“And yet you are a knight,” Narm pointed out. The lady mage spread empty hands.
“Did I say I was not a child?” she answered mildly. “Dear me.” She rose in a shifting of skirts and threw a set of knuckle-claws of wrought brass set with small carbuncles hard and accurately at Torm’s back. She favored Narm with an impish grin as she sat down demurely and turned to check Shandril. Behind them both, Elminster chuckled, as Torm let out a roar of pain and spun about, seeking his foe.
Amid the tumult, Narm’s lady lay motionless, eyes still closed, breathing shallowly. She looked peaceful and young and very beautiful, and Narm’s heart ached anew. “Will she-?” he asked helplessly. Jhessail patted his arm.
“It’s in the hands of the gods,” she said simply. “We will do all we can.” Elminster nodded and took the pipe out of his mouth. Coils of greenish smoke and small sparks continued to drift from its bowl.
“She held and handled more power than I have ever seen come out of a balhiir,” the old sage said. “More, I think, than this creature had in it.” Jhessail and Narm both turned to stare at him in surprise.
“What, then?” Jhessail asked, but Elminster shook her question aside with his head.
“Too soon,” he told them both. “Too soon for aught but idle chatter… and idle chatter will help no one and could well upset our young friend.”
Narm fixed eyes upon him and said, “With all respect, Lord Elminster, I am upset already. What do you fear?”
But Elminster was lost in chuckles. “I fear most, boy, being called ‘Lord Elminster’ Now grip thy temper and thy grief and master them. There are good reasons not to talk on this now. If it makes ye feel better, I am amazed and awed at what thy Shandril has done.”
“Oh?” Narm urged him on, trying to speak calmly.
“Aye. The most common way to destroy a balhiir requires at least three mages, and at best, five or more. They must hold the balhiir between them by force of art, opposing their telekinesis to offset its wild movements and struggles. They then tear it apart, each absorbing what he or she can of it. It is a spectacular process to watch-and,” he added dryly, “it kills a lot of mages.”
“Yet you sent Shandril alone up against the thing?” Narm protested, his frustration changing suddenly to rage. Elminster’s gently sad gaze stilled his tongue against further, more bitter comments.
“I had not five mages,” the sage said simply. “We still faced a dracolich and could not turn away from that even if we wanted, lest we and all our friends perish. If ye had tried to stand as one of those mages, Narm, ye would be dead now. Hold thy peace, I bid thee, for thy lady’s sake. High words will not help her now.”
“Are you always right?” Narm asked, but his tone was weary, not angry. “Is the good and true way always so clear before you?”
Jhessail shook her head warningly, but Elminster was chuckling again.
“Ah, slay me, but thy tongue is as sharp and as busy as Torm’s!” The mage sucked upon his pipe once and turned within the smoky haze it produced to regard Narm gravely. “In tavern-tales the hero is always high and shining and his foes dark and dastardly,” Elminster said with a smile. “It would be simpler if life were like that, each one knowing if he were good or evil, and what each should do and could expect to achieve before his part in the Great Play ends. But think on how boring it would be to the gods-everyone a known force, events and deeds preordained or at the least easily predictable-and so things are not so.
“We are here to amuse and entertain the gods, who walk among us. They watch and enjoy and sometimes even thrust a hand or quiet words into daily life, just to see the result. From this comes miracles, disasters, religious strife, and much else we could do without.”
Narm met his eyes for the space of a breath and then nodded soberly. “You do think and care, then. I had feared you swaggered about serenely blasting with your art all who opposed you.”
“That’s just what he does do.” Torm’s voice broke in as he approached, arms full of gold. “Wizards! Wherever one sees battle in this world, there’s some fool of a dweomercraefter jabbering and waving his hands. Honest swordswingers fall doomed-slain by a man who would be too craven to stand an instant against them, could they but reach him! Less art about would please me well! Then the brave and strong would rule, not sneaking old graybeards and reckless young fools who play for sport with the forces that give light and life to us all!”
“Aye” said Elminster with a smile. “But rule what? A battlefield covered shoulder-deep with the rotting dead, the survivors dying of hunger and disease. There would be none left to help the sick, or to harvest, or sow seeds. It is a grand king, indeed, who rules a graveyard.” He drew on his pipe. “Besides, ‘tis no good complaining about what is and cannot be changed. Art we have. Make the best of it.”
“Oh, I intend to,” Torm replied with a wolfish grin.
“Are you finished, Torm?” Jhessail asked sweetly. “Or have you something else upon your tongue that needs spewing forth?”
“Yes,” replied the thief, irrepressibly. “Look you, old-”
“Enough talk!” Florin snapped from behind them. “Heads around, all! A dragon comes!”
“They sssee usss, little one!” the great voice boomed back at her. “Why ssso amazed?”
From the dracolich’s back, Symgharyl Maruel gazed upon the blasted mountaintop in shock. The keep! she thought wildly at Aghazstamn. Gone! The whole peak has been shattered and thrown down! We must turn away! We cannot face power enough to do that! She shook her head in disbelief, but the vast crater below remained, as the dracolich wheeled about it.
“Flee? Nay!” its voice roared at her, and the great neck arched around, nearly tumbling the Shadowsil off. She clung to the bony fin before her grimly and shouted aloud, “But the entire top of the mountain is gone! We cannot prevail against-”
“Ssseee to your wandsss, little coward! I fly free, to fight and ssslay after all these yearsss! And you want me to turn tail and abandon the gold and thisss challenge? Think again, weaver of weak art!” Aghazstamn roared and wheeled wide, climbing so as to turn and dive.
