Spellfire

6
Death in the Dark

The glowing globe was in Shandril's hands. Without thought, she swept it up and smashed it with all her strength into The Shadowsil's face.

The sharp singing of its shattering was lost in Symgharyl Maruel's rough shriek. Darkness fell. Shandril dropped the fragments she still held and drove a foot hard into the purple-robed belly. The screaming ended, and Symgharyl Maruel sat down suddenly. Narm was running toward Shandril. "My lady! Are you all right? Shandril?" At his words, the sorceress drew a shuddering breath and fixed one glaring eye on Shandril through the blood now running down her face. Symgharyl Maruel's hands began to move.

"Oh, gods!" the young man moaned in fear. Shandril stood frozen an instant. But with The Shadowsil caught up in spellcasting, Shandril seized a rock and smashed it again into the sorceress's face. The rock struck with a horrid, wet thud, and Shandril drove it down again.

"Leave us alone, you bitch!" Shandril screamed at the sorceress, as the rock rose and fell yet again.

The Shadowsil struggled to block Shandril's attack. She fell backward until she lay full-length on the rocks, bloody and unmoving.

"Shandril?" Narm whispered anxiously, as he clambered over the jagged rocks to reach her.

Shandril stared down, the rock falling from bloody fingers, and she burst into tears.

Narm held her with a fierce tenderness and stared down at the sorceress. Neither her spell nor his cantrip had taken effect. Perhaps Shandril had spoiled The Shadowsil's spell with her rock attack, but Narm doubted it. Certainly nothing had spoiled his casting. A twinkling cloud of light around Narm was all that let him see the fallen sorceress in the darkness. Symgharyl Maruel lay still and silent. Was it that easy to kill so strong a wielder of the art?

Shandril mastered her sobs and held tight to Narm. As they stood together they heard the distinct scrape and tumble of rocks beyond the rockfall. Hope leaped in them both.

Shandril looked up through the twinkling mist. "Do we shout to tell them we're here?"

Narm frowned and shook his head. "I think not. We may not want to meet the diggers. Let's shout only if they stop digging."

"Well enough," Shandril said, "if you stay with me."

Narm held her tight. "Think you, fair lady, that I am a rake?" he asked in mock anger.

"A lady cannot be too careful," she quoted the maxim back at him.

He grinned. "Please make known to me, Lady, when this carefulness of yours begins."

Shandril wrinkled her nose and blushed with embarrassment. Then her attention was caught by the twinkling cloud surrounding Narm.

"What's that?"

"I don't know." The young man tried to dust the glowing mist away from him, but it clung close. "Strange…" he said, but then the rocks grated again. They stood and watched warily for the rocks they could see to move. Once there was a louder, rumbling clatter, and a surprised male voiced a cry.

Suddenly, a glimmer of yellow light appeared, flickering between two rocks. The light grew as more rocks were lifted away.

"We should hide!" Shandril whispered, drawing Narm down into a crouch among the stones.

Torchlight blazed at them before they could move. "Narm?" a voice came from the darkness. "Lady?"

"Florin?" Narm replied eagerly, rising and drawing Shandril to his side.

"Well met!" came the glad reply, as the man scaled the rocks toward them. Shandril recognized him as the kingly warrior who had walked with Elminster in the mists between the company and the mysterious men who guarded the mules. "I heard screaming," he said. "Is all well with you?"

"We're fine," Narm replied, "but she who screamed-the sorceress-is not. She will work her art no more."

"Aye? So it is," Florin's face was impassive. "Danger sought, danger found. You did well. Our foe lies buried, but may yet live." He stopped for a moment to squint at Narm. "Hold, what's that?" he asked. "A balhiir!" he exclaimed, drawing back in alarm. But he was too late.

The swirling, sparkling cloud around Narm boiled up like the plume of a campfire when wind draws it into long flames. The cloud struck at the ranger's blade.

