by Ed Greenwood
The words had scarcely left his lips when there was a great crash and a roar of moving rock. Suddenly, the world was falling down on them again.
She hurt all over. Why had none of the tales of adventure ever mentioned the constant pain and discomfort? Shandril rolled over, slowly, feeling many aches and twinges. Stones must have fallen on her. Nothing seemed broken, thank the gods. It was dark, and it felt as if she were somewhere underground. She could tell by the cold flash of the beljurils around her that she was still in the dracolich's grotto. Where was Narm? Then a gem flashed nearby, and she saw a hand inches from her own. Narm!
Helpless tears blinded her. The hand was cold, lifeless. Then another flash of the magical balhiir showed the hand-black hair, thick fingers. It wasn't Narm. In relief and revulsion, she let go of the dead thing. Where to go? What to do?
There was the faintest of scraping sounds to her left. Someone was moving quietly over the stones. "Who's that?" Shandril demanded of the darkness, feeling for her dagger. "What do you want?"
"Molesting you sounds good" a broken voice croaked at her elbow.
Shandril jumped, startled.
The voice took on a gentler, more human tone in the darkness. "Well met. I am Torm, of the Knights of Myth Drannor. No noise now. It is best that no one think you still live. I will be your eyes and ears and hands until we can leave this trap. Wait here."
Shandril felt hope leap within her. She reached out only to feel rapidly receding cloth. "Thanks to you, Torm. Why would you aid a stranger?"
The answering voice was fainter as it moved away. "I have a weakness for fair ladies who reach for boot daggers and face the unknown. Now hush, and wait."
She sat down on the most comfortable stone she could find and composed herself to wait.
After a long time there was a stirring in the darkness.
"Torm?"
"Rauglothgor's spells search for us even now." Torm whispered in her ear. "Your Narm lives and is unharmed. I will take you to him as soon as the dracolich settles down. For now, we must abide here."
They both sat, and Shandril again felt the dead hand. "Torm, there's a dead man beside me." She took Torm's hand and guided it down in the darkness.
"Gods!" he hissed. "It must be Lanseril. Jhessail told me it was Lanseril carrying you."
Torm slipped around her and Shandril heard him grunt in effort. He began moving rocks. "I'll help. If you roll the rocks to me, I can stop them here and you won't have to carry them as far."
"Dangerous," she heard him hiss through set teeth.
Then, in a gem-flash, she saw another man crouching with a dagger. "An enemy!" she hissed.
Behind her there was a sudden grunt and then a gurgling moan. Torm spoke aloud, "A dragon cultist, no doubt. Now quite dead. Now, Lady, I need you to help. We must get Lanseril's body quickly. Never mind the noise; the time for quiet is past."
Torm handed Shandril a hooded lantern and slapped a dagger in her hand. He moved Lanseril's body onto his shoulder, and they moved quickly through the boulders.
Their route rose and fell in the rubble. They heard the sound of battle several times but never encountered an enemy.
Soon they saw torchlight, and a voice from beyond bawled out merrily, "Where in the Lady's name have ye been?"
"Around and about," Torm called back. "I found Shandril and she found Lanseril, but he needs help. Have you spells left?"
"Aye, if the accursed balhiir stays elsewhere," Rathan rumbled, striding towards them. Jhessail was at his back, and Merith, and-Narm!
Wordlessly, Shandril rushed forward to embrace him, passing Torm like the wind.
He smiled and said, "I raced back to tell you that some seventy riders are coming up to the keep above us; dragon cultists, most likely. Shall we hit them with spells or take them by surprise down here?"
"No magic remains to us that we can trust," Florin told him grimly.
"Well"-Torm grinned-"I hadn't planned on dying of old age, anyway."
Shandril and Narm held each other, feeling that they could take on anything as long as they had each other to count on.
Torm tapped Narm on the shoulder. "If you ever find yourself tired and need someone to stand in for you, just call my name."
The look he got made him roar with laughter. Somehow, Narm didn't see anything funny about the offer.
"The only place the few of us can defend against so many is that dead-end where Florin found you both. Let's move," Jhessail said.
The torches flickered as they hurried through the twisting tunnels in wary silence. They saw no living creature. There was no sign of the balhiir. Finally, they reached the dead-end and readied their weapons.
