Mirt rolled back in through the door at that moment. “Ye gods!” he said, looking hurt. “I leave for a moment an’ ye start the fun without me!”
Tossing tankards in all directions, he snatched out his blade and lumbered forward, bellowing, “My turn, blast ye! Out o’ the way, Torm!”
The rug was bleeding freely now under their blows, but rising into a man-high form. Tentacles emerged and coiled and shifted back into the main bulk of the thing; the fur broke into shifting patches that floated atop a rippling, glistening, flesh-colored bulk.
Shandril stared at it in horror, then found Narm at her side, his hands raised to cast a spell if need be.
Tessaril stood beside them, her own hands also raised. “Kill it swiftly!” she said urgently, eyes on the thing. “Its magic can overmaster all of us!”
Torm laughed as he leapt over tentacles and repeatedly thrust his blade to the hilt. “Not so long as Elminster’s spell lasts!”
“The Old Mage’s spell ended when he was laid low fighting the lich lord!” Tessaril screamed. “Beware!”
“So that’s what’s making my amulet burn!” Rathan said, bringing his mace down with renewed vigor. “Hurry, lads—it won’t last much longer!”
“It may surprise ye to learn that I am hurrying!” Mirt puffed as ichor of many colors splashed around him, driven by the force of his blows.
“You must be old,” Torm remarked, as he hacked away a tentacle that threatened to grip his throat. The rising column in front of him had grown a head now, and its featureless front began to twist and shift, swimming into—Delg’s face.
“No!” Shandril stared at it. “Torm—stop! What if—?”
“Shandril,” the face said, in Delg’s familiar rumble, turning beseeching eyes to meet her gaze. “Stop them, lass! They’r—”
“Not a chance,” Torm said coldly, running his blade through the open dwarven mouth in front of him. “Die, Magusta of the Malaugrym!”
Delg’s eyes turned to flaming gold, gazed at the knight, and spat feeble jets of flame at him.
Torm leapt back and crashed against the wall of the room—but the eyes were already flickering and fading. Wearing Torm’s sword, the shapeshifting bulk sank down, coiling and sliding into a sickening puddle of flesh. Mirt and Rathan backed away from it, sweating, and watched it die.
As the first whiff of its death reek came to them, Torm picked himself up from the floor, rubbed at one elbow gingerly, and said, “Gods above! What a knight has to do to get a drink around here! Throw us a tankard, will you, Shan? Be useful for once.”
Shandril glared at him, opened her mouth to make a sharp reply … and then closed it again, smiled grimly, and went to get him a tankard. After today, she could wait to take her revenges ….
Much later that night, when they were alone at last, Narm pushed their bed over to where they could look out the newly repaired magical window, and see the ever-changing scenes of Faerûn that appeared beyond.
They lay in bed together and saw stars falling over the dark, dead ruins of an empty city; wolves howling on moonlit moors; men huddled around campfires in high mountain valleys; and a grim place that could only have been Zhentil Keep. Beholders floated menacingly there above a dark altar, where bowls of blood were cast into fires by horn-masked priests clad all in black. A priest they did not know lifted his head and cried some unheard invocation to Bane.
Shandril shivered at the sight. “Narm, hold me,” she said softly, trembling. “I’m afraid. So many folk want us dead.”
Narm put his arms around her and held her tightly, as if the fierceness of his grip could keep enemies from her. He knew he must be strong when she needed him. It was the least he could do.
“No, my lady,” he said firmly into the darkness, “this is where we live happily ever after, as the tales say ….”
“Tell me one of those tales, my lord,” said Shandril in a small voice. Narm looked up into the darkness overhead—and for just an instant, he could have sworn he saw Elminster’s face winking at him, pipe in mouth. He blinked, and it was gone.
Narm cleared his throat, settled his lady’s head close beneath his chin, and said firmly, “Later. First, tell me what you plan for us both in the days ahead. How are you going to use your spellfire to remake Faerûn?”
“Well,” she said, in a small, quavering voice that gathered strength and humor as she went on, “first there’re the rest of the Zhentarim to roast—and then the Cult of the Dragon and their dracoliches. I’d still like to get to Silverymoon—remember?—and meet Alustriel. After that … well, we’ll see.”
Narm shook his head; his nose told him he was indeed smelling a faint whiff of pipesmoke ….
Ed’s (Elminster’s) Afterword
Hello. Well Met! Welcome to my world. This book has been long requested by many patient fans of the Forgotten Realms® world. Here it is—and I hope it’s just the book you’ve been waiting for.
I’ve been waiting even longer. I began the Realms circa 1967 as a setting for fantasy stories. When the Advanced Dungeons & Dragons® game first appeared, I was impressed by its precise detailing of magic and monster abilities, so I recast the ever-growing Realms to match its rules. Game play followed, with a band of loyal friends who demanded a logical, detailed, colorful world—and set high standards of role-playing. The events we spun together and the rooms full of Realmslore notes—heraldry, history, genealogy, recipes, fashion notes, and more—have piled up steadily.
About twenty years after I created the world, TSR adopted it as an official home of the 2nd Edition AD&D® game. From sporadic articles in Dragon® Magazine beginning in Issue 30, the published Realms has grown into a huge line of novels, boxed game sets, adventure modules, rule books, sourcebooks … and now even travel books!
Dozens of creative folks have joined me in writing about the Realms—often surprising and delighting me with their work. If you play games set in the Realms or read its tales, it’s your world too. You are one of the authors of a rich, continuing chronicle that details what is now the largest, most written-about fantasy world ever.
Hmm ….I could almost hear trumpets there.
I’d best calm down a bit and settle back into my armchair with a good book … about the Realms, of course.
I’ve read, reread, and enjoyed every Realms novel so far. They each show very different folk and very different corners of the Realms, but are all the more interesting for being so varied. The Realms is a world in which lots of folk live, not just a small band of heroes who constantly save the world from villains (sound familiar?). Thus, the Realms has lots of stories to be told.
Among the most interesting Realms tales are the Harper books, a series of self-contained stories about folk associated with a mysterious “good” organization: Those Who Harp. (Game rules and additional information about the Harpers can be found in the Code of the Harpers sourcebook [FOR4]. I could say it’s excellent, but I won’t because I wrote it and Elminster spends a lot of time chiding me for what I left out!)
As a Harper novel, Crown of Fire is a direct sequel to Spellfire, published by TSR in 1987. In Spellfire, the saga of Shandril Shessair, wielder of spellfire, began, but either book can be enjoyed without reading the other.