The Citadel

Chapter 1

From the deck of the Harpy, General Marcus Cadrio, his thinning gray and brown hair plastered to his head and shoulders by the choppy sea, watched as the Northern Ergothian port city of Gwynned appeared tantalizingly at the edge of the horizon. The slim, clean-shaven commander lowered the magical device and stared again. Now he was unable to see even a trace of Gwynned, much less the rest of Northern Ergoth. The weather had turned foul with more vehemence than either he or his staff had anticipated. It was yet another strike against his forces in an already desperate war. He needed a victory soon if he hoped to stake his claim among the survivors of the Dark Queen’s commanders.

“Orders, sir?” a subordinate dared to ask.

Cadrio turned toward the fool, briefly eyeing the stylized dragon design on his ebony breastplate. All his officers wore the same design, a fierce five-headed monster that represented a cause now lost. The thought further chilled the already cold tone in his voice. “And what orders would you like, Timinion? Have you some suggestions, perhaps?”

The aide looked away, unable to meet those deathly gray eyes. “N-None, General!”

His officers thought he would call the attack off. He dared not. His rivals were quickly solidifying their forces, preparing to create their own strongholds of power, and so far Cadrio had nothing but defeat to show for his efforts. He had been the chief officer of the Black Dragon Highlord, the most senior officer to survive the debacle when Emperor Ariakas had tried to open the way for their goddess, the great and terrible Takhisis, into the world of Krynn. Had his commander died earlier in the war, Cadrio felt certain that Ariakas would have chosen him to succeed as new Highlord of the Black Dragon Army. Cadrio had been born to lead. He had risen swiftly through the ranks. His destiny had seemed assured.…

And then everything had quickly come to ruin.

The War of the Lance, as the victors had recently dubbed it, had been suddenly and decisively won by the forces serving the cursed Platinum Dragon, the god of the Solamnic Knights, Paladine. Cadrio’s hand curled into a gloved fist. His dreams, his hopes, his glories, had all vanished with Takhisis and the late emperor. All that remained were scraps.

But from those scraps, the general yet hoped to build his own empire. There were indeed orders he should give, but the lanky general did not do so. Instead, he pondered what had brought him to this desperate plan, commander of an army without a home, seeking to seize a foothold on a rich prize where no one would expect such a bold attack. Perhaps he should have accepted the offer of the Blue Lady.… But, no, she knew he stood as one of her rivals in controlling the surviving elements of the dragonarmies. She had only invited him to join her in order to obtain his resources, his soldiers. Then he would have eventually died or disappeared, leaving her in complete command.

Ignoring the harsh spray of the Sirrion Sea, Cadrio looked up. Among the dark clouds, he could make out two massive shapes moving somewhat sluggishly through the sky. Since the Dark Queen’s defeat, the fortresses seemed to move with less speed now, as if some of their power had been drained. The clerics insisted that such was not the case, but the wizards questioned the stability of Cadrio’s prizes.

“They will suffice, though,” he muttered. “They must.” The two fortresses had initially served him well after his Highlord’s death. He had used them to surprise his nearest rival, to slay him and seize mastery of the opposing army. Then the pair had enabled him to sack the coastal town near Lemish, gaining him the Harpy and two other vessels for his fleet. Now his army was packed into a small convoy of ships, awaiting the opening the flying behemoths would give him when they came down upon Gwynned and her sea defenses. Then he could land his troops, seize the Ergothian stronghold, and lay claim to the beginning of his own empire.

General Cadrio knew a hint of madness lurked within him, but the brooding veteran saw his madness as yet another weapon at his disposal. He would do what others could not, not the Blue Lady or even Lord Ariakas. He, Cadrio, would conquer all.…

The general thrust out his empty hand. “My helmet, Zander.”

A young but immaculate officer with features like a cat stepped forward with Cadrio’s visored helm. Zander never questioned Cadrio but obeyed his orders to the letter. For that reason alone, he served as the commander’s chief aide.

Helmet on, Cadrio took up the wizard’s device and once more peered at Gwynned. He could make it out more clearly now, and what he noticed made him smile. Only a scant few ships moved about on the sea; the rest had returned to port to wait out the storm. He would be able to sail right in once the city had been softened up a little.

Lowering the device again, he shouted, “Signal the others!”

Two soldiers brought out covered oil lamps from the safety of an overhang and quickly waved the lit lamps in the direction of the nearest vessels. Moments later, identical lights appeared from the sister ships.