As the wind ripped around her ears, Maruel drew forth a wand and held it firmly across her breast. Peering down, she could see one in armor, an elf, and others below. There was no sign of Rauglothgor. Perhaps the old terror had destroyed himself somehow and wrought all this devastation. This handful of dare-alls looked incapable of such destruction.
Well, what did it matter? Slay, and wonder later. Aghazstamn had already turned and was plummeting down, ever faster, the wind beginning to whistle past her ears. The Shadowsil bent low and narrowed her eyes to slits so as not to be blinded. Carefully she aimed at the hastily scattering warriors below, and said clearly, “Maerzaef” And fire blossomed from the wand in a tiny ball that spun away, trailing sparks, to burst with a roar in orange-red flames below.
One man was hurled into the air, blazing, and fell among the rocks. Others were thrown too, but she could not see their fates. Already she was aiming again coolly at those below. Such battles were never as tales had them; mages trading spells formally, one after the other. He who struck first and hardest usually prevailed.
The wind whistled around her as Aghazstamn roared in triumph as it plummeted out of the sky, wings drawn up and bent back over its vast scaled bulk. From its maw, lightning spat in a long, blue-white bolt that crackled to the ground. A tiny figure jerked and staggered, outlined briefly in the blue-white fire. The Shadowsil unleashed her second fireball at two in robes who still stood on the right,
It blossomed into flames before it reached them, however, spreading out against some sort of invisible wall. Symgharyl Maruel hissed in anger as the dracolich beneath her swept down. Fast, indeed, by Mystra! Still, they couldn’t strike back at her without sacrificing that wall…
With a roar and a clap of its mighty wings, Aghazstamn levelled off just short of the tumbled rock where its victims scrambled and shouted. It swooped low, reaching with long cruel claws for two who stood with swords raised like tiny needles against it.
Symgharyl Maruel felt the jolt as the dracolich struck and then clapped its wings to rise in haste from the rocks where sharp steel slashed and thrust at it. The mage looked back over her shoulder in time to lock eyes with the druid who had been lying wounded in the cave earlier. His hands and lips were moving, coolly calling a spell down upon her.
Before she could do anything, Aghazstamn was turning away and rising. The Shadowsil slid the wand back into its sheath as they rose and turned to look back, tossing her hair out of her eyes. Steady, I pray you, Great One, she thought through her ring. I would cast a spell and need a breath or two of stable flight from you. A thunderous snort was her reply, but Aghazstamn spread its vast wings spread out a level glide and the roaring winds lessened.
Symgharyl Maruel rose up as far as she dared and turned to face the knights. Below, the two swordsmen still stood; the tall one in armor and the elf. Bodies lay sprawled among the rocks, but the two mages in robes still stood beyond. Well, they might escape, but all of their comrades would perish. Carefully Symgharyl Maruel cast a meteor swarm down upon them all.
Done, she told the dracolich in satisfaction as she sat down and watched eight balls of flame roll forth. Aghazstamn hissed acknowledgement, and the great wings began to beat again. The sudden heat and rolling, roaring sound warned Symgharyl to reach for her wand.
Involuntarily she turned to see, just as the air exploded in flames. Somehow those below had turned her great spell against her. Only one mistake..
“See to Rathan,” said Elminster. “And Torm, too. Here! Hurry!” From under his robes he drew two metal vials and thrust them into Jhessail’s hands.
“But, master,” she protested. “The dragon! Wha-”
“I can yet speak spells,” the old mage told her with some severity. “Now go.” His eyes remained on the blackened body of the wyrm that had begun to fall from above, trailing flames. Odd, that a single such spell could slay so quickly. Dragons usually died slowly and noisily, with much-unless this was no dragon, but-
“Another dracolich!” the old mage said aloud. Narm turned anxious eyes upon him.
“What now?” the young apprentice asked. Elminster turned a hawkish eye upon him.
“Go and help Jhessail,” he commanded. “There is nothing ye can safely do here.” His eyes were on the dracolich again, the great wings rolling it over and over as it fell. On its back he could see The Shadowsil, struggling weakly. He almost lifted his hands to pluck her away with telekinesis, but she bore a wand ready in one hand. Even as he considered it, he knew it would be too late to save her. The sage watched expressionlessly as Aghazstamn crashed to earth.
The dracolich’s body struck head and neck first, with a horrible splintering sound. It rolled forward onto one shoulder, and over until the great back crashed to the ground. It rolled, once, spilling the slim figure of The Shadowsil from its back, and halted in a smoking heap against a broken rock where Shandril’s blasting had ended.
“Get her!” Lanseril shouted from behind him. Before Elminster could speak Florin and Merith had leaped past him, blades flashing. The elf s armor was torn and twisted crazily at one shoulder where a dragon claw had earlier caught it. Had not Merith jumped desperately upward into its closing grip to strike with his blade, the body below the armor would have been torn apart as well.
Elminster knew they could not hear him. He hissed words hastily, exerted his will, then vanished.
Florin could see The Shadowsil, struggling feebly on one elbow to roll herself over. The wand was still in her hand. She was snarling through the long hair. He raised his sword as he ran, in desperate haste. He did not hold with slaying women, but this foe could be the death of them all, were he not fast enough. Merith crashed along behind him, slipping and staggering among the scattered rocks and treasure.