by Ed Greenwood
The dracolich chuckled again. "Humans never are, I have found. Ask on; she interests me."
The Shadowsil nodded as she moved forward to confront Shandril. Her dark eyes caught and held those of the young thief; Shandril prayed silently to all the gods who might be listening that she be free of this place and these two horrible beings of power.
Symgharyl Maruel regarded her almost sympathetically for a time and then asked, "Were you a member of the Company of the Bright Spear?"
Shandril lifted her head proudly and said, "I am."
"'Am?" The Shadowsil laughed shortly. Shandril stared at her with mounting fear. She had secretly hoped that Rymel, Burlane, and the others had somehow escaped the great dragon. She covered her face at the memory of the vicious attack, but she knew the truth now. The mage's cold laughter forbade her to deny it any longer. Tears came.
"You were taken by the cult and imprisoned in Oversember. How did you escape?" The Shadowsil pressed.
"I–I…" Shandril's face twisted in fear and grief, and mounting anger. Who was this cruel sorceress, anyway, to drag her here and bind and question her thus?
The dracolich's deep, hissing laughter rolled around Shandril again. "She has a temper, Shadowsil. Beware. Ah, this is good sport!"
"I found the bone and read what was on it," Shandril answered sullenly. "It took me to the place with the gargoyle. I know no more."
Symgharyl Maruel strode toward her angrily. "Ah, but you do, Shandril! Who was that fool who attacked me before we took the gate here?"
Shandril shook her head helplessly.
"My name, witch,"-a new voice echoed over them all in answer-"is Narm!" There was a flash and a crackling in the air, and Shandril saw the mage stagger and almost fall, face contorted in pain and astonishment, as a swarm of small bolts of light struck her body.
Shandril looked behind her as she rose from her knees. High above, at the mouth of the cavern, were six humans. Two in robes stood before the others. One of them, also the one who spoke, she recognized from those last seconds before Symgharyl Maruel had forced her through the gate. He was young and excited. The other, a woman whose hair was as long as The Shadowsil's, stood with hand outstretched. She had been the one who had just hurled magic at the purple-robed sorceress.
Shandril had no time to see more before the cavern rocked with Rauglothgor's roar of challenge. The dracolich reared up to face the newcomers, eyes terrible, bony wings arching. Shandril hurled herself at The Shadowsil, who sprang away and hissed a word of art-and vanished before Shandril could grab her. Rauglothgor spat a word that echoed in the grotto around her, and a fiery streak lashed high over her head and exploded flame in all directions.
Shandril dove flat and looked around wildly. The newcomers were leaping down the sloping cavern floor toward her, apparently unharmed by the fireball. She saw the purple-robed sorceress appear on a high ledge behind them all.
"Look out!" Shandril screamed, pointing above them. A man in plain robes glanced up and back, and there was a winking of red light from a circlet he wore. From it burst a thin red beam that struck The Shadowsil. The sorceress stiffened, hands faltering in their spell-weaving, and then she slumped back against the rock wall, holding her side and screaming curses of anger and pain.
The dracolich roared again, and the long-haired woman lashed out in reply with a bolt of lightning. As it crackled overhead, the lightning outlined a tall man in blue-gray plate armor and the young man as they scurried down the slope toward her. The man in armor held a drawn blade.
The young man called out to her. "Lady! You from The Rising Moon! We come to aid you! We-"
His words were lost in the roar of the dracolich's second fireball, bursting just behind the two running figures. Shandril turned in panic and ran downslope, slipping on coins, hard jade, and shifting bars. Behind her there was a cry of pain, the hissing laughter of the dracolich rolled around her, and the light abruptly faded in the cavern.
Shandril's feet slid again in slithering coins. She caught her balance with a painful wrench and leaped onto rocks. The silent winking of the beljurils grew ahead of her as she neared a wall. Behind her there was another flash and the metallic clinking sound of running feet on the heaped coins.
But the feet did not sound as if they were following her.
Shandril gasped for breath as she climbed rocks with bruising speed. Light sprang into being again, and she dove forward into a cleft between two boulders. The dracolich roared again.
And I haven't even a blade! Shandril thought, rolling to her feet, banging knees and elbows in the process. She peered back across the cavern at the battle.