Those vessels would signal the rest, Cadrio knew. He looked up and noticed the two hulking fortresses slipping forward into the clouds. Behind them darted a pair of sleek reptilian forms, also part of his force. His allies in the sky had seen the signal and knew their parts. The attack had begun. Soon Gwynned would be his.

“Now let us see what madness can do,” he whispered, picturing his twin titans even now descending on the unaware city.

* * * * *

“It seems to be getting darker outside,” Leot noted, looking up from his desk. Ink spattered his full beard and the white robe of his order, the effects of the balding wizard’s enthusiasm for his work. Leot looked twice his actual age, which had not yet reached three decades, but he appeared as if he had enjoyed that aging.

“It always gets darker around here when the weather turns,” Tyros answered with barely concealed annoyance. He hated the changeable weather of this godforsaken port city where he and Leot had spent the past three months. “In fact, it has already begun to rain.”

They were a contrast, these two friends. His vanity second only to his ambition, Tyros kept his person immaculate. His light brown hair and his classically styled, mustacheless beard were neatly trimmed. Unlike his companion, no spots marred his crisp red robe. He maintained his quarters with equal precision. His papers and personal items each had its own place.

Leot’s personal chamber and his workplace reflected his own appearance, but to the opposite extreme. The ink spots were only the latest additions to the heavy-set wizard’s garments, various food stains and chemicals having established homesteads before them. If not for an occasional spell designed to clean his robe, some might have never taken it for white.

Tyros’s gaze briefly flitted about the chamber where they worked. It was a circular room, with shelf upon shelf piled high with scrolls, artifacts, and flasks. A skull belonging to some variation of lizard-man no one had been able to identify lay atop one shelf. A round table filled much of the interior. Two writing desks, both facing windows, stood on opposite ends of the room. Tyros preferred the desk that gave him the evening sun, a precious commodity in a port city prone to sudden weather shifts. Oil lamps placed strategically about the chamber kept it lit at night, while six stained-glass windows, a sign of its previous owner’s wealth, illuminated the room during the day … except when the day grew very overcast. Originally built for a now deceased officer related to one of the seaport’s prominent families, the tower had been turned over to the wizards midway through the war.

“Fascinating weather. One minute this, the next that,” Leot finally answered in response to Tyros’s remark. The rotund wizard always found a bright side to things. His round, almost cherubic features, so different from Tyros’s narrow, more angular countenance, broke into a smile. He muttered a spell and the oil lamps burst into life.

Tyros blinked the spots from his eyes. “Warn me next time you do that.”

“Sorry.”

Tyros knew that Leot would forget. Leot forgot everything except his meals and his work. Tyros admired his focus but wished that same focus included Leot’s personal life as well.

He returned to his own task. Deep brown eyes surveyed a scroll written by one Neomidas of Estwilde. Neomidas claimed to have come up with a spell to change gold to steel, an interesting if not particularly useful incantation. Tyros tried to follow the older mage’s scratchy writing but failed halfway through. Finally he glanced at the date on which the scroll had been entered into the tower records. Neomidas had lived some two hundred years ago, meaning that if his spell had worked, someone likely would have noticed.

“Futility!” the Red Robe muttered. With barely checked anger, he rerolled the scroll, sealed it, and placed the parchment on the pile of rejected ones.

Since soon after the beginning of the war, Tyros, considered a most promising combat wizard, had taken to using every spare moment to pursue his pet project. Ever since he had first witnessed the use of what some considered the dragonarmies’ most potent weapons, the astonishing flying fortresses, he had worked to fathom out their secrets, hoping to redesign one for his own side. Twice he had been fortunate enough to inspect the ruins of downed fortresses, sifting through the rubble and classifying every interesting fragment for later study. Along the way, he had helped formulate several new spells and even developed a strategy to fight the enemy’s creations, winning much deserved acclaim among his peers, but as of yet Tyros hadn’t unlocked the basis on which they actually functioned. Without that knowledge, he could never repeat the experiment successfully. The realization constantly galled him.

Tyros had requested and, due to his growing reputation, received scrolls and papers from hidden libraries all over Ansalon. The knowledge and spellwork of dozens upon dozens of wizards since the Cataclysm lay available to him, but so far most had fallen into the same category as Neomidas’s ridiculous spell. It amazed him how much of the stored history of wizardry consisted of crackpot spells and notions that the authors must have thought they would later come back and revamp into something useful but never did.

“Nothing good?” Leot amicably asked.

