masterghandalf

MG: And so, everyone, it’s time for another installment of Crown of Fire! Last time, Shandril and Narm met Vangerdahast and Azoun IV, and Manshoon and Sarhthor met Illiph Thraun. Today, we have a whole lot of fighting. Joining us for this chapter will be Calassara and Errezha!

Chapter Three: Swords Gathered in Shadows

Calassara: Well, that does sound ominous, I must say. Also rather poetic, though I somehow doubt Greenwood’s actual storytelling will live up to it… maybe I could work it in somewhere… moving on, our opening quote is from Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon, which is I believe where our heroes are currently trying to get, and it says that Stormy weather is always with us, somewhere in Faerûn. Beneath it, all too often, swords are out, the hand that wields one seeking to bury it in the body that wields another. Part of the way of things as the gods order, perhaps—or just the way of all of us flawed beings who walk this world. I fear I’ll never see a day when no swords will be drawn—or needed. But then, perhaps my sight fails too soon. Hmm. That seems like it’s trying to be profound but rambles a bit much for my taste and loses itself. Perhaps Alustriel needs an editor? The chapter proper opens on an oddly idyllic note. It was, as the minstrels say, a bright and beautiful morning in the forest. Birds sang and swooped in the branches; hmmm, have we stumbled into a more cheerful book, by chance? Alas, the mood is soon spoiled by a number of Zhentilar soldiers, who are busy affixing sharpened wooden poles into a pit. Oh, a pit trap? How very original. One of the soldiers asks how they can be sure Shandril will come this way at all – a reasonable question – but his commander assures him that’s not something they need to worry about. “We’re just swordarms. When the cover’s done, we just hide by it and wait with blades out—and that’s exactly how Lord Manshoon said it.”

Errezha: The other Zhentilar, it happens, aren’t terribly reassured by this statement, considering their First Lord’s past track record. “What makes high-an’-mighty Manshoon think we can do what he couldn’t? Him with a dragon and all his spells and wands, too!” My, my. Where I come from, that’s what we call insubordination, and it's either very brave or very foolish; I’m not sure which. Not that it helps me take Manshoon any more seriously as an antagonist, if even his own minions don’t respect him. One of the other soldiers is a bit more polite about his questioning. “Seriously, Sir: what leads Lord Manshoon to send swords against this lass, where spells fail?” Well, from where I’m standing, Shandril can absorb spells and convert them into raw magical energy, while she has shown no ability to do the same to swords, so… there’s one advantage. But the commander, Bluth, just says that their job is to wear Shandril down and leave her weak enough the mages can take her, though he’d be very pleased if they could surprise Manshoon by actually capturing her themselves. Alorth, who spoke up first, still doesn’t think this is a good plan. “Ourselves being those of us who’re still alive, you mean.” Alorth’s voice was hard. “Why attack her at all if we’re just going to our deaths? Why not leave her for the wizards—tell them she’s slipped past us somehow?” Honestly, I sympathize with your concern, but as someone who was born and raised in a dictatorship, I don’t think expressing them that way is going to be good for your health! Bluth just reminds him that they have Duty, lad. Duty to orders. It’s what we live for – and die for. Which seems consistent from what I’d assume the teachings of Bane are like for people at the bottom of the hierarchy, based on what I’ve heard of him so far, at least. Alorth just asks why they have to be the one to die so the high lords can live luxuriously, and, once again, I’m torn between whether this is courage or a sign of a death wish. And Bluth seems to agree with me, as he tells Alorth to watch his tongue for his own safety’s sake, and then tells his men to get ready. If the other lads do their work as well as we have, they’ll be here soon.