Symgharyl Maruel stood upon a high rock, hands moving-but she was not spellcasting. Rather, she was slapping at something very small. Insects!
The slim and beautiful newcomer in robes was casting a spell, facing the dracolich across the grotto. Knee-deep in coins at the dracolich's feet stood the man in armor, chopping and slicing at the skeletal form that towered over him. Another warrior was racing down the slope to join him. An elf! This one, too, bore a glowing blade. The blade's radiance was briefly overwhelmed by a roaring blast of flames from the dracolich's bony maw.
Rauglothgor turned his head toward Shandril as he rose up from a gout of flames he'd launched at the warriors. Shandril turned in panic and scrambled up the cavern wall, praying that the dracolich would not overwhelm her.
"Lady!" came that voice again. The young man was still pursuing her, but she dared not stop. She clambered up over rocks and loose rubble. The dracolich, Symgharyl Maruel, and these powerful newcomers all stood between her and escape, she decided, and she doubted if the gods cared enough about Shandril Shessair to save her. Better to flee while they were busy slaying each other!
The flickering glow of another burst of flame reflected off the rocks before her. Shandril heard a man roar in pain as the fire died away. Behind her, much closer than she expected, she could hear the young man chanting rapidly. Was he trying to trap her with a spell, too? She scrambled away.
Suddenly, she slipped and fell hard, knocking the wind from her lungs. The favored of Tymora, as usual, she thought, gasping for air.
Shandril looked up in time to see the young man who'd been pursuing her land softly at her side. She jumped to her feet to run away, raising an arm to fend off attack.
Narm grabbed her hand and pulled her back down. "Lady!" he panted. "Keep down. The sorceress…"
Abruptly, there was a flash and a deep, rolling explosion, and small stones clattered and fell about them.
"She is free of the insects!" the young man gasped, looking around them frantically. "Oh, gods!" he cursed.
Shandril followed his gaze up the purple-robed form of Symgharyl Maruel, who appeared before them with a triumphant smile.
But the smile was knocked from her face as a slim, dark figure leaped at the sorceress, somersaulting in the air. The figure's feet struck The Shadowsil with bruising force in the shoulder and flank. The two figures hurtled clean out of view behind rocks.
"Well met, witch!" a merry voice said from behind the rocks. "I am Torm, and these are my feet!"
Back down below, however, Rauglothgor hissed and roared, and Shandril saw its great bony form twisting and rearing. Next to her, the handsome young man chanted, "By grasshopper leg and will gathered deep. Let my art make this one"-he touched Shandril's knee-"leap!" He thrust something small into her hand. "Lady," he hissed, "break this, turn, and leap up there. The sorceress!"
Shandril, goaded into fearful scrambling, fumbled with the wisp, broke it, and jumped. The art took her high and far in one mighty bound. She landed on a ledge in the heights of the cavern. Behind her she heard The Shadowsil chant high and shrill, and then there was a flash. Shandril landed lightly on tumbled rocks. Whatever art the sorceress had hurled had missed her.
Shandril glanced down-and met Symgharyl Maruel's glittering, angry eyes. She was casting yet another spell, arms moving in fluid motions. Again the acroba
tic figure in dusty gray sprang at her from the side. But The Shadowsil crouched at the last second, turned with a laugh of triumph, and hurled the spell meant for Shandril at the somersaulting Torm. But from his hands flashed two daggers, blades spinning end over end through the air.
Shandril turned and ran on without waiting to see who would die. A dull, rolling boom sounded from far behind her, and stones shook beneath her feet. The floor of the cavern, rising still, was scattered with riches. The faces of long-dead kings carved from cold white ivory stared at her as she pushed past, shuddering at the thought of how large the beasts who yielded those tusks must have been.
Shandril was feeling her way past a curtain of strung amber, the toothed ceiling of the cavern low overhead, when there was yet another mighty blast behind her. Dust swirled as small pieces of rock rained down around her. Shandril heard the hasty, sliding steps of someone running across loose rocks and coins behind her. She hurried on, stumbling for the hundredth time, hands outstretched to break her fall. The steps behind grew closer.
"Damnation!" she cursed aloud. "I can't keep running anymore. When will this nightmare end?"