“A brilliant deduction.” Tyros leaned back. “In the past few weeks, I’ve seen a mere handful of suggestions that come close to what I seek. A few, such as those of Borlius of Palanthas or Valkyn of Culthairai, actually broach the subject, but their research always lead to ends as dead as they themselves.”

“Borlius was a follower of Solinari. I remember his name from my teachings. He died just before I joined the order,” Leot mused.

“And Valkyn was a member of my order, now probably as dead as Borlius. Culthairai was overrun early in the war.” Tyros shrugged. “It hardly matters! From what I have read of their work, neither could have taught me much I didn’t know already!”

Leot kept his smile hidden as he listened to his friend’s boastful tones. He knew the other’s reputed arrogance. Most of the other wizards, not to mention the citizenry, avoided Tyros. Beneath the arrogance, though, Leot recognized a good and sometimes sympathetic man who, unfortunately, did not always understand how he made himself appear to others. The heavyset spellcaster remained one of Tyros’s few friends, although Leot himself had many.

If Tyros failed to recognize his faults, he did, however, realize his good looks. More than a few ladies of the Ergothian nobility had dared scandals to approach the foreign wizard sent here under treaty agreement. Northern Ergoth had sought to could keep the dangers of magic to a minimum by housing its wielders in this tower, never suspecting that they would also have to worry about their own women seeking out the wizards.

Well, one wizard, anyway. Leot knew how he looked to the refined ladies.

“What will you do now?” he asked finally.

A bitter smile crept over Tyros’s handsome features. “What is there left to do? They made it clear that these scrolls were the last ones I’d receive. The war’s all but over, Leot! The Dark Queen herself has been ousted, and most of her commanders are dead or in rout! Imagine! We fight this war, but the credit goes to a ragtag group that includes a half-elf, a couple of barbarians, and a kender, of all things! Who are these creatures? I don’t even know their names, but in the eyes of the populace, they’ve apparently saved the world and made my work superfluous!”

“I heard one of them was a wizard,” the White Robe commented hopefully. “Our kind will get some credit, at least!”

“Hmmph! Probably turn out to be some wrinkled old illusionist who stayed completely clear of the mess! No wizard’s been given due credit since Magius in the last dragon war, and even he’s always overshadowed by that knight!”

“Maybe there’ll be another war,” Leot said, trying to cheer his friend up. What fighting still remained had dwindled considerably, although word of a female Dragon Highlord somewhere to the east gathering together what remained of Takhisis’s forces had reached them recently. Still, such rumors tended to be nothing but air once they were investigated. Unfortunately for the ambitions of Tyros, it looked as if peace had broken out all over Ansalon.

Ablaze of lightning followed by a crash of thunder startled both mages. Tyros gritted his teeth. “Blasted weather!”

“It helped protect Gwynned from invasion a couple of times.”

“Who would ever be crazy enough to attack in such foul conditions anyway?” the crimson mage grumbled.

Thunder boomed again, this time so close that the tower shook.

Horns sounded, but while Gwynned had such signals that alerted its populace to terrible storms, these sounded different. Tyros stiffened, recognizing the call.

“War horns! They’re alerting the defenses!”

Leot dropped his quill. “We’re under attack?”

Throwing back their chairs, the two wizards rushed to opposite windows. Tyros flung his open and, after cursing the driving rain, peered out. Through the dark storm, at first he noted nothing but the normal appearance of the city, a bustling seaport with numerous docks and, beyond them, the crested buildings typical of the region. Four watchtowers guarded the perimeter of the main portion of Gwynned, and of these Tyros could see two. Yet despite the warning blares and torchlights, he could make out no invasion force. The sea, rough and turbulent, remained empty save for a few hardy ships returning to the docks, but they all bore the flag of Northern Ergoth.

“I don’t see anything!” he called to his companion.

“Nor anything on this end!” Leot shouted from behind him. “Could it be a false alarm?”

“I don’t know.…” Tyros stared up at the heavens, where the clouds had become so thick and dark that water seemed to come down in clumps the size of men.

He suddenly leaned out the window, unmindful of the drenching he received. Those were figures drifting down in the storm, figures with wings!

Only one creature came to mind. “Draconians! Dropping through the clouds!”

“What?” Leot appeared at his side. Both humans watched in horror as winged figure after winged figure glided toward the rooftops of Gwynned. They alighted onto some of the taller buildings, immediately trying to secure their hold.

