Stormlight

FIFTEEN

"Ah, they come at last," the man who was not Maxer purred. He perched on the broken edge of a room that was no more. "Full of fear that makes them desperate, willing to face even the fabled phantoms of the Haunted Tower-we know what makes them run, though, don't we?"

Shayna opened her mouth to reply-and closed it again in horror as the unmistakable voice of her grandmother Pheirauze came out of the shapeshifter's mouth. "Of course we do, Gallant One. Make them truly fear the Summerstars, so that none dare set foot in Firefall Keep without our leave! Let them taste the fire I did, my Dark Master!"

The laughter that followed veered sickeningly from the cold, brittle mirth of Pheirauze to the hearty bellow that was the shapeshifter's own.

"They call me the foe," he mused aloud, breaking off his laughter abruptly. "Astonishingly apt." He smiled thinly, and said, "Yet if I am to prevail against them when they're finally sensible enough to come at me all together, I'll need to burn me another wizard or two."

He leapt up. His eyes went vacant, the way they looked when he was impressing commands on the Hungry Man. This time, no doubt, the Dark Master would be sending him away from the coming fray.

The shapeshifter swung around so that his lips could brush hers. "You, my pretty one," he murmured, "must be the lure that endangers Storm. Do not mind-speak to me unless she brings clear doom to you; she can hear when we talk so. Lead her on a dance-topple stones upon her, appear where she cannot follow, wear her out running … but take her away from the stalwart men of Firefall Keep, after I split them. Slay her not-for that is to be the finale of our feast."

"It shall be my pleasure, Master," Shayna whispered in his ear, and kissed it. He gave her a savage grin, slapped her shoulder, and growled, "Let us be about it, then! To war, for the bloody joy of it!"

He grew a tentacle that soared across the open area of his devastation. The limb snapped around the end of a roof beam. Another tentacle took her by the waist, and then the air was rushing past their ears as they swung across the emptiness of the night.

Shayna saw a few stars glittering above them, and then felt stone and tile under their feet again.

Her master said, "Don't mind-speak now, but heed: if you see Storm, cry out her name-sob, as if you're terrified-and run toward her. The moment you get behind cover, stop and dodge away. Once you're both away from the others, just try to stay ahead of her. I'll do the rest. Hold still."

He murmured something, touched her eyeballs with cool, feather-gentle fingertips, and said, "There. Now you can see in darkness."

She could. "How long does the spell last?"

He shrugged. "If it fails and Storm's close behind you, feign collapse, and I will free you when you awaken."

She looked down at her hands and her tattered gown. "Shouldn't I have a weapon? I–I'm all but naked."

"And that will be a weapon, if any of the men ever get close to you. Don't worry about who sees you. Save for Storm, none of them will see another dawn."

The torches wavered. One of the men cried out and swung his blade at something that moved in the gloom beside him. It faded away almost mockingly: a ghostly helm on the shoulders of a spectral warrior striding along a corridor that was no longer there.

"Easy," Ergluth said, his voice deep and calm. "We're in the Haunted Tower, now-there'll be other phantasms."

No one lowered a weapon. The two war wizards had their wands out, and only Storm walked barehanded, her blade riding ready on her hip.

The flickering torchlight showed them chaos ahead. Stone rubble was strewn everywhere, in some places heaped almost to the ceilings of chambers it had flowed into. The twisted, half-buried form of a chambermaid spoke silently of how swiftly and violently the collapse had come.

"Gods," one of the men muttered, "what're we fighting?"

"One who is insane," Storm told them all in level tones. "If he strikes, don't flee, but attack from all sides, repeatedly. We might push him howling over the edge, and he would cease to be a real threat."

"Is that a Harper's promise?" one of the armsmen asked almost slyly. There were hollow chuckles from those around him.

As if the mirth had been a cue, a sudden flash and roar came from above and ahead. The standing stump of a lone pillar toppled into their midst, showering jagged rocks in all directions as it came.

"Scatter!" Ergluth roared, scant seconds before the crash came. They all heard one agonized scream before the deafening thunder smote them.

Almost immediately, lightning cracked and snarled through the dust cloud above the tumbled stones of the pillar, reaching into the area the armsmen in the rear had fled to. There were more cries.

"Fall back!" Ergluth roared out of the darkness. "Back into the open hall-Redgarth Hall, where the stair had fallen!" He took two steps forward, holding his sword carefully upright so as not to stab anyone and reached down to where he knew a man lay.

His fingers encountered something shattered and sticky. He straightened with a sigh-only to stiffen, cold fear stabbing at his heart, as a voice said in his ear, "I'm the one he wants. I'll skulk off by myself and see if I can draw him away."

"Ye gods, woman!" he snarled. "Don't scare me like that! Why …" And then he fell silent. She was gone.