"A balhiir!" Florin gasped again, swinging his sword away. But the mist was already swirling around his blade in cold silence. The weapon grew heavier in his grasp as its magical blue light twinkled once and then dwindled away. The twinkling mist remained and seemed a little brighter.

"Whence came this balhiir?" the ranger asked.

"Is that what it is? I struck down the sorceress with a crystal sphere," Shandril told him. "The sphere broke, and this came out."

The ranger gazed at his blade in consternation, and then smiled. "By the bye, I am Florin Falconhand, of Shadowdale, and the Knights of Myth Drannor. Might I know you?"

Smiling, she said, "Shandril Shessair, until recently of Deepingdale and the Company of the Bright Spear, though I fear the company is no more."

"Your servant, Lady," Florin said with a bow. "You have loosed an ill thing on the world. This creature feeds on magic. Only the one who loosed a balhiir can destroy it. Will you aid me in this task, Lady?"

"Is it dangerous?" Narm asked, feeling his anger rise.

"Your lives both bid to be filled with danger," Florin replied gently, "whether you kill this creature or not. Striving for something worthwhile and going to your graves is better than drifting in cowardice to your graves, is it not?"

"Fair speech, indeed," Shandril replied, meeting his eyes. "I will aid you," she said firmly, calming Narm. "But tell me more of this thing."

"In truth," the ranger told her calmly, "I know little more. Lore holds that the one who releases a balhiir is the only one who can destroy it. Elminster of Shadowdale knows how to deal with such creatures, but like all who use the art, he dare not come near something that drains magic. Items of power all seem to fare poorly against the creature; it foils spells, too."

"Well," Shandril asked, "why should such a creature be destroyed? Doesn't it leash dangerous art?"

"Fair question," Florin replied. "Others might answer you differently, but I say we need art. There are prices to be paid for it, but the shrewd use of the magical art helps a great many people. The threat of art rising, unlooked for, keeps many a tyrant sword from taking what can be taken by brute force."

Shandril met his level gray gaze and slowly relaxed. She could trust this tall, battered man. At her side, Narm stirred.

"The balhiir was about me for some time. It drained both my cantrips and the sorceresses' spells. Do you know if I will be able to work the art again?"

"Indeed, so long as the balhiir is not present. It will move to absorb unleashed magic if it can." Even as Florin spoke, the twinkling cloud stirred about his blade, spiraled up, and left him. In a long, snakelike mist of lights, the balhiir drifted back the way the ranger had come. Florin started after it. "Follow me, if you will. If not, I'll leave the torch."

The two hurried after him. Shandril glanced back once at The Shadowsil lying among the rocks, but all she could see was one foot jutting upward. As they passed through the escape hole Florin had dug, the foot seemed to move in the dancing torchlight. Shandril shivered despite herself.

The cavern where the dracolich had laired was much changed. The ceiling had broken away and fallen. The gleam of treasure was gone, covered by rubble and dust. There was a mighty rumbling and clattering of stones to their right, as the eternal dracolich rose slowly from under a castle's worth of fallen rock. Far across the wide chamber, a woman was raising her hands in magical passes.

Bright pulses of magic burst from her hands as Narm and Shandril climbed over the rocks. They saw magic missiles streak across the chamber and strike the dracolich. The winking cloud of mist streaked down hungerly.

Rauglothgor roared anew in pain and fury. Its deep bellows echoed about the cavern. The battered dracolich rose up and hissed, "Death to you all! Drink this!"

There was a flicker of the art, but nothing else occurred. The balhiir had reached Rauglothgor. The dracolich roared again in surprise and rage. Its great claws raked huge boulders aside as a cat scrapes loose sand. "What is this?" it raged. Its hollow neck arched, its jaws parted, and flames gouted out in a great arc.

Fire rolled out with terrifying speed and washed over the lady on the far slope. The air was filled with the stench of burning. As the flames died the lady still stood, apparently untouched, her hands moving in the casting of a spell. About her the sparkling mist danced. The balhiir had ridden the fire across the chamber.

