Putting everything but the flint and oil back into the bag, Shandril slung it on her shoulder. Crawling back to the dead wizard, she tore off what she could of the man’s robe and doused it in oil. Then she struck the flint against coin after coin in vain. Only when she dared to try it on the scorched armor of the other corpse did she manage to strike sparks. Thrice they rained onto the soaked cloth