddenly he straightened with a roar of triumph and there
was a flash. Florin was hurled end over end through the air like a husk doll.
The dragon turned ponderously under its rider's urging, and thundered down out
of the sky at Elminster.
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
ED GREENWOOD
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 survive 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
survive, 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
SPELLFIRE
weapons, and laughed. In their midst, Elminster, who had cast another spell [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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