"Jhessail," Florin called. "A balhiir-the art is useless!"

"So I see," Jhessail calmly replied, ignoring the roars of Rauglothgor across the cavern. "Well fought, Narm. How is your companion? She looks worth our trouble."

Shandril found herself smiling. "Well met, Lady Jhessail."

Jhessail came up and hugged her. "You show a good eye, Narm. Let us proceed elsewhere now, lest we not see another meal to get acquainted over."

Florin and the elf, Merith, stood with drawn blades facing the dracolich. The mist swirled away from Jhessail and moved toward the elf's weapon.

"Your blade," Florin warned.

"If drained, then so be it," Merith's merry voice came back to them. Both of the fighters charged the skeletal monster.

Again and again the elf avoided the raking bones of the dracolich, with Florin also rolling and leaping in the same dance of death.

Shandril and Narm looked about in time to see a gray streak of motion, a slim, fast man leaped down the rocks toward them.

"Beware!" Jhessail shouted.

There was a sudden flash, and a roar, and the ground leaped to meet all of them.

Someone was shaking him. "Up, Narm," Jhessail said firmly. "We cannot stand in this place longer."

"I have Shandril," Lanseril's voice said from somewhere. "She's heavier than I expected."

Narm struggled to move, to rise. A warm hand was on his shoulder. "The dracolich?"

"Rauglothgor lives." Jhessail's voice was rueful. "The balhiir hampers both sides in this struggle. The dracolich's lair has traps and harbors creatures subject to its will. It has moved to block our escape to the upper caverns."

"Are you not its match in art?" Narm asked, then he realized what he had said. "Oh, my pardon, La-"

"None needed," Jhessail replied, guiding them around tumbled boulders. "I doubt it, here in its lair. Alone, spell to spell, perhaps. My spells are more numerous and stronger, but its are unusual and suited to defense."

They climbed up one side of the cavern toward where Merith stood waiting. His drawn sword no longer glowed. "Well fought," he said, kissing Jhessail.

"Where is Torm?" Narm asked, politely waiting until the kiss was done.

Merith and Jhessail exchanged glances and chuckled. "We think he used something from a little bag of tricks he carries to teleport out of here when he saw the balhiir, no doubt to save all of the magic he carries. I hope he also went to tell Elminster of what has befallen us, and we shall see some aid," Jhessail explained.

"And if aid doesn't come?" Narm asked.

"Then our inevitable victory will be a little harder," Lanseril said. "If you don't mind saying, what art do you currently command?"

Narm grinned. "I am but an evoker, lord. I have left one cantrip of little use."

The words had scarcely left his lips when there was a great crash and a roar of moving rock. Suddenly, the world was falling down on them again.

She hurt all over. Why had none of the tales of adventure ever mentioned the constant pain and discomfort? Shandril rolled over, slowly, feeling many aches and twinges. Stones must have fallen on her. Nothing seemed broken, thank the gods. It was dark, and it felt as if she were somewhere underground. She could tell by the cold flash of the beljurils around her that she was still in the dracolich's grotto. Where was Narm? Then a gem flashed nearby, and she saw a hand inches from her own. Narm!

Helpless tears blinded her. The hand was cold, lifeless. Then another flash of the magical balhiir showed the hand-black hair, thick fingers. It wasn't Narm. In relief and revulsion, she let go of the dead thing. Where to go? What to do?

There was the faintest of scraping sounds to her left. Someone was moving quietly over the stones. "Who's that?" Shandril demanded of the darkness, feeling for her dagger. "What do you want?"

"Molesting you sounds good" a broken voice croaked at her elbow.

Shandril jumped, startled.

The voice took on a gentler, more human tone in the darkness. "Well met. I am Torm, of the Knights of Myth Drannor. No noise now. It is best that no one think you still live. I will be your eyes and ears and hands until we can leave this trap. Wait here."