"I presume you returned to Shadowdale to stow away your magic," Florin asked Torm. "Did you ask the aid of Elminster?"
The thief grinned. "Yes, but he always suspects me of youthful overexcitement. I know not how serious he thinks our situation. I did mention the dracolich and that ought to intrigue him into putting in an appearance."
"Done," Rathan rumbled, getting up from the healing of Lanseril. "He'll live a little longer."
Lanseril sat up with a sigh and locked eyes with Shandril. "Permit me to introduce myself, good lady. After all, if one must die, it is best to do so among known friends. I am Lanseril Snowmantle, of… of…" The druid's words trailed away and he fell back with eyes closed.
"Is he dead?" Narm asked in alarm.
"He's fine; just needs sleep. One must sleep to heal. But enough of imprudent druids… let us speak of the chosen of the gods-clerics. Myself, for instance." He drew himself up grandly, girth and all. "I am Rathan Thentraver, servant of Tymora."
"Well met," Narm said politely.
Rathan was bending to bring Shandril's hand to his lips. "Lady, with all this running and butchering, there's scarce been time to get to know each other. Although I dare say ye two have managed it. I know what it is to be young, and in a hurry."
"I must ask-you are a cleric," Shandril said, "yet you seem so-forgive me, ah, normal, much like the men I knew who came into the inn each night. Does worship of the Lady Tymora not change one?"
Rathan nodded at her question. "We do not all live the stuff of rousing tales. For all the glory of victories and treasure won there are painful days of marching hurt, lying wounded, or swinging swords or maces in weary practice. The Lady helps those who help themselves. She doesn't ask for change, she just asks for our best."
"Yes," Merith said, working on his blade with an oily rag, "the gods are strange. Those who come against us now worship the monster that nearly slew us all."
"The Cult of the Dragon," Shandril said slowly. "Why would anyone want to worship a dead dragon?"
"Don't worry about them," Torm boasted. "I keep around me a few magics that should… damn!" The sparkling mist swirled around him. "Well, I had some magic," he finished ruefully.
"Why did it leave us before?" Narm asked curiously, watching the coiling mist rise again above Torm, drifting along the ceiling over them all. It seemed larger and somehow brighter.
"I think it went to the greatest concentration of magic," Rathan said, his eyes not leaving the balhiir, "either the dracolich's hoard, or the spells of Rauglothgor. Seventy cultists, you said?" The cleric grunted.
"And a dracolich. Let us not forget the dracolich," Merith added dryly.
"Enough. Something comes!" Florin said sternly. The ranger rose, lifting his two-handed sword as though it was a thing of feathers. At his back, the knights snuffed out lights and readied themselves for battle. Merith, striding catlike over the rocks, joined Florin. Jhessail moved behind the rocks in line with the entrance. Rathan moved to shield Lanseril, saying gently, "Wake now."
The druid's eyes flickered. Shandril heard him whisper, "Weapons out?" as Torm took her by the hand and led her and Narm to the left. The druid became a blur, and the balhiir moved toward the vanishing form. A small gray bird appeared where the druid had been.
Torm took the couple to a p
ile of hand-sized stones. "A thrown stone can spoil spells and aimed arrows better than the strongest art." The thief of Deepingdale noticed that the balhiir had drifted above Jhessail in an incriminating, winking cloud.
"Not too quick with those stones now," Torm whispered. "If they don't see us at first, we'll let them come ahead until there are some to slay in the midst of our ring. Strike when they first notice us, not before."
Beyond the entrance, a bobbing sphere of radiance could be seen floating in the air, moving nearer as it danced and played about like a curious firefly. The balhiir gathered itself like a snake, then plunged forward along the roof of the cavern in silent haste, toward the light.
The light shone on the dark-robed shoulder of a man wearing some sort of large hat. He seemed to be alone as he clambered over the rocks of the entrance. He was white-bearded, and bore a long, knobbly staff of wood a head taller than himself. Then the balhiir reached the glowing globe that hung at his shoulder. The globe's radiance flared into the twinkling cloud, and then died.
"Put away that overlong fang, Florin, and light me a torch," said a somehow familiar voice, disgustedly. "Ye have a balhiir indeed. Young Torm managed to keep to the truth for once."
"Elminster!" the ranger said in calm, pleased greeting.
"I know, I know… ye're all delighted to see me, or will be if ye ever manage to make a light to see anything by."