Where did they come from? Fortunately, most draconians could not truly fly, and even if some of these invaders did have the ability, they certainly couldn’t carry so many of their lesser brethren with them. Had dragons carried them here? It was a possibility, but for so many draconians, the attackers would have needed a hundred of the leviathans.

Tyros couldn’t fathom that being the case, and so that left only one option. He studied the clouds, looking for a telltale shape.

At last he saw it, drifting in and out of the dark clouds, tiny aerial figures diving from its base. An astonishing sight to see, even for one who had seen it before.

A castle in the sky. This one stood tall and narrow, yet even from a distance, Tyros could see that one of its towers had collapsed and another leaned threateningly. Still, despite the damage it had suffered in some past battle, it no doubt filled the hearts of many below with fear.

A flying citadel. The secret of creating such floating castles had been known to mages and clerics of both darkness and light for centuries, only to be lost and then rediscovered from time to time. In this case, the entire castle had been ripped from the surrounding ground, an island of earth coming up with it. The island likely contained the dungeons and underground passages that had been built along with the original structure. One ruined citadel that Tyros had investigated had even included the family tombs, resulting in a ghoulish array of skeletal corpses at the scene of the flying castle’s crash.

Up in the citadel, Tyros knew, a wizard or a cleric, perhaps both, guided the behemoth. Officers of the dragonarmies would be commanding archers to rain death down upon the city. More draconians would be leaping to the ground below. Of course, to the fortress’s human commanders, the draconians were merely fodder, to be used to open the way for their masters.

The flying citadel rocked in the increasingly harsh winds, its operator no doubt having to struggle. Tyros peered at what seemed to be the tallest remaining tower. Inside would be what someone had termed the Wind Captain’s Chair, the place where a chosen one would actually pilot the edifice. Tyros strained futilely in an attempt to hear the chanting of the wizards and clerics aboard, an essential part of keeping the citadel afloat. Deep inside, some sort of arcane device would be aiding their task, but the ruined citadels he had studied had not left enough for him to understand just how that device might work.

To be up there now … Even with Gwynned under siege, the ambitious spellcaster dreamed of investigating the leviathan. Yet to reach it, he would have needed a castle of his own. A castle or …

“Where are they?” he muttered.

“Where are who?” Leot asked. Realization dawned. “Oh! You mean-”

Tyros thrust his hand out into the downpour, pointing to the dark skies. “Sunfire!”

Like a fiery comet soaring through the storm, a great golden dragon raced toward the flying citadel. Sunfire made his home in a cave in the mountains to the east, and since the war, he had made a pact with Gwynned and the surrounding areas to protect the entire region. In return, the people of Northern Ergoth respected his privacy and, on occasion, presented him with food.

“I wouldn’t like to be riding him today!” remarked Leot.

Tyros would have traded anything to be astride the golden dragon’s back, but that honor this day went to three men more versed in such feats. In combat, the great golden dragon often carried one human rider, generally a knight with a lance. However, against a citadel such as this, three men generally rode, men prepared for what amounted to a suicide mission in many ways. With Sunfire’s aid, they would try to board the castle, choosing as their target the highest tower. Tyros himself had determined from past experience that the highest tower inevitably contained the chamber housing the Wind Captain’s Chair. The chosen warriors, veterans all, would do their best to seize control of that chamber. At the very least, they would try to destroy it … even at the cost of their own lives.

Such had been the plan that Tyros himself had designed and suggested more than a year earlier. It had worked once, although those men had perished in bringing their target down. That in itself had tarnished the Red Robe’s vaunted reputation somewhat, but no one could deny that his plan had succeeded. Still, it had irked Tyros that some blamed him more for the three lives lost than the many saved.

Sunfire alone, though, fulfilled only half of Tyros’s plan. He scanned the heavens, looking for the other half … and spotted what he sought. Glisten, Sunfire’s sparkling mate, dived down past the other dragon, two men no doubt on her back. She looked as if she sought to roost on the underside of the citadel, which the female would do if that proved possible, but her true mission also concerned those aboard her. Sunfire’s humans had a tactical mission in mind; Glisten’s were there to see that they would have the chance to succeed.

Glisten carried mages, veteran war wizards. No youngster such as Tyros, even though he had devised many of the very routines that they would utilize. The dragon himself had vetoed the presence of Tyros, insisting that he would only trust human wizards with robes of white.

“No human who wears robes of blood will battle at my side!” the gold had rumbled, heedless of the insult he had thrown at Tyros. “White follows the light and black the darkness, but red wavers too much in the middle, a friend who might suddenly become a foe!”