Calassara: We then return to Shandril, Narm and Delg, as Narm has just finished preparing his spells for the day and Delg, for some reason, chooses to rib him about his lack of other talents, which just seems rude. They then set off, with Delg in the lead, while Narm asks Shandril how she’s feeling. “Better than I have since we left Shadowdale. About time, too—it’s a long way to Silverymoon. From what Storm said, if we walk and have to avoid Zhents more than once or twice, winter could well find us before we’re halfway there.” Excuse me, but how far away is Silverymoon, exactly? And also, what time of year is it, so that I can have a better idea of about how long it will take winter to arrive? And all of this just makes me feel all the more sure that a certain Old Mage could have done far more than he has to speed them on their way. Shandril then muses that when she used to dream of adventure, she never thought that it would mean I went around burning powerful wizards and veteran warriors to ash—and that the Cult of the Dragon, the Zhentarim, and just about everyone else I met would attack me. Narm reminds her that very people their age have fought dragons – undead dragons, even – and lived? …Has been rude to Elminster the Sage – and lived? Blasted Manshoon of Zhentil Keep and the dragon he rode out of the sky, and sent them fleeing for home? Blown up entire castles? Made friends with the Harpers, with Elminster, and with the Knights of Myth Drannor? Walked the ruined streets of Myth Drannor, that folk all over Faerûn talk of? That Narm mentions being rude to Elminster along with all the other deadly perils makes me wonder if he doesn’t have a reputation for killing people who annoy him… which doesn’t improve my opinion of him, I admit. When Shandril comments that she hasn’t had a chance to enjoy any of it, Narm mentions that she seemed to enjoy marrying him, which gets a laugh; he then asks if she’s having second thoughts about the journey, and she admits that she doesn’t know, but it feels better to have a goal than to stand around doing nothing waiting for attacks to come (I quite agree; it makes a better story, too). But nonetheless I’m so sick of it all—I could scream!... I do scream… when I have to use spellfire—cursing the gods for playing this jest on me. Delg admits that she’s not the first person to have those thoughts, but that his people believe that the true measure of a person is how they deal with the tricks the gods play on them – an honorable sentiment if, perhaps, a fatalistic one. Then again, my own goddess is a rather fickle sort, so perhaps I’m not one to judge? And then, completely out of nowhere, something – an arrow or a bolt, apparently – shoots out of the woods and narrowly misses Shandril. Delg draws his axe and declares that it’s the Zhents again.

Errezha: Well, sure enough, Shandril looks where he’s pointing and sees a Zhentilar soldier loading his crossbow. Narm blasts the attacker with some magic missiles, and then as more of his companions come up behind, Shandril takes her turn. Spellfire roared down her arm, shaking her, and white flames shot out through the trees like the breath of a furious red dragon. Leaves blazed and then were gone. Halfway to the Zhents a tree was burned through by the roaring flames. It toppled slowly, and crashed ponderously among the dead leaves. Delg then grabs her arm – scorching his fingers in the process – and tells her to stop, even though there are more Zhents coming, since she could start a forest fire if she keeps it up. Sound advice, I must say. Our three heroes turn and run, Narm casting a web spell behind them to slow up the Zhentilar, apparently something Elminster taught him. They keep running for a bit, Delg in the lead, and then There was a sharp cracking sound—and then another. The ground in front of Delg rose suddenly, like the drawbridge of a keep, and the two puffing humans saw the bulky pack slip back down its slope. Delg’s axe flashed for a moment as he waved it—and then the dwarf and his pack fell out of sight. Sure enough, it’s the Zhentilar’s pit trap, and Delg stumbled right into it, though apparently the spikes have only pierced his pack and not his body. Why am I never that lucky? Four more Zhentilar – though they’re called Zhentarim, and I was under the impression that those were different things; the Zhentilar being the soldiers, and the Zhentarim being the criminal syndicate based at Zhentil Keep, but regardless, they demand Shandril’s surrender. With a scream very like the angry shriek of a harpy, she hurled spellfire in a fury. White flames leapt forth, roaring; when they died away, the Zhents around saw that the warrior’s upper body had been blasted away. The legs tottered for a moment and then fell. The two men beside the ash heap screamed in terror and ran. *looking faintly queasy* Well, I… can’t say I blame them? While Narm tries to figure out how to get Delg out of the pit, the one remaining Zhent approaches and Shandril tells him to drop his weapons or die. And, as it happens, this is our friend Alorth from earlier in the chapter, whose head we are now in for some reason. And, sure enough, he does; once he’s unarmed, Shandril orders him to come over and help free Delg. And then the Zhents who were chasing them earlier arrive, and Shandril lets loose. The Zhentilar cried out at the burning pain her gaze brought him, and fell heavily on his knees. Behind him, he heard screams and a roar like rolling thunder. He looked around—to find the forest lit by hungry flames, Zhentilar warriors shrieking and staggering in the conflagration. The young lass stood defiantly facing them, fire dancing in her hands.