Light flared up as the ranger relit his torch. Elminster stood in the flickering light looking at Shandril and Narm. "A fine dance ye've led me on, ye two… Gorstag was in tears when I left him, girl; nearly frantic, he was. Ye might have told him a bit more about where ye were going. Young folk have no consideration, these days."
Then he winked, and Shandril felt suddenly very happy. She cast the stone in her hand so that it crashed at the old mage's feet.
"Well met, indeed," Elminster said dryly, "O releaser of balhiirs. We may as well get to know each other before the dying starts."
7
To Face the Bright Danger
Tell ye of the balhiir? Ah, a curious creature, indeed. I hear it was first-the short version, ye say? Very well; ye are paying. The short version is thus: a curious creature, indeed. Thank ye, goodsir; fair day to ye.
The sage Rasthiavar of Iraiebor, A Wayfarer's Belt-Book of Advice, Year of Many Mists
"I expected to see the cultists here long ago," Torm said, slipping lightly up onto a high, flat rock. "Or at least to see something of the dracolich. Why so long?"
"Fear of us," Rathan said with a grin. Florin remained alert by the entrance, obviously expecting an attack.
"I'm so scared I can scarce stand still," Shandril said, "and you talk calmly of strategies and jests! How do you do it?"
"We always talk before a fight, lady," Rathan answered. "One is excited and among friends and may not live to see the next dawn." The fat cleric shrugged. "Besides… how better to spend the waiting? Much of what a bard calls 'dashing adventure,' at least for us, is a little fast and hard running and fighting and lots and lots of waiting. We would grow bored wasting all that time in silence."
"Hmphh!" said Elminster. "All this jaw-wagging's the mark of minds too feeble to ruminate in solitude." Torm chuckled. Jhessail rose from the rocks, the sparkling and glowing balhiir moving above her. She went to Shandril, and took her hand.
"Elminster," the magic-user said, turning from Shandril to the ancient wizard, "there will doubtless be time for chatter later. After the battle, most likely. Tell us now of the balhiir. That thing floating in the air above us has not approached you since destroying your globe, so I know you bear no magic item. It will rob you of your spells, as it has done me, if we do not deal with it. What say you?"
"Yes, yes," Elminster said severely. "I am not so addled that I forgot the lass or"-he indicated the shifting mist above the two women with the head of his staff-"that." He took off his battered hat and hung it upon the staff now cradled in the angle of one arm. He then leaned back against a massive boulder and cleared his throat noisily.
"The balhiir," the old sage began in measured tones, "is a most curious creature. Rare in the Realms and unknown in many of the pi-"
"Elminster!" Jhessail protested. "The short version. Please."
The sage regarded her in stony silence for two long breaths. "Good lady! This is the short version. It would do ye good to cultivate patience… a habit I have found useful these last five hundred winters or so." Pointedly he turned his head away to speak solely to Shandril.
"Listen most carefully, Shandril Shessair." The young would-be thief tensed at the old mage's serious tone. "In this place, we lack all means for banishing or destroying this balhiir, save one, and ye alone can master it. 'Tis a dangerous affair for all of us, but for ye most of all. However, there is no other answer. Are ye willing to attempt it?"
Shandril looked around at the adventurers who had become her friends. Then she gazed up at the strange, magic-eating, glowing wisp above her. Letting out her breath in a long, shuddering sigh, she said, "Yes. Tell me."
She met the old sage's eyes squarely, holding them with her own. Gently she disengaged herself from Narm's encircling arm and stepped forward.
The old mage bowed to her solemnly. This drew surprised looks from the knights who watched. He then asked, "Narm, ye retain a cantrip, don't ye?" His twinkling blue eyes, grave and gentle, never left Shandril's.
"Yes," the apprentice magic-user replied.
"Then cast it while touching thy lady," he said, "and we shall stand clear. This will draw the balhiir to ye both. Shandril, thrust both hands into the midst of the glow. Try not to breathe in any of it, and keep thy face-eyes, in particular-away from it. When Shandril touches the balhiir, Narm, ye must flee from her at once, as fast as ye can. All here, stand clear of Shandril from then on. Her touch will probably be fatal."
The great sage went forward to clasp the determined but trembling Shandril by the arms. The balhiir coiled above them both.
