Stormlight

SIXTEEN

Flames seared Broglan Sarmyn like two needles driven into his eyes. All he could do was stare, unable even to blink. A whirling chaos of lights and sounds and flashing images rushed toward him. The cold, cruel laughter of the foe laced every contorted image in the confused cacophony of shouts and cries and gasped words of agony and passion. The wizard could do nothing, nothing at all, as his thoughts, dreams, and memories were dragged away. In a another roiling moment, he would be gone, swept back into the stream of chaos and out of his own skull….

"Storm," he struggled to say, with his last breath, "I have come to love and respect you-Mystra, please tell her thissss…."

The stream sucked him down, past the place where he could speak and think and cling to anything he knew and loved.

Suddenly, though, its quickening rush stopped, eddying in confusion-broken by the calm, lazily blinking scrutiny of a dark eye as large as all the world. An eye that slid across to block the stream….

The stream struck that eye and rebounded, something that could not happen, a raging voice within Broglan shouted. From somewhere nearby, the foe screamed.

The scream was long and raw and wild. It trailed off into howls of forlorn loss and agony, that in turn became wild giggling and sudden yips and barks and cries. This insane gibbering burst into screams once more when amber light flared into a sudden halo of flames around the dark eye, and a voice that echoed and re-echoed through the wizard's mind spoke.

AT LAST I AM AWAKE AGAIN. YOU HAVE MY THANKS, MAGE, FOR FREEING ME-EVEN IF YOU DO SERVE THE ACCURSED ONE.

"The Accursed One?" Broglan asked before fear told him silence might have been safer. Might.

SHE WHO IMPRISONED ME!

Mystra? Broglan gulped, and asked the question he had to: "Who are you?"

The eye seemed to twinkle as a laughter so deep that it hurt the ears boomed and rolled. DO YOU NOT KNOW ME?

Broglan had no defense but the truth. "N-No," he whispered.

THEN KNOW ME YOU SHALL!

The amber flames around the great eye suddenly flared to a blinding white radiance, and stabbed into Broglan far more keenly than the stream of chaos had done. This time, there would be no escape.

Storm turned toward the flash of white light. "What's that?" she murmured aloud. Elder magic, to be sure. Something of great power had just been awakened, back in the shattered heart of the Haunted Tower.

She broke into a run. She had to be there.

The stone hurled from above struck her so hard that she saw only dazzling golden sparks. Storm knew she fell sideways, but thought that she kept running-or at least her legs kept moving….

When the sparks faded, she found she was lying on her side, and Shayna Summerstar was leaping down from a ledge above her, tossing aside an unnecessary second stone as she came. The Summerstar heiress was grinning maniacally, a tattered gown trailing behind her and the coronet askew on her tangled hair. A drawn dagger was gleaming in her hand.

On light feet, she danced toward the bard. A low chuckle of delighted anticipation rose from her throat as she came. Storm tensed, gathering herself for a desperate kick and roll. Shayna looked down at her and shook her head; she knew full well what the bard planned, and was enjoying the momentary taunt.

White light suddenly flared so brightly that it lit up the heart of the keep, and men cried out all over the fortress.

Shayna Summerstar threw back her head, the cords in her throat standing out like flesh-cloaked spines. She screamed in raw, rising agony. Her eyes rolled up in her head, her hands became claws that raked vainly at the air, and she shuddered so hard that the flesh along her ribs rippled in visible waves.

Then Shayna's head fell forward, and her body went limp. She whimpered, drew in a slow, tremulous breath, and seemed to see the blade in her hand for the first time.

She hurled it down in disgust, looked around wildly, a wordless quaver of fear rising in her throat. Her eyes fell upon Storm, and she cried, "Lady Storm! Lady Storm! Lady Storm!" over and over again and went to her knees, arms outstretched.

Storm rolled up to a sitting position and embraced the terrified girl-who clung to her and burst into wild, racking sobs. Her coronet fell off and rolled. Storm stopped it with one outstretched foot, and stroked Shayna's hair as the young heiress wept in grief, remorse, and shame.

"There, there, little one," Storm said softly, hugging the shuddering, heaving body. "You impressed us all." Well, that was certainly true.

She went on murmuring reassurances as her eyes went slowly from the coronet to the discarded knife and back again. The white light at her back pulsed, faded, and then brightened. Storm tried not think of what it might herald.

Like an ungainly spider, the shapeshifter writhed on his back. His many tentacles did an endless dance around him. As he screamed and gibbered, the tendrils whipped wildly against nearby stones, coiling and shooting out to lash pillars and crumbling walls.

Their owner shrieked and babbled wordlessly as the powers he'd subsumed were torn away. His linkage with Shayna Summerstar was gone in an instant, and spell after spell followed. His darkening mind became a pitching place of spilling images. He clung grimly to two things: awareness of who he had been-and would become again-and the power to subsume. All he was losing could be replaced some day, if he survived still able to drink the knowledge, memories, and powers of those he slew….

