Fresh shrieking told her she’d come to another floor full of wizards. Futile spells lashed out, clawing at her in vain attempts to take her life; arrows of magic sizzled into nothingness as they leapt at her; balls of acid hissed into ash; and illusions of snarling dragons and diving beholders lunged at her, thrown by those who had nothing else to fight with. She blasted their upraised, spell-casting hands, the doors they tried to hide behind, and the floor they stood on, sparing none of them.
One overconfident Zhent flung open a door and flashed a sinister smile. Dark beams leapt at Shandril from his leveled wand. The spellfire Shandril unleashed swept away beams, wand, wizard, and all, smashing a hole in the side of the building. Flames rolled out of the fortress in a boiling ball. The torn and smoking contents of the room fell from the scattering flames and rained down on Spell Court.
Zhentilar warriors had been flooding into the courtyard, frightened officers snarling orders and lashing those who lagged. In awed unison, they stared up at the rolling flames.
Something black and burning fell from the midst of the scattering fire and landed at one warrior’s feet. It was a shriveled human hand, smoke rising from the exposed bones of its fingertips. The Zhentarim ring that had adorned one finger was only a melted star of metal now. The Zhentilar warrior looked up at the jagged hole in the side of the fortress, shivered, turned, and started to run.
An officer snarled an order, but the arrow that should have taken the fleeing soldier’s life was never fired. The archer, too, turned and ran—and then another, and another, until the square was emptying—shouting, fleeing men spilling out into the streets.
An explosion rocked a nearby spire of the citadel. It slowly cracked and fell, to shatter on the stones of the courtyard. Nearby, an old and crumbling balcony was jarred loose by the impact and broke off. Screaming priests tumbled into Spell Court with it.
Inside the citadel, Shandril climbed on. A group of desperate wizards took a stand on the stairs, using spells to hurl stone blocks down on her. As Shandril smashed the first few blocks to hot, flying sand, an avalanche of stones thundered down the stairs and swept her away.
Wizards cheered. Shandril cascaded helplessly down the stairs, fetching up against the wall after tumbling a floor or two. Blood ran from her mouth and from a gash on her forehead; her face and arms were dark red with bruises. Finding her feet among the tumbling stones, she snarled and held up her hands. Spellfire blazed; her blood turned to flame, and her cuts sizzled, glowed, and were gone. Then she waved both hands angrily, and a column of spellfire roared up the spiral stair.
In its smoking wake Shandril climbed again, on steps that cracked and groaned with heat. Teeth crunched underfoot as she reached the place where the wizards had been; the only other trace left of them were ashes, spattered thickly on the walls. Shandril saw the outline of an outflung hand, a dark bulk that must have been a spread-eagled body, and a large area of black, oily ashes where many hands and bodies had thudded into the wall together. The smell of cooked human flesh was strong in her nostrils.
She shook her head and climbed on, emerging in a high hallway that led to the next tower of the fortress. She followed it to a high-vaulted room where beholders floated down out of the darkness to hurl futile magic against her. Shandril sent them spinning in flames. They one by one shattered against the walls of their chamber and fell, eyestalks writhing feebly. From there she followed the stink of burning flesh down a passage—and found herself again in Spell Court.
Frightened citizens of the fortress-city were staring in awe at the devastation there. So many of the cruel men who’d lorded it over them lay dead and broken, so suddenly laid low. Carrion birds were already wheeling watchfully in the sky high above.
Shandril surveyed the death she had wrought, then pointed at a few men who were going through the clothing of the sprawled Zhentilar archers.
“You,” she said. They looked up, blanched, and fell on their knees, crying for mercy. “I don’t want to kill you,” she said wearily. “I want your service.” She pointed into Wizards’ Watch Tower and said, “Inside that place, you’ll find three women, a young man, and an older, stouter man who are not clad as Zhentarim. You’ll also find the wizard Sarhthor; he’s dead. Bring all of them out to me, as carefully as you can—your lives depend on it.” She watched them scramble up eagerly. “Oh—and take nothing from their pockets.”
This was done, Mirt and company removed well away from the Tower. Then Shandril raised her hands—and blasted Wizards’ Watch Tower.
Her fire roared into the open doors of the forehall and burst out of a hundred windows. The tower shook. Cracks appeared here and there, widening with frightening speed as smoke spewed out of them. There were small green and pink explosions of flame in upper windows as the flames reached magic items there. And then the tower came apart.
The stone spire shifted, flung aside huge pieces of the upper floors, and hurled itself down into the courtyard below. The rolling sound was like angry thunder. Men in windows around the court stared open-mouthed at the tumbling stone. Most of them were too tired to scream. Others seemed to take some satisfaction in seeing the tower fall. The last of its walls toppled into ruin, and dust rose up as the tortured stones of the courtyard heaved one last time.
Shandril looked around the court, spellflames dancing in her hair, breast heaving. Another turret toppled. It shattered on impact and sent stones bouncing and rolling almost to her feet.
Once the dust settled, she stood back, satisfied—and then frowned. Wizards’ Watch Tower had been only one in a forest of gray fortress towers, most of which still stood. She raised her hands to bring the whole lot of them tumbling down … and then paused: a frightened dunwing was flying past her, calling to a mate it could not find.
Shandril watched it go, sighed, and shook her head. Life went on, towers rose and fell—and who noticed? What difference did it all make? She spread her hands and saw the spellfire rippling along her skin. What good was all this power to hurt and kill and compel? It was empty. Well, at least she could also heal.
Shandril turned to where her companions lay, and spellfire flared in her hands again. Narm’s body was still, his lips twisted in a snarl of agony. Shandril looked down at him, and the face of Delg came into her mind.
Her eyes blurred with sudden tears. She knelt and kissed those twisted lips gently, and felt them move under hers as spellfire slid slowly out of her. Carefully she held its flow in check, pressing herself against the body of her man, willing his hurts to fade away. Spellfire rushed through him, clearing away burns and clotted blood, scars and contaminated flesh. Narm groaned weakly, shifting under her, and Shandril shared her spellfire, letting it run into him in a pool of fiery force. Narm stiffened.
“Ohh!” he gasped. “Gods, but that burns!” His eyes flew open.
Shandril smiled down into his bruised face and kissed him, taking her spellfire back. Flames leaked around their lips as he smiled in grateful relief from the pain, then hugged her happily.
When Shandril broke free to breathe, Narm grinned up at her. “You’ve won! You did it!” he said.
Shandril crooked an eyebrow. “We did it,” she replied, almost disapprovingly. “Without you—and the others—I’d be so much meat on Fzoul’s floor right now.”
She sighed and glanced up. A Zhentilar who’d been cautiously approaching across the courtyard turned and fled. Shandril chuckled.
“Fzoul and most of the wizards here are dead—and I think I’m done with killing Zhents for a bit … unless they try to bother us again before we leave.” She stood up. “How do you feel?”