And the gods heard. There was an ear-splitting crash from the cavern behind her. Shandril was flung violently forward amid a helter-skelter of rocks, coins, gems, gold chains, and choking dust. Over the din, the thief of Deepingdale heard the dracolich Rauglothgor give an anguished, bellowing roar that rose and fell, then died away in hollow echoes.
Then came three short, sharp explosions. Shandril screamed and held her ears. The deep rolling did not die away, but seemed to be coming from all sides. Small rocks struck her like stinging rain. Then loud booms sounded again, and larger slabs and pillars of rock broke free and fell. Refusing to be entombed alive, Shandril crawled desperately on into the darkness. She heard faint, despairing shouts far behind in the dark, but the words dissolved in the never-ending echoes.
When chaos finally died into stillness, Shandril was alone in the drifting dust. Her ragged breathing was deafening in the sudden silence. She lay still, aching from bruises and scrapes, covered by sweat and dust and small stones.
Suddenly, she noticed a pale glow from the rubble below. Shandril stared at it as her eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. The glow came from a sphere of crystal. Its curves were glossy-smooth, and it was a little larger than a man's head. The steady white radiance came from within it, and by its light Shandril could see that it lay among a pile of treasures.
She picked her way to the sphere. When she nudged it cautiously with a toe, the glow did not flicker. She watched it for a time, waiting for any change, peering closely to see if anything might be hidden beneath it. Finally, she reached down and touched it. She ran her hand lightly over the cold smooth surface, then stepped hastily back, eyeing the sphere narrowly. But nothing flickered, nothing changed. Shandril crouched down and gently lifted the sphere. It was light, and yet somehow unbalanced, as though something were moving inside. But she couldn't feel, hear, or see anything inside.
Holding the sphere up like a lamp, Shandril looked around. The jagged ceiling of the cavern hung close overhead, stretching away perhaps twenty paces, to meet the broken and rubble-strewn stone floor. She swung around slowly, gold coins and other treasures winking as the radiance met them. She was at a dead end. The roof of the cavern had fallen in, and she was trapped, far underground!
Panicking, Shandril scrambled forward. There must be a way out! The whole wide cavern can't have been blocked, just like that' "Oh, please, Tymora, whatever has gone before, smile upon me now!"
And then the light she bore fell upon an outflung arm.
The young man who had been chasing her across the cavern earlier lay face-down, silent and unmoving. A pile of stones half-buried his legs. Shandril stared down at him for a moment and then knelt carefully amid the rubble and gently brushed the hair from his face.
His eyes were closed, his mouth slack. She knew him now. He was the man whose eyes she'd met across the taproom of The Rising Moon, the same man who'd defiantly hurled magic at Symgharyl Maruel before the gate in Myth Drannor.
He was handsome, this man. And he had tried more than once to help her. Abruptly, he moved slightly. Before she knew it, she had set the globe down and was carefully lifting and cradling his head.
He stirred and worked his jaw. Pain and concern lined his face, and he spoke suddenly. "More devils! Is there no end? No-" His hands moved, and he caught at her. Shandril found herself dragged down onto the rock beside him.
"Must… must…" he hissed weakly.
Shandril grunted and struggled against his grip, reaching for a weapon she no longer bore. And then, inches from her ear, she heard a surprised "Oh." The pressure on her shoulders eased, and his hands became suddenly gentle. Shandril looked up into his eyes, now open and aware. They met hers in wonder, and in them she saw dawning hope, and confusion, and regret.
"I pray your pardon, lady. I have hurt you." His hands fell away, and he scrambled to rise, rocks rolling all about. He fell back weakly.
Shandril put her hand out to him. "Lie still! Rocks must be moved first. Your feet are covered. Do they hurt?" She clambered past him as she spoke, wondering to herself if it would be safest to leave him helpless, unable to reach her. But no; she could trust this one. She must trust him. The rocks lifted easily. They were many, but small.
"I-can feel nothing. My feet seem… a little bruised, but no worse, I hope." He smiled wanly. "Lady, what is your name?"
"I-Shandril Shessair," she replied. "What do they call you?"
"Narm," he replied, moving one foot experimentally. It felt intact, so he rolled over to help her free his other foot. "How came we here?"