"Child," Elminster said then, voice gentle, "thy task is the hard one. The balhiir's touch will tingle and seem to burn. If ye would live, ye must keep thy hands spread within it and not withdraw. You will find you can take the pain-a cat of mine once did. Use the force of your own will to draw the fire into thee, and it will flow down your arms and enter your body. Succeed and ye will hold the balhiir's energy.
"Ye must then slay its will or perish in flames. Ye will know when ye have destroyed it. Master it as quickly as ye can, for the fire within thee will burn more the longer ye hold it. Ye can let it out from thy mouth, thy fingers, even thy eyes. However, beware of aiming the blasts carelessly. Ye could easily slay us all." Shandril nodded, dark eyes meeting his.
"Ye must go out through the entrance, if the dracolich or the cultists have not attacked us by then. Seek them out and blast them until ye have none of the balhiir's energy left. Let go of it all, or it may slay ye." Their eyes held for a time longer, and then he bent slowly to kiss her brow. His beard tickled her cheeks, and his old lips were warm. Her forehead tingled, and she felt somehow stronger. Shandril drew herself up and smiled at him.
"We shall be nearby," he said. "Narm will follow thee, and we shall guard ye both. Are ye ready?"
Shandril nodded. "Yes," she said, lips suddenly dry. "Do it now." She hoped the effort of keeping her voice steady did not show on her face. She raised her hands over her head as Elminster bowed again and drew back. Narm stepped forward reluctantly. The balhiir winked and swirled overhead, closer now, as if it were waiting for her to destroy it.
"Forgive me," Narm said, coming to her side, "but the cantrip I have will make you-uh, belch."
That struck her as so incongruously funny that her helpless laughter rose and rang out across the silent cavern. She was laughing as the magic was cast and the balhiir descended upon her. She saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing but the curiously coiling sparks and wispy mist which smelled ever so faintly of rain upon leather, as the balhiir enveloped her.
> The pain began. Elminster had spoken the truth and Shandril wondered, only briefly, if he had ever done this himself. He must have, mustn't he? She could feel the sparks, the fire, the energy somehow flowing into her, stirring. She bent her head back to gasp a breath, found herself staring at the dark rock above her, heard her own voice sobbing, moaning, crying out… It hurt. By the gods, it hurt!
The tingling grew with the rising, burning pain, until her whole body was shaking and twitching. She had to fight to hold her hands out. She wanted desperately to pull back and clutch herself in pain as the fire spread down her arms and across her chest.
Shandril sobbed. Blue-purple fire was ticking up her rigid outstretched arms. Narm rushed toward her, some part of his mind noting as he screamed at her to stop that the flames were not touching her hair or her clothes.
"No!" he cried, reaching out desperate arms to her. As the young apprentice rushed past, Elminster extended a long, thin arm of his own and clutched his shoulder.
"No!" the great mage said in his turn. "Keep back, if ye love her!"
Narm scarcely heard the words, but the hand gripped him like iron, and he could not break free of its grasp. Shandril's sobs rose into a raw, high shriek. "Gods have mercy!" she screamed, and flames leaped from her mouth. Elminster waved imperiously at the knights watching in amazement to get down and seek cover.
The fire raged down Shandril's arms and flared up from her shoulders. She could not see; flames of blue and purple rose from her nostrils and mouth. She could feel energy rolling restlessly around her arms and breast, coiling and flaring, drawing in… drawing all in. She could feel burning anger rising within her, too, crawling behind her throat and forcing her to roar and snarl.
Flames rolled before her nose. Startled, she stopped, cast a burning gaze at Jhessail, saw the flames reflected back from the mage's beautiful, anxious face, and waved an apology as she looked away again. Her veins were boiling; her body shook.
Something scuttled and writhed snakelike within her, awakening fear. She couldn't control it! She would bring death to these new friends, to Jhessail, to Florin, to the great Elminster, to Narm… No! The flames rolled away, and she could see Narm's face, the reflected flames dancing on it, his eyes meeting hers and darkening instantly in pain. Then they were gone as Elminster stepped in front of her love, grave eyes meeting hers, steadily, urging her on. How like Gorstag's those eyes were. She thought of Gorstag, kind and jovial, roughly wise and knowing. She closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to fight the coiling thing within her. The heat and the pain rose suddenly and sharply, squeezing her heart in a blazing grip.