by Ed Greenwood
"How does one serve a dragon, save as a meal?"
"By providing the potions and care it needs to achieve unlife," Narm replied. "After that, they provide spells and treasures. Servants also provide a dracolich with information and much flattery when visiting."
He fell silent as they ate. After a time, Shandril asked quietly, "Narm, how great is your art?"
Narm shook his head. "Feeble, lady. Too feeble. My master was a capable mage, though I have never seen him hurl magics as the Lady Jhessail of the knights did, back there." He nodded at the darkness where the rocks had fallen to wall them in. "I know a few spells of use, a few more that are but tricks or little things used to hone the will or the nimbleness of mind and fingers, and the names of a few who may tutor me further. My master is no more, and as a mage, I am almost nothing without him."
"Something more than nothing rescued me," Shandril countered. "You did, and your magic was strong and swift when I needed it. I–I will stand with you and trust in your art."
Narm looked at her for a time and laid his hand on hers. "I thank you," he said. "It is enough, indeed." They embraced, holding each other fiercely in the near-darkness. "We may die here," Narm said abruptly, in a low voice.
"Aye," Shandril said. " 'Adventure,' they call it."
Abruptly, from the back of the cavern, they both heard clearly the click and clatter of a falling stone. They fell silent, listening, but there were no more sounds of moving rock. They exchanged worried glances, and then Shandril picked up the globe and held it high. Its radiance fell across the rocks but revealed nothing. Narm stepped carefully toward the wall of rock, dagger in hand. He walked about for some time.
"Nothing, my lady," Narm said, returning. "But I found this for you." He held out a pendant of electrum wrought in the shape of a falcon in flight, set with garnets for its eyes. She took it slowly, smiled, and hooked it about her neck.
"My thanks," she said simply. "I can only give you coins in return. I am sitting on a heap of them, and one at least has fallen into my boot."
"Why not?" he said. "If die we must, why not die rich?"
"Narm," Shandril said very softly, "could you not gather coins later?"
Narm turned and looked at her. Shandril held out her arms toward him. When he knelt by her, he found she was shaking. "Lady?" he asked, holding her.
"Please, Narm," she whispered, dragging him down atop her, her hands moving with sudden urgency. Narm, surprised, found that she was very strong. His discarded pack fell across the globe, and they spoke no more for a very long time.
Later, they lay face-to-face on their sides in the darkness, Shandril's breath warm upon Narm's throat and chest. Even cold coins and rock could make for a comfortable bed, he decided. Shandril held Narm gently, thinking he had drifted off to sleep, but he spoke to her then.
"Lady," he said roughly. "I know it has been but a short time since we met, but I love you."
"Oh, Narm," she said. "I think I have loved you since our eyes first met in The Rising Moon, and that feels like so very long ago-a lifetime at least!" She laughed, hugging him tenderly. Her expression turned thoughtful. "It's strange, but I'm not afraid to die now. It's not so terrible to die here, if we die together." Narm's arms tightened about her.
"Die?" he said. "Who knows but that a little digging might win our freedom? The dracolich's grotto is too big to be completely filled with rock… I hope."
"We'll dig, then," Shandril said, "if you'll let me up." They rolled apart and uncovered the globe. Its radiance showed them each other, shadowed and bare, and Shandril snatched up her tunic automatically to cover herself.
"Lady," Narm said gently, "may I not even see you?"
Shandril laughed in embarrassment, and her laughter became tears. Narm held her and soothed her as her sobs died away. He murmured gentle support and reached over her shoulder to catch up her tunic. "We're not dead yet," he whispered.
They sat together for some time in silence, arms about each other, summoning strength. Then Shandril began to shiver, and they both dressed and got up to walk around for warmth. Narm gathered gold enough to fill both their pouches and found another treasure for his lady.
He handed Shandril a ring and bracelet joined together by fine chain, so that it covered Shandril's forearm from finger to elbow with curved plates and worked hoops of chased electrum, chain and all being set with many sapphires.
For himself, he found a dagger, with its brass pommel worked into the snarling head of a lion, and two rubies inset as the lion's eyes. He passed over many splendid treasures, but he managed to put one bar of gold in his pack before he heard Shandril's hiss of surprise.
Something moved on the rocks beyond Shandril, approaching her from the tumbled rockfall. Something black and scaly, and about as long as a shortsword. It scuttled soundlessly over, around, and through the stones toward them. It was some sort of long-necked, long-tailed lizard. Narm stepped forward hastily to blast the creature with his art if it attacked. Without slowing, the creature crested a rock five paces from Shandril, who raised the globe to see the creature more clearly.
Suddenly, the creature began to grow. It continued down the rear side of the rock, boiling, shifting, and growing taller. The black surface flecked off. Beneath was purple cloth. Rising tall, and stretching slim arms out, Symgharyl Maruel smiled at them triumphantly.
"So we meet again," the sorceress said with soft menace. "Cower there, dear," she told Shandril, "while I deal in art with this young lion of yours." Her hands were moving like gliding snakes. Shandril looked back at Narm. His hands were also moving, but she saw in his face the brave despair of one who has no power left to hurl magic.
The Shadowsil hissed a word of power, then took the time to laugh. Shandril felt red rage boil up within her, and she leaped forward. At least she would have the satisfaction of seeing the sorceress surprised before she herself died.
6
Death in the Dark
On facing magic: Run, or pray, or throw stones; many a mage is a fraud, and you can win the day even while your heart trembles. Or you can stand calm and mumble nonsense and wiggle your fingers. Some few workers of the art are such cowards that they may flee at this. And as for others, at least when men speak of your death in days after, they'll say, "I never knew he was a mage; all those years he kept it secret. He must have been a clever fellow." Of course, some who listen may disagree.
Guldoum Tchar of Mirabar, Sayings of a wise and fat merchant, Year of the Crawling Clouds
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."