Shandril shrugged. "I ran. The fight went on, and-was that you following me?"
"Yes," he replied, grinning.
After a moment she grinned back. "I see," she said. "Why?"
Narm looked down at his empty hands for a moment and then into her eyes. "I would know you. Lady Shandril," he said slowly. "Since first I saw you at the inn, I have… wanted to know you." Their eyes held for a long silence.
Shandril looked away first, reaching to take up the glowing globe and cradle it in her arms. She looked at him over it, eyes in shadow, long hair veiling her face. Narm opened his mouth to tell her how beautiful she looked, and then closed it. She was looking at him steadily.
"The cavern fell in upon the others," she said abruptly. "We have been buried, walled off."
Narm sat up, heart sinking. "Is there no way out?"
Shandril shrugged. "I was looking for one when I saw you," she said. "Can your art open a way?"
Narm shook his head. "That is beyond me. But I can dig, gods willing," he said with a nod. "Where did you leave off looking?"
Shandril went forward with the globe. "Here," she said. Slowly, carefully, they moved along the stones, shining the globe high and low. But they found no gap. Together they continued on around the walls of their prison. Reaching their starting point, they straightened wearily.
"What now?" Shandril sighed.
"I need to sit down," Narm said. He selected a large, curving boulder and sat, patting the rock beside him. Slowly, Shandril moved to join him. Narm swung a battered sack from his shoulder and pulled it open. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes," Shandril replied. Narm handed her a thick sausage wrapped in oiled cloth, a partially eaten loaf of round, hard bread, and a leather water skin.
"What is it?"
"Only water, I fear."
"Good enough for me," she said, taking a long swig. They ate in silence for a time.
"Who was that sorceress?" Narm asked suddenly.
"She called herself Symgharyl Maruel, or The Shadowsil," Shandril said. She told him of the Company of the Bright Spear, and of finding herself imprisoned in the cavern, of how the bone had brought her to Myth Drannor, and The Shadowsil to this place. She stopped her speech suddenly and eyed Narm. "Your turn."
Narm swallowed a lump of bread qui
ckly and shrugged. "There is little to tell. I am an apprentice of the art, come from Cormyr with my master, Marimmar, to seek out the lost magic of Myth Drannor. When we reached the ruined city, we met several Knights of Myth Drannor, who warned us away from the city, speaking of devils. But my master thought their counsel false, and he tried to enter the city by another route." Narm paused and took a pull from the skin. "Marimmar was slain. I would have died as well, had not another pair of knights rescued me. They took me to Shadowdale, where Lord Mourngrym lent me an escort back to Myth Drannor. I came upon you and was nearly killed. The knights healed me, and I… persuaded them to come through the gate with me to… rescue you."
They looked at each other.
"I thank you, Narm," Shandril said slowly. "I'm sorry I ran from you and led you into this." Their eyes met. Both knew they would probably die here. Shandril felt a sudden, raw regret that she had found a man so friendly and so attractive too late. They had met just in time to die together.
"I'm sorry I drove you here," Narm replied softly. "I am not much of a warrior, I fear."
Wordlessly Shandril passed him the bread and clasped his forearm as the company clasped those of their equals. "Maybe not," she said after a time, desire stirring within her, "and yet I live because of you."
Narm took her hand and raised it slowly to his lips, eyes on hers. She smiled, then, and kissed him on impulse.
It was a long time before they parted and looked at each other. "More sausage?" Narm asked hastily.
And then they both laughed nervously. They ate sausage and bread, huddled together in the gentle light of the globe. "How came you by this globe?" Narm finally asked.
Shandril shrugged. "It was here," she said, "with the other treasure. I know not what it is, but it has served me as a lamp. Without it I wouldn't have found you."
"Yes," Narm said, "and my thanks for that." The look in his eyes made Shandril blush again. "You asked about the dracolich. This is the first time I've ever seen one, but my master told me of them. They are undead creatures, created by their own evil and a foul potion, just as a fell mage becomes a lich. A depraved cult of men worship such creatures. They believe that 'dead dragons shall rule the world entire,' and they work to serve these dead dragons so that they will be favored when this prophecy comes to pass."