The words remained burned in Tyros’s memory even now. He knew that members of his order, if they chose a different path, had a tendency to lapse toward the black robes more than the white. Such defections had occurred just before the start of the war and had left a stain on the Order of Lunitari, god of neutral magic. That the dragon would respect the followers of Solinari, god of white magic, Tyros had understood, but Sunfire almost gave the black robes of Nuitari more respect than the red robes, even though the former were the enemy.

“I should be up there,” he muttered. He could have proven to Sunfire that some followers of Lunitari could be trusted.

Leot pulled him back into the tower. “Forget such a foolish notion, Tyros! If you want to play a part in this battle, we can do so from down here, and it’s time we begin, at that!”

Tyros blinked, staring at the rotund White Robe. He had never seen Leot so possessed. Suddenly the bearded, balding figure no longer looked so clownish. Tyros recalled that some of Leot’s own order rode atop Glisten and understood his friend’s determination.

Still, thoughts of the flying citadel again pulled Tyros to the window, despite his companion’s protests. He looked up but could see neither the dragons nor the castle.

“Tyros!”

“Go on without me!” he finally snapped at Leot. “I’ll be there soon. I promise!”

The other spellcaster eyed his friend briefly. Then, with a frustrated expression, Leot turned and left the chamber.

Tyros at last located the flying citadel. Sunfire flew above it, trying to come near enough to land his precious crew. Glisten circled about the fortress, flashes of light occasionally bursting around her as she and her companions kept the mages and archers in the castle occupied.

A dark form moved from the clouds. Tyros’s first thought was that an enemy dragon had joined the fray. Then he saw that the invaders had not one but two flying citadels, which helped explain the large number of draconians dropping out of the sky. The invaders had thrown all they could at Gwynned.

Neither dragon had noticed the second citadel, but instead of aiding its counterpart, the newcomer shifted away from the battle. Tyros studied the second fortress and saw why. It looked more battle-worn than the first and wobbled in the high winds. A few winged figures dived from its battlements, but otherwise it seemed almost empty. Against the dragons, it wouldn’t have had a chance.

Tyros had just begun to turn his attention back to the first citadel when he noted yet another form lurking in the clouds. A third citadel? He doubted that the invaders could have so many at their command.

A sleek, ebony shape emerged from the clouds above Glisten.

A black dragon. A male, and young, too. Although it was only two-thirds the size of Sunfire, the black had the advantage of surprise over the massive gold’s mate. Tyros pictured savage claws rending the wings of the female. Despite the ludicrousness of his actions, the mage could not help leaning out to shout a warning. “Above! Look out from above!”

Glisten, of course, couldn’t hear him. Tyros gripped the frame of the window as he watched the inevitable.

However, Sunfire, who had been hovering over the high tower, suddenly turned from his task, barely managing to come between the treacherous dragon and Glisten. Startled, the black reluctantly grappled with his larger foe, the advantages of both size and surprise now on the side of the defenders. Sunfire snapped at his adversary, barely missing the black dragon’s throat. The two males spun in a loop, their great maws snapping, claws raking.

Then, to Tyros’s horror, another black dragon, identical to the first, appeared. The second beast fell upon Sunfire’s back, sinking talons into the golden male. Sunfire roared in agony, suddenly caught between the black pair.

Glisten immediately came to his rescue, and she wasn’t alone. A flash of light, no doubt cast by one of her wizards, burst before the eyes of the dragon grappling with Sunfire, a flash that so startled the black that he lost his grip on the gold. Glisten used that shock to her advantage, barreling into the second attacker with such ferocity that he went tumbling through the air, unable to control his flight.

Realizing that he now faced two golden dragons better versed in aerial combat than he was, the remaining black tried to flee, Sunfire, though, would have none of that. With his talons, he caught the younger leviathan by the tail and pulled. The black let out a howl that reminded Tyros more of a whipped dog than a deadly dragon.

An explosion momentarily lit up the sky. The top of the first citadel had vanished in a flash of white light. Sunfire’s riders had managed to drop onto the tower after all. The explosion, no doubt some alchemical liquid or a special spell by one of his fellow wizards, meant that the men had sacrificed themselves, but in doing so they had mortally wounded the flying castle. Devoid of its steering mechanism, it began to spin around crazily, heading in almost madcap fashion toward the sea. Judging by the arc of its flight, it would eventually drop some miles offshore.

Paying no heed to the devastated citadel, Sunfire and Glisten took hold of their hapless foe and, while the black roared in vain, threw the creature end over end toward the second castle.