He stood still for a moment, breathing hard, staring around into the darkness and trying to see. There were no torches left alight hereabouts-only over there, beyond where the pillar had crushed a dozen men or more.

Time to start earning the tall stacks of coins a boldshield was paid-tall if they were coppers, at least.

As Ergluth turned that way, he saw under the shattered stone the agonized face of a veteran, a man he knew well. The armsman's back was broken; the pillar had crushed him below the waist, and now he was twisting and contorting in soundless agony, drumming one fist vainly against the ruined floor tiles.

Without hesitation, the boldshield said gravely, "You shall be avenged," and drove his sword in deep through that gaping mouth, to end the pain.

Time indeed to start earning those coins.

Storm went forward like a soft shadow moving through the gloom. Her eyes could see as well as those of any cat. Sometimes it was useful to be a Chosen of Mystra. The foe had been above them, and just about … there. If she took that stair-

The night behind her suddenly lit up with a burst of flame, and she heard more screams and groans. More Purple Dragons down. She set her teeth grimly. Still, if they'd stayed in the rooms by the kitchens, the shapeshifter could have strolled up and cooked them all at leisure by hurling that same spell into their laps … At least this way the armsmen would die with swords in their hands. Still-they died.

There was a second flash, a little nearer. This one showed Storm a lone figure standing two rooms away, staring at her: Shayna Summerstar.

"Storm!" the young woman screamed. "Lady Storm! Save meeee!" She broke into a run, bare feet slapping on the stones in her frantic haste.

"Shayna!" the bard cried. She took twelve quick strides to the right, into deep shadow, and drew her sword.

It would be a bright sunset and a royal visit here, both, before she'd believe that lass was anything but a pawn of the foe.

She waited, still and silent. As long, wary breaths dragged by, she knew she'd been right. Shayna would have reached her by now if that terrified run had been genuine.

As if that thought had been a cue, there were scattered shouts from far off behind her, and one despairing wail. The foe was on the loose.

Storm glared into the darkness and then set forth like a panther on the hunt. If she let this go on, she might be the only defender still alive by the time the sun rose over the ruin of Firefall Keep. Yet she could do nothing to stop it that would not endanger her friends even more.. and all this death was coming down on them because of her.

They died just as Maxer had died.

Sometimes it was a terrible thing to be a Chosen of Mystra.

Enough brooding. Somewhere off to the right should be the outermost passageway, and a stair that would take her up. Then she could circle back toward the foe. Shayna Summerstar, pretty little lure that she was, would have to start following, not lying in wait here, there, and everywhere.

A lance of ruby light split the darkness behind her. Storm threw herself headlong through a door, onto rubble, and smelled burnt leather from her right boot as the ravening radiance sang on down the passage. Calling up a shield spell, she stepped back out into the hallway. Ruby fire stabbed at her again.

She had a brief glimpse of Shayna's smiling face, chestnut hair plastered to an ivory forehead beneath a coronet whose upswept tips were emitting the ray-and then ruby death struck her shield, splashed out a spectacular shower of rosy sparks, and rebounded back down the hall.

There was a startled cry and then darkness and silence. Tasting her own weapon was not something a Summerstar heiress welcomed, it seemed.

"That's a Battlestar circlet," Storm murmured aloud. "Did she slay Zarova to get it?" She turned and ran lightly down the passage, heading for the stair she'd intended to use. No skulking. No little miss was going to dictate where she could go in this battle.

She was halfway up it when a rattle of tiny bouncing stones warned her. She threw herself sideways, slipped on stones, and ended up half over the rail. The wind was knocked out of her and she almost plunged over it.

A moment later, a statue as large as she was smashed into the steps above her. The impact showered her with jagged stone shards, The statue bounced past and slid to the bottom of the stair, leaving ruin in its wake. The rail under her shuddered, but the stair held.

"Bitch," she muttered to herself. "So it's toss the tower at Storm time again, is it?" She ascended the stairs at a run, lifting her voice merrily in the ballad "I Walk Carefree In the Moonlight."

A fist-sized stone whizzed past her nose. She grinned, somersaulted, and listened to another stony missile strike the floor and skitter away into the night. Aiming was not Shayna's strength.

Storm finished her song as she dodged forward in a series of zigzag runs at the place where Shayna must be-and was rewarded by a soft curse and the sounds of frantic fleeing.

Now we're getting somewhere. Run, little rabbit, and don't look back, because I'll be close behind you.

They burst out into an open gallery, running toward where the foe had toppled the pillar. Shayna was a pale, flitting form ahead. Storm put her head down and sprinted.

She was only a few paces behind when Shayna darted aside, into a chamber whose floor now formed a jagged bridge across an open, blasted ruined area.