Calassara: Amidst the chaos, Alorth – whose surname is apparently Bloodshoulder, which makes me genuine curious if one of his ancestors sustained a distinctive shoulder wound at some point – nearly topples into the pit but manages to get Delg out. Meanwhile, the battle is still raging. Crossbow bolts leapt from the trees to either side, caught fire as Shandril looked at them, and crashed down in smoke and ashes. The dwarf, axe in hand, glared at Alorth from a foot or so away, and the Zhentilar fearfully snatched the dagger from his belt. Shandril heard his grunt of effort and spun around. Spellfire roared, and Alorth found himself staring at the bare bones of his arm. The smoking remnants of the dagger fell from them an instant before they collapsed, pattering to the ground in a grisly shower. Alorth found breath enough to whimper for a moment before the world spun, and he crashed down into darkness.… *stunned* Well. That was sudden. And why, exactly, did Shandril choose to blast poor Alorth, who’d surrendered and was actually trying to help? Was it merely friendly fire, of an… unusually literal sort? Or did his jumpy move there cause her to genuinely believe him a threat? Either way, he seemed like a decent enough fellow, for a Zhentilar, and his death seems particularly senseless. And I don’t think he’s even mentioned ever again. A pity. We then have a scene change to the aftermath of the battle, as Narm wonders if they got all of them. “There’re always more Zhents, lad,” Delg puffed. “They’re like stinging flies.” Well, that’s… dismissive. After Narm and Delg make sure they’re both okay, Shandril reminds them that they need to get moving again. As they prepare to head out, Narm asks how she is. “Tired. When I said I was sick of endless battle,” Shandril told him grimly, “I meant it.” We then have a scene change to a Zhentarim priest – of Bane, I presume? – watching through a scrying pool. “Oh, maid, if you’re sick of battle now, you’ll be at the doors of death over it, before long—I can promise that.” The warriors standing with him all laughed. It was not a pretty chorus. I would think not. However, it’s also the end of the scene; that was quick, and also rather pointless.

MG: I’d also question the bit about “there’re always more Zhents,” and from more than just a moral perspective. Zhentil Keep is just one city-state, with a population of a bit under 20,000 per most sources. It does control more territory beyond the city proper, which ups that figure a bit, but still… the Zhents may dream of empire, but they’re not there yet, and they don’t have inexhaustible reserves. Now, sure, the Zhentarim have cells all over Faerun, and many – maybe even most – Zhentarim agents are not themselves Zhentish, but the attackers so far this book have all been Zhentilar, ie soldiers of the Keep itself. So, yeah, Manshoon doesn’t have an infinite number of troops to thrown away on this. But if Shandril (and/or the readers) is sick of being stuck in endless fight scenes… well, I’ve got some bad news.