Those Bane slew. Yes, Bane! The Black Hand would rise again to smash all who stood against him! "Bane!" he roared in a voice flung back at him by that the riven innards of the Haunted Tower. "Fear Bane once more!" The gigantic spectral eyeball floating above the scepter turned slowly to look at the howling shapeshifter. The white radiance around it flared to blindingly once more.

The man who had once, perhaps, been a part of Bane roared in fresh pain. Tentacles blazed up into nothingness or were sheared away by ravening fires that hurled him back, back. He tumbled end over end down a dark hall, trailing a helpless scream, until he came to the inevitable closed door.

There was a heavy, splintering crash, and the center of the door was suddenly gone. Shattered panels swung crazily and then fell. Stones clattered down to keep them company. Something tentacled rolled over once in the darkness, shuddered, and lay still.

The huge orb turned slowly to face him once more, trailing motes of magical radiance. Broglan Sarmyn trembled, but somehow could not move from the pose he had been swept into: kneeling as if in homage to a king, holding the dragoneye scepter upright as if it were a holy thing.

SUCH IS MY POWER.

Broglan swallowed. Was he supposed to speak?

IS IT NOT PARAMOUNT, MAN?

Forgive me, Mystra, Broglan prayed, but to serve you, a man must betimes save his own skin. "Y-Yes," he mumbled.

WITHOUT TREACHERY, I COULD NEVER HAVE BEEN MASTERED. The black eye drifted a little nearer. HAVE YOU GUESSED YET WHO I AM?

Helplessly Broglan shook his head. "No, Most Mighty One."

The eye drifted nearer still, ominously silent.

Broglan quivered, unable to move but desperately wanting to scream and leap and flee, as fast and as far as he could.

MOST MIGHTY ONE, the thunderous mind-voice said slowly, as it was considering the sound of those three words. MOST MIGHTY ONE! YES …

MOST MIGHTY ONE, INDEED! A FITTING TITLE, MAGE! YOU HAVE OUR FAVOR!

Broglan set his teeth. He was leader of the Sevensash wizards of war, and his duties in a situation such as this were clear: find out all that can be learned about any unknown magically powerful force or being. "Who are you?" he asked again.

HER SHAME MUST HAVE DRIVEN HER TO KEEP MY ENTRAPMENT A SECRET. . THAT MUST BE WHY YOU KNOW ME NOT. MAN, I AM DENDEIRMERDAMMARAR!"

"Den-Dendeirmerdammarar?" Broglan asked, wondering if he dared smile.

AYE. LORD OF THE THUNDER PEAKS. MOST MIGHTY OF THE OFFSPRING OF ARNFALAMME REDWING.

Something glimmered at the back of Broglan's mind. The wisp of a memory, of reading that latter name long ago in a lore tome in the court in Suzail, on a hot and sunny afternoon….

"You're a red dragon?" he asked.

OF COURSE, DOLT! NEXT YOU'LL BE ASKING ME WHO BOUND ME INTO THIS SCEPTER!

"Well," Broglan heard himself saying, inner dread growing with every foolish word, "ahem … yes."

THE ACCURSED ONE! THE SHE-MAGE! THE WOMAN YOU SERVE!

The mind-shout almost bowled him over-but the power of the radiant field held him where he was. His trembling died away, and the brilliance forced him back to the exact pose he'd been in before. 'Twas time to try again. "Mystra?"

NAY, FOOL! The mind-voice was scornful. SEEK NOT TO SHIELD HER WITH CLEVER TONGUE-TRICKS! AMEDAHAST, THE ROYAL MAGE OF CORMYR!

Amedahast! Gods above! The dragon had been in the scepter for a long time. Seven hundred years, if Broglan's memory of the royal mages held true. This was probably not a good time to tell the freed sentience that the woman he wanted vengeance on had been dust-or, some among the war wizards whispered, a kindly guardian and sometimes guiding spirit, as well as dust-for five centuries or so.

Beings with power enough to be called Most Mighty One are all too apt to lash out at whoever is handy when something displeases them.

The eyes drifted ominously nearer. YOU ARE LONG SILENT, O MOST BOLD AND CURIOUS OF MAGES! DO YOU, PERHAPS, PLOT SOME FRESH TREACHERY?

"Most Mighty One," Broglan answered truthfully, "I lack the wits to successfully plan any treachery, great or small, even if I had the desire to. It is all I can do to serve my realm and my superiors, most times-and as it is, I have failed my friends over and over again these last few days…."

The pupil of the huge floating eye seemed to expand. A MAN WHO IS HUMBLE? AND TRIES TO SPEAK TRUTH? HAVE MEN TRULY COME SO FAR IN THE LONG TIME OF MY IMPRISONMENT?

Silence followed, and the dragon obviously expected him to fill it. "I–I don't know what to say," Broglan replied helplessly.

There was a rumble of what sounded like astonished respect, and then the mind-voice said, THEY HAVE. I BEGIN TO FEAR FOR THE FATE OF MY KIN.

Trapped in immobility, holding the scepter and thinking of the tentacled thought-stealer that must be lurking somewhere beyond tins great floating eye, Broglan began heartily to fear for the fate of his kin, too.