Startled at how close Storm was, the Summerstar heiress called on her coronet again, splashing the bard-and the pillars on either side of her-with ruby fire.

Storm's shield held, but the pillars burst apart-and the Bard of Shadowdale had to leap for her life as the ceiling came down.

Mocking laughter echoed around Storm as she rolled, came to her feet and ran on. She caught her hand on a doorframe to spin around into that room-and found the space no longer had a floor.

She fell hard, jarring her chin against her knees as she struck loose rubble with both boots. . and then started to slide helplessly backward. Above her, ruby fire flashed again. A larger explosion shook the loftiest levels. Storm saw remnants of walls toppling slowly down at her as she rode shifting rubble down. At last she could roll over and find her feet again. Huge stone blocks were crashing down all around her by then.

It was time to find another stair and do it all over again.

"Shayna, dear!" she called gaily, "I'm coming for you!"

Storm was rewarded with a hissed curse and ruby death stabbing wildly down through an empty chamber behind her. As sparks danced and flew in the darkness, Storm found steps going up. She took them.

"Mystra, be with me now," she breathed. She whirled around a landing and pounded up the next flight. "If you like fun and folk making idiots of themselves with magic, you won't want to miss this!"

"Something moved, I tell you!" the Purple Dragon, snarled. He pointed with his sword. "Right-there!"

"Easy," Insprin Turnstone said from behind him, raising his wand. "There's naught but death to be gained from rushing off into the darkness hacking at things!"

"What do wizards know of real war?" the armsman spat over his shoulder. "Keep to what you know, mage, and-"

His words broke off in a sudden gurgle.

To the warrior at his other shoulder, Insprin said sharply, "Your torch! Quickly!"

They'd been cut off from the boldshield's rally by falling stones and spells that sent small, seeking balls of flame. We've not been cut off, but herded, Insprin thought bitterly. Now they were somewhere along the backstairs passage the servants called the Lower Run, well away from the Haunted Tower. The darkness around seemed a waiting, watching, menacing thing.

Now, as Insprin had feared, the darkness was beginning to grow tentacles. Playing with its prey.

The fluttering torchlight showed the black, glistening tentacle he'd expected. Purple Dragons shouted in disgust and rage all around the wizard and rushed at it, hacking and slashing.

And so, of course, they ran headlong into a waiting net of coiling arms, which fell on them from above. Insprin cursed, caught up a fallen torch, and threw it high and hard. It struck stone and spun away in a cloud of sparks, but it had shown him enough. The source of the tentacles was somewhere back there.

He aimed and fired his wand carefully-and was rewarded with a roar of pain. The armsmen suddenly bounced aloft in unison, kicking their boot heels, as the tentacles around their throats convulsed. One man slashed the tip of a tentacle. He fell, but scrambled up to stagger away. All the others came down atop him in a deadly rain of flesh, thudding against stone. The tentacles had made their victims into large, living flails to batter down the escaping man.

The Purple Dragons made wet, wordless sounds as their bodies were broken. Insprin cried out in his own revulsion and rage. He fired his wand-the tentacles quivered-and again. This time the tentacles withdrew, leaving a heap of blood-drenched, unmoving warriors behind. The war wizard backed away slowly, knowing he'd be next.

"Mystra watch over me now," he prayed aloud, "and grant that I die well."

Mystra was hard of hearing, it seemed. The next thing he knew was the smashing strike of a tentacle leaping out of the darkness to send him flying into the nearest pillar. He struck it hard, and staggered away, trying to clear his wits of red pain. The next blow stung his fingers like fire, and snatched his wand away.

He watched a burst of radiance that must have marked the breaking of his weapon, and drew himself up. This must be his time to 'die well.' So be it; he'd not go to the gods weeping or pleading. He strode away from the pillar to take a stance where the floor was free of rubble, corpses, and blood, and asked sternly, as his hands began the gestures of a silent spell, "Have you no mercy?"

"Hah! Mercy! Kindness! The pursuits of fools!" came a laughing reply out of the darkness. Its source advanced slowly to gloat: a man whose skin was the same dusty blue-gray as the night around him, but whose eyes gleamed like those of a great cat. He smiled as he grew a tentacle that slid forward.

Insprin's eyes narrowed. He was suddenly surrounded by a glowing ring of spheres, the fruit of his spell-spheres of winking, dancing sparks. One sped toward the tentacle and burst, clinging to it with bright motes that burned and melted away the dark flesh.

The tentacle quivered, but slid on through the air, its tip questing for the mage. Insprin backed away and began to hurl the other spheres in a frantic stream-only to see the tentacle wriggle deftly through his dweomer.

"Power is a better goal!" the foe told him in tones of cold triumph.

"Mercy and kindness are power," Insprin replied firmly, weaving another spell as he backed away from the slowly advancing tentacle. "The slowest sorts to reward, but among the most mighty."