Shandril felt hope leap within her. She reached out only to feel rapidly receding cloth. "Thanks to you, Torm. Why would you aid a stranger?"

The answering voice was fainter as it moved away. "I have a weakness for fair ladies who reach for boot daggers and face the unknown. Now hush, and wait."

She sat down on the most comfortable stone she could find and composed herself to wait.

After a long time there was a stirring in the darkness.

"Torm?"

"Rauglothgor's spells search for us even now." Torm whispered in her ear. "Your Narm lives and is unharmed. I will take you to him as soon as the dracolich settles down. For now, we must abide here."

They both sat, and Shandril again felt the dead hand. "Torm, there's a dead man beside me." She took Torm's hand and guided it down in the darkness.

"Gods!" he hissed. "It must be Lanseril. Jhessail told me it was Lanseril carrying you."

Torm slipped around her and Shandril heard him grunt in effort. He began moving rocks. "I'll help. If you roll the rocks to me, I can stop them here and you won't have to carry them as far."

"Dangerous," she heard him hiss through set teeth.

Then, in a gem-flash, she saw another man crouching with a dagger. "An enemy!" she hissed.

Behind her there was a sudden grunt and then a gurgling moan. Torm spoke aloud, "A dragon cultist, no doubt. Now quite dead. Now, Lady, I need you to help. We must get Lanseril's body quickly. Never mind the noise; the time for quiet is past."

Torm handed Shandril a hooded lantern and slapped a dagger in her hand. He moved Lanseril's body onto his shoulder, and they moved quickly through the boulders.

Their route rose and fell in the rubble. They heard the sound of battle several times but never encountered an enemy.

Soon they saw torchlight, and a voice from beyond bawled out merrily, "Where in the Lady's name have ye been?"

"Around and about," Torm called back. "I found Shandril and she found Lanseril, but he needs help. Have you spells left?"

"Aye, if the accursed balhiir stays elsewhere," Rathan rumbled, striding towards them. Jhessail was at his back, and Merith, and-Narm!

Wordlessly, Shandril rushed forward to embrace him, passing Torm like the wind.

He smiled and said, "I raced back to tell you that some seventy riders are coming up to the keep above us; dragon cultists, most likely. Shall we hit them with spells or take them by surprise down here?"

"No magic remains to us that we can trust," Florin told him grimly.

"Well"-Torm grinned-"I hadn't planned on dying of old age, anyway."

Shandril and Narm held each other, feeling that they could take on anything as long as they had each other to count on.

Torm tapped Narm on the shoulder. "If you ever find yourself tired and need someone to stand in for you, just call my name."

The look he got made him roar with laughter. Somehow, Narm didn't see anything funny about the offer.

"The only place the few of us can defend against so many is that dead-end where Florin found you both. Let's move," Jhessail said.

The torches flickered as they hurried through the twisting tunnels in wary silence. They saw no living creature. There was no sign of the balhiir. Finally, they reached the dead-end and readied their weapons.

"I presume you returned to Shadowdale to stow away your magic," Florin asked Torm. "Did you ask the aid of Elminster?"

The thief grinned. "Yes, but he always suspects me of youthful overexcitement. I know not how serious he thinks our situation. I did mention the dracolich and that ought to intrigue him into putting in an appearance."

"Done," Rathan rumbled, getting up from the healing of Lanseril. "He'll live a little longer."

Lanseril sat up with a sigh and locked eyes with Shandril. "Permit me to introduce myself, good lady. After all, if one must die, it is best to do so among known friends. I am Lanseril Snowmantle, of… of…" The druid's words trailed away and he fell back with eyes closed.

"Is he dead?" Narm asked in alarm.

"He's fine; just needs sleep. One must sleep to heal. But enough of imprudent druids… let us speak of the chosen of the gods-clerics. Myself, for instance." He drew himself up grandly, girth and all. "I am Rathan Thentraver, servant of Tymora."

"Well met," Narm said politely.