Ergluth Rowanmantle leaned wearily against a pillar and said hoarsely, "It shames me to say this, but I find my eyes closing, again and again. I've been too long without sleep."

Erlandar Summerstar shrugged. "Do not reproach yourself. We've all treated you like the ever-vigilant mountains above the vale-always there, never changing. 'Tis time, perhaps, we took charge of ourselves instead of leaving the vigilance to others."

"I would not see it as cowardice in any man to withdraw back to the kitchens now," Thalance said. One of his eyes was almost closed from the swelling of a great jagged gash on his brow-a gash that split his hair asunder, and spoke to all of how close the stone that made it had come to killing him. "We were all… overbold. Shapeshifters can be better hunted by daylight."

"Prudence would walk with you if you went back," the boldshield told him, "not reproach. Yet I will stay. The Lady Storm should not be alone here."

"She has the wizards to look after her," one of the armsmen said in the darkness.

"The wizards," another said in tones of disgust. "The Happy Dancing Mages-what use have they been so far? And just when will we see the tiniest flame of courage in any of their eyes?"

"Warrior, I saw who stood closest back there when that light burst forth, and the great eye appeared," Ergluth snapped. "It was the worried-looking one you lot have laughed so much about-the leader of the war wizards. We fled back to greater safety, and even the shapeshifter ran, screaming; Broglan stood like a statue I saw him. Sneer no more at wizards in my hearing."

"So because this willful half-goddess has to prove herself as much a man as any of us," a Purple Dragon veteran growled, "we must stay here, and get slaughtered."

"Aye," another agreed from beside him. "What odds that if she falls, Mystra reclaims her, and sets her back alive again to wiggle her hips at poor fools in some other realm? Mystra won't come down to succor the likes of us!"

The faintly glowing head of a phantom-the shade of a smiling court lady-rose out of the stones at the armsman's feet just then, and he jumped back with an oath. She went on smiling as she rose up, up into the ceiling above, and was gone.

"Still so sure you know every last detail of the doings of gods?" Ergluth Rowanmantle growled. "I say again: we are no men if we leave a lady in distress, nor Cormyreans if we let Harpers do our duty for us. I will stay, in case the Lady Storm needs me."

"Then I'll stay with you, to keep you awake," Erlandar Summerstar muttered.

"I'll stay, too," Thalance added quickly. "I'd rather die trying to rid our vale of this evil one than be struck down afraid, and hiding, and alone."

"Tarry it is, then," a young Purple Dragon said briskly. "Leave to snore, sir?"

There were snorts of amusement at this sally, and a few chuckles when their boldshield replied, "Only to windward, warrior."

The mirth stopped quickly when Thalance Summerstar asked the commander, "That eye-what do you think it is?"

Ergluth raised and lowered his shoulders in a slow, heavy shrug. "In truth, I know not. Some being of great wisdom and power … and yet not a godling or divine sending, I think. I've no proof, mind-just a feeling."

"And I think we're all going to die here," one of the older armsmen said sourly. "I can't prove that yet, mind … it's just a feeling."

Something moved in the lonely darkness. Slowly and stiffly, it rolled over. A single hoarse gasp of pain sounded in the chamber beyond the shattered door. A tentacle rose and flexed with a weary air, and then another uncurled slowly and tentatively. A face that had flowed like syrup rose up in dripping tatters, red eyes gleaming in the gloom. A jaw of wet fangs rose at the end of a fleshy tendril and retreated back into the face; a talon as long as a rack of swords wavered, shrank, and became a humanlike hand.

It was joined by another, and together the two hands traced a gesture in the air. And then another.

"Yes," a voice above them said in sudden, fierce determination. "So, let me. ." The voice sank into mutterings and a short, rising chant.

Sudden radiance spilled out of one of those two hands, and the other suddenly held a scepter-a scepter topped by an eye. The swirling radiance formed an image of the astonished Broglan staring at his suddenly empty hand.

The motes that formed it flickered, faded, and died.

The scepter remained. Above it two eyes burst into sudden flame and bent forward greedily. Twin jets of flame lashed out, entwining the scepter. Around the immobile, intent head and hands, other tentacles grew claws that grabbed excitedly at empty air, or talons that slashed at stone. A mouth, swaying on its own stalk in the distant darkness, snarled to itself. A mind-voice rose to a thunderous, silent shout: GIVE ME.

YOU WILL GIVE ME … I WILL PREVAIL. I WILL PREVAIL. I-AHHHH …

The scepter blazed red-hot. Flames streamed around it, circling from one eye to the other. Then came a sharp crack, a flash of blue-white magic. The scepter broke into shards, which flew away into the darkness and crumbled to dust.

The shapeshifter stiffened and then rose into a larger bulk. His two eyes were now black orbs surrounded by white flames.

"Yes. Yes. Oh, yes. Now I have the power!"

White fire leapt out. The shattered door disappeared-along with most of the wall around it. Stones collapsed in a quickening roar, and out of the heart of their dust, cold laughter arose.

"Storm?" a voice called lightly. "Storm Silverhand? Your foe is back!"