In that moment of triumph, Tyros heard a thump on the roof. The wizard stiffened at first, then looked up at the ceiling, his hand already forming a fist and his mouth whispering words of power.

Winged forms burst through three of the stained-glass windows. Draconians.

Tyros could read both the determination and desperation in their eyes; they had to know that they would likely die this night, the citadel offering no escape, but they would perform their duties regardless.

That present duty concerned slaying the mage before them.

Two were baaz, draconians known for their sadistic manner, but without any skill at magic. Unfortunately the third appeared to be a bozak, crafty and with a talent for spells of fire and air. All had the same general look of dragons turned halfway into men, but the baaz appeared more brutal, with scales like tarnished, dull brass. The bozak, on the other hand, stood taller and slimmer, more proud, and his eyes blazed with more intelligence than those of his companions. His scales had a more tanned looked to them, like old and faded bronze.

Tyros and the bozak cast spells at the same time. A hand of fire meant to seize Tyros went effortlessly through the wizard, unfortunately setting scrolls on the table afire and singeing the furniture. Where the bozak failed, though, the mage in part succeeded. The smoking table flew at the two baaz, crushing them against the wall.

Tyros grimaced; the spell had been aimed at the bozak, but the creature had anticipated the results and sacrificed his lesser brethren instead. Still, Tyros felt certain that he could handle one bozak if …

Through the remaining windows, including the one nearest where the wizard stood, more draconians burst in, two of them colliding with the human from behind. Tyros gasped as the force of the collision pushed the air from his lungs. He and one of the invaders tumbled to the floor. Draconian claws seized him by the wrists and head, dragging him upward again.

“Alive!” a reptilian voice shouted. “Alive!”

The chamber filled with a brilliant light, one that sent the draconians hissing. Those holding onto the Red Robe released him in order to shield their eyes, nearly causing Tyros to crack his skull on the floor. He tried to rise, but his breath had not yet returned to him.

“Tyros! To me!”

“Le-Leot?” Straining, the battered spellcaster looked up to see his rotund friend standing at the door, arms outstretched. Light literally flowed from Leot’s hand, a brilliance that seemed to disturb the draconians far more than Tyros.

“Hurry!”

A roar shook the tower just as Tyros managed to rise. Part of the ceiling collapsed. As startled as the draconians seemed by the incident, they did not suffer as much as Leot, who stood just below one of the falling fragments. Wood and plaster struck the White Robe, and with a groan, he dropped to his knees. The light that had so offended the dragon men instantly vanished.

“Leot!” The friend who had saved him now lay injured at the feet of the draconians. Cursing, Tyros struggled to regain his concentration. He couldn’t let them take Leot.

Two baaz seized the White Robe, pulling him to his feet. Tyros saw with horror that blood caked Leot’s head, and his eyes stared without seeing. The heavy set mage still breathed, but how long that would continue remained debatable.

The two draconians hissed, shock in their reptilian eyes as they released their hold on the stunned mage. In their minds, Leot’s arms had become hissing pythons. Tyros immediately cast a second spell in order to keep Leot from crashing to the floor, then took another breath as he readied himself for the bozak’s next attack.

Another roar shook the tower. More of the ceiling caved in. One draconian fell, crushed by a beam. Tyros started to rise, then saw the bozak readying his spell.

The room began to break apart.

Animosities were forgotten as everyone sought to escape. One baaz tried for the nearest window, but it crumbled as he leapt through, killing the creature in the process. A second draconian was crushed by a beam.

Tyros started for Leot, only to have strong, clawed hands seize him from behind. He turned, thinking the bozak had attempted some last attack … and instead found himself staring into the eyes of a horror the likes of which he couldn’t recall ever confronting before.

The monster before him, which seemed to expand in size as it spread its wings, had some resemblance to a draconian, but only in general shape. Red, pupilless eyes flared and a long, beaklike maw opened, revealing row upon row of jagged teeth. Twin horns jutted from the leathery creature’s head. The claws that had seized Tyros had only four digits, but its talons were sharper and more hooked than those of a draconian. In build, it more resembled the slim form of the bozak than the baaz, but its taut muscles indicated that, matched one to one, either draconian would have faced an uphill struggle with this horrific intruder.

The creature raised a clawed hand, as if seeking to rip Tyros’s face from his head. The frantic spellcaster raised his own hand, magic energy crackling around his fist.

“Fooooolll …” the gray abomination hissed.

Tyros struck as the remainder of the tower collapsed.