"What nonsense d'you speak?" the shapeshifter asked scornfully as Insprin spread his hands. Something that glowed drifted up from between them. "Tell me-how are they mighty?"

"They separate the truly just and noble from all others," Insprin replied softly, dodging away from the tentacle and drawing the dagger from his belt.

"And why," the foe asked, as his tentacle lashed out with the sudden speed of a striking snake and snapped around Insprin's throat, "would I want to do that?"

"What manner of monster are you?" Insprin gasped, feeling the coils tighten and knowing his dagger would be too little a fang to cut it in time.

The shapeshifter shrugged. "Once men worshiped me," he gloated, "and called me Bane."

Insprin Turnstone's face turned pale, and he closed his eyes.

The shapeshifter shook him by the throat as if he was a rag doll. "Hah! Not so noble now, are you, dead hero! I'll have your spells first, and then …"

Insprin opened his eyes again and gasped, "You. . shall… not."

And from above Insprin, the glowing blade he'd wrought with his spell arrowed down to strike his own head.

Bright radiance burst in all directions, and the foe roared in pain as lightning spiraled down his tentacle. Hastily he severed it, reeling back as it dropped off to writhe and lash the floor like an agonized serpent.

"If that is what mortals mean by mercy," he croaked aloud," 'tis a power yet beyond me!"

His voice twisted into the icy fury of Pheirauze Summerstar. "Stole his spells from me in the end, did he?" Tentacles grew hands and pointed in unison-and the reeling, headless body that had been Insprin flew apart in all directions, bloody bones clattering against the walls.

The man-thing who once might have been a small, twisted part of the god Bane did not wait to see the remains of his victim. He whirled about with a roar of rage that echoed back from the keep all around. Wings grew and took him racing down dark passages, seeking the last wizard. Like a loosed thunderbolt, he swooped.

Men cowered away in fear and shielded their guttering torches.

There'd be time to slay them later, when he was done hunting wizards. A wizard, Broglan Sarmyn-leader of these ineffectual dolts. A man who must have some spells worth hurling. A bit of a coward, who'd probably be somewhere near the boldshield and the largest band of Purple Dragons, a man who was … there!

Broglan saw death coming for him, and knew it for what it was. He fired his wand carefully, but did not wait to watch its blue-white bolts strike home. If any of the men around him were to survive, he had to get clear of them, and die-if Mystra willed it-alone.

He broke into a run, bellowing, "Ergluth, stay back! Keep your men back!"

Stones loomed up ahead of him, half-seen in the darkness; he leapt over them, stumbled on loose rubble, and ran on, staggering. Behind him he heard wild, triumphant laughter. He spun, fired his wand at a flicker of movement, and ran on….

On into the Haunted Tower. In the distance, a pale phantom glided from doorway to doorway. Broglan shrugged and turned toward it, heading for a faint glow of moonlight. That must be the place the foe had blasted open to the sky.

Tentacles slapped at him and smote stones from the crumbling edge of a broken wall.

Broglan dodged desperately, his own breaths deafening in his ears, and kept going. An archway, a glimpse of Shayna Summerstar's face-wearing a crown? — from the gaping darkness of a chamber overhead, and he was clambering up a huge heap of stone.

A ball of fire burst ahead of him, hurling him back and blistering his face. He fell hard and tumbled on stones, losing his scepter somewhere in the fall.

He could see nothing but the afterimages of that flash. He was blind, and the foe was laughing somewhere nearer.. and nearer. …

He struggled to sit up and clear his head, shaking it violently. It throbbed. The golden dancing radiances became red, fading ones, but still he could not see!

Something touched him. He dived away frantically, burying his face in sharp stones. Another touch, and another-tentacles! He rolled away, kicking at their rubbery, ropelike strength, fighting to get free. Bleeding fingers clawed for something to hurl at that cold, close laughter.

"Pitiful fool," the scornful voice of Pheirauze Summerstar said from above him. "I'll have your spells before you can waste any more of them. Farewell, Broglan Sarmyn, oh-so-capable leader of the Sevensash."

Tentacles came down like clubs upon his wrists, and ankles-and throat. Broglan bucked and wriggled, clawed frantically at the stones beneath him, and cried out for help.

All that came out was a hoarse rattle-but his fingers found something long, and cold, and hard. A poker? A mace-haft? He swept it up and thrust it desperately at a dark face above him-a dim face that was two red eyes and a gleaming, grinning mouth.

His improvised weapon seemed to have an eye of its own: a huge orb that winked at him knowingly as he thrust it out. Then its red eyes became two flames, and the flames lashed out.

As the real pain began, Broglan used the last breath in him to call on Mystra to claim his soul. He hoped she would hear him in time.