Rathan was bending to bring Shandril's hand to his lips. "Lady, with all this running and butchering, there's scarce been time to get to know each other. Although I dare say ye two have managed it. I know what it is to be young, and in a hurry."

"I must ask-you are a cleric," Shandril said, "yet you seem so-forgive me, ah, normal, much like the men I knew who came into the inn each night. Does worship of the Lady Tymora not change one?"

Rathan nodded at her question. "We do not all live the stuff of rousing tales. For all the glory of victories and treasure won there are painful days of marching hurt, lying wounded, or swinging swords or maces in weary practice. The Lady helps those who help themselves. She doesn't ask for change, she just asks for our best."

"Yes," Merith said, working on his blade with an oily rag, "the gods are strange. Those who come against us now worship the monster that nearly slew us all."

"The Cult of the Dragon," Shandril said slowly. "Why would anyone want to worship a dead dragon?"

"Don't worry about them," Torm boasted. "I keep around me a few magics that should… damn!" The sparkling mist swirled around him. "Well, I had some magic," he finished ruefully.

"Why did it leave us before?" Narm asked curiously, watching the coiling mist rise again above Torm, drifting along the ceiling over them all. It seemed larger and somehow brighter.

"I think it went to the greatest concentration of magic," Rathan said, his eyes not leaving the balhiir, "either the dracolich's hoard, or the spells of Rauglothgor. Seventy cultists, you said?" The cleric grunted.

"And a dracolich. Let us not forget the dracolich," Merith added dryly.

"Enough. Something comes!" Florin said sternly. The ranger rose, lifting his two-handed sword as though it was a thing of feathers. At his back, the knights snuffed out lights and readied themselves for battle. Merith, striding catlike over the rocks, joined Florin. Jhessail moved behind the rocks in line with the entrance. Rathan moved to shield Lanseril, saying gently, "Wake now."

The druid's eyes flickered. Shandril heard him whisper, "Weapons out?" as Torm took her by the hand and led her and Narm to the left. The druid became a blur, and the balhiir moved toward the vanishing form. A small gray bird appeared where the druid had been.

Torm took the couple to a pile of hand-sized stones. "A thrown stone can spoil spells and aimed arrows better than the strongest art." The thief of Deepingdale noticed that the balhiir had drifted above Jhessail in an incriminating, winking cloud.

"Not too quick with those stones now," Torm whispered. "If they don't see us at first, we'll let them come ahead until there are some to slay in the midst of our ring. Strike when they first notice us, not before."

Beyond the entrance, a bobbing sphere of radiance could be seen floating in the air, moving nearer as it danced and played about like a curious firefly. The balhiir gathered itself like a snake, then plunged forward along the roof of the cavern in silent haste, toward the light.

The light shone on the dark-robed shoulder of a man wearing some sort of large hat. He seemed to be alone as he clambered over the rocks of the entrance. He was white-bearded, and bore a long, knobbly staff of wood a head taller than himself. Then the balhiir reached the glowing globe that hung at his shoulder. The globe's radiance flared into the twinkling cloud, and then died.

"Put away that overlong fang, Florin, and light me a torch," said a somehow familiar voice, disgustedly. "Ye have a balhiir indeed. Young Torm managed to keep to the truth for once."

"Elminster!" the ranger said in calm, pleased greeting.

"I know, I know… ye're all delighted to see me, or will be if ye ever manage to make a light to see anything by."

Light flared up as the ranger relit his torch. Elminster stood in the flickering light looking at Shandril and Narm. "A fine dance ye've led me on, ye two… Gorstag was in tears when I left him, girl; nearly frantic, he was. Ye might have told him a bit more about where ye were going. Young folk have no consideration, these days."

Then he winked, and Shandril felt suddenly very happy. She cast the stone in her hand so that it crashed at the old mage's feet.

"Well met, indeed," Elminster said dryly, "O releaser of balhiirs. We may as well get to know each other before the dying starts."