Errezha: Wonderful. We then return to our heroes, as Delg suddenly declares he feels like he’s being watched, and that it must be magic. Delg asks if Narm has any magic that can protect against scrying, and he doesn’t, but he does suddenly remember the medallions of Tymora that they got from Rathan and Gorstag. Delg takes a look at them, and as it turns out “By the gods, you two innocents’ll be the death of me yet! With these, we can be cloaked from magic, twice—each use will burn away one medallion.” Well, isn’t that convenient? Delg explains to Narm how the medallions work and what spell he needs to cast to trigger them, and nothing can see, hear, or smell them from outside that space. Even sniffing beasts and wizard spells miss you. All the spells that detect things find all sorts of traces, aye—in the wrong places, and moving in the wrong directions. Narm then asks if Delg is sure, and he responds… rather testily (though, all right, maybe I’m not the one to lecture someone about having a pleasant attitude). “Nay, lad—I want to die under a dozen Zhentarim blades,” the dwarf snarled, “after all we’ve been through thus far. So I’m lying to you both so Manshoon can walk right up to us while you think us safe. Of course I speak truth! But Shandril thinks the medallions will at least give them time to rest, and her time to practice more with her spellfire. I’ve no wish to burn most of this forest down, or slay things I have no quarrel with. *snorts* I’m sure poor Alorth appreciates that so much. But Narm activates one of the medallions, Delg declares they’re not being watched anymore – wait, was that actually something he was sensing and not just intuition? – and he tells Narm to prepare more spells while he prepares dinner. Shandril, meanwhile, heads off some distance to practice. She bent her will to calling the inner fire up, feeling it surge and roil about within her. When Shandril felt ready, she stood and hurled a tongue of flame between the two trunks of a forked duskwood tree. They smoked and creaked in the heat, but neither burst into flame. Pleased with her results, she keeps practicing, but it seems to have an unintended consequence. None of the three travelers saw the medallion begin to smolder. When the next burst of spellfire lashed out at a small patch of toadstools, the medallion pulsed with momentary fire… the medallion melted into a tiny remnant that crumbled and fell apart, unseen. When next spellfire licked out—in a curving arc this time, reaching around behind a stout tree—malevolent eyes were watching, as before.… Well, that’s unfortunate. I suppose someone should have researched the effects of spellfire on an amulet of Tymora, then?

Calassara: Yes, that does seem like it would’ve been worth asking? But the scene now changes again, and we find ourselves back with Gathlarue the Zhentarim wizard and her apprentices, who turn out to be the ones watching. Gathlarue tells her apprentices to study Shandril closely and reminds them that her spellfire isn’t ordinary magical fire, but something else that can tear through any of their own spells effortlessly. One of the apprentices, Mairara, doesn’t believe that Shandril could defeat any powerful mage, but the other one, Tespril, is more cautious, which pleases Gathlarue. “She is said to have forced Lord Manshoon himself to flee,” Gathlarue, for her part, wants to observe Shandril in action some more before they attack. Tonight we’ll have rare entertainment to watch; the main troop of Zhentilar are to try their luck at capturing Shandril. The idiot sword-swingers are such crude fumblers they’ve been assigned one of Fzoul’s best priests in case they should kill Shandril by mischance.” They all laugh at this, but Mairara wants to know – is spellfire really more powerful than a group of powerful mages? Gathlarue tells her to watch and learn; meanwhile, Tespril says that their troops want to make bets on the coming battle, and before they start they want to know who will command Shandril’s attackers. Gathlarue smiled. “Karkul Memrimmon leads,” she said. “A great beast of a man who fights with spiked gauntlets, and never stays out of the fray.” Spiked gauntlets sound profoundly useless against spellfire to me, but Tespril seems impressed and asks if Gathlarue knows Memrimmon. Apparently, they’ve met, but don’t know each other well and she keeps her distance. “He’s the sort who’d get thrown out of taverns I wouldn’t go into.…” Hmmm; this fellow sounds like he might possibly be entertaining after all!

Errezha: Don’t count on it. He’s a Greenwood villain; they’re inevitably disappointing. We then cut back to Shandril practicing with her spellfire, when she suddenly hears something approaching through the woods, which reveals itself to be a large, furry creature. A cruel beak larger than Shandril’s head protruded from the dusty, matted feathers on its face. Hungry, red-rimmed eyes glittered at her, and it began a crashing charge through the leaves. Hmm – is that an owlbear, by chance? The owlbear charges and Shandril blasts it with spellfire repeatedly, but while the creature is wounded, it keeps coming. I’ll admit, I’m impressed. The owlbear may be the most dangerous antagonist Shandril has yet faced! Narm and Delg both show up then, and then out of nowhere Narm conjures a blade of force and stabs it through the owlbear’s head. Light flashed again inside that monstrous head, and with a rough, despairing cry, the thing crashed to the damp leaves at her feet. Smoke rose from its mouth and then drifted away. The beast thrashed about briefly and lay still, its eyes growing dull. Alas, poor monster. Though I am curious how a spell of Narm’s managed to kill something Shandril’s spellfire couldn’t stop; perhaps she wounded it enough that he was able to finish it off? Delg, meanwhile, confirms the creature’s species – I was right! – and then out of nowhere Shandril breaks down crying and turns to run, only for Delg to stop her. “You can’t run from it, lass—sooner or later, you’ve got to face it. As long as other folk in Faerûn want what you’ve got, you must kill to live—so, these days, killing’s what you do.” That’s a rather morbid way of looking at things? Personally, I prefer to avoid unnecessary killing… though I can think of some people of my acquaintance who probably deserve it, some of whom I’m related to. And I doubt the owlbear was after Shandril’s spellfire at all – I have a feeling it just thought she looked tasty. Shandril tells Delg she doesn’t like killing, and he tells her that’s a good sign; but if she ever does develop a taste for it, “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.” *rolling her eyes* Threats of murder – what are friends for? Narm, though, declares he’d die for Shandril anyway if he had to, Delg then walks morosely off and Shandril and Narm have this exchange. “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. Is Shandril worried she’ll shrink? Nonetheless, they both burst out laughing, as does Delg, who calls out that he heard that. Crisis averted, for the moment. “Just keep your fires away from my axe, lass. Oh, aye—and the seat of my breeches.” Yes, do that, Shandril. Especially the breeches. There are certain parts of Delg I’ve no interest whatsoever in seeing.

Calassara: …yes, of course. Well, we then cut to a group of Zhentilar making their way through the woods nearby; their commander tells them to keep the noise down, or you’ll wind up owlbear-meat. One of the soldiers, Simron, checks around and makes sure all is clear, then admits he’s not ready to die just yet and asks one of his comrades. Have ye heard the one about the six dancing girls and the glow-worm? No? Well, then …” I haven’t, but I admit to being morbidly curious… We then cut back to Shandril, as Delg tells her it’s getting late and warns her that her spellfire could potentially draw the attention of nearby creatures. Shandril, meanwhile, is tired and ready to eat, and then suddenly out of nowhere they hear the sound of a whip cracking and see the shapes of hounds bounding through the forest towards them. And Shandril… blasts the dogs with spellfire. *she sighs in disappointment* Yes, I know they were attacking, but they were still animals who had no control over what they were doing, and no defense from spellfire. Surely Narm had some spell – like that web? – that could have incapacitated them without causing permanent damage? She struck again, and blazing hounds writhed in soundless agony, rolling over and over, smoke rising from their flanks. *she looks faintly sick* Greenwood, please. I did not need to know that. And then more dogs come and Narm does indeed incapacitate some of them with a web, which makes me think – you should have done that before! One dog does leap onto Shandril, and she has to blast it point-blank – I’ll spare you the description – and then around the woods torches are lit as the Zhentilar approach. 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. And on that rather violent note, our chapter ends.

MG: And so, it does! That was… mostly a lot of fight scenes, and some angst. Next time, we see the outcome of this battle, and Fzoul Chembryl puts in his first appearance of the book as we see what he’s been scheming up lately behind Manshoon’s back. We’ll see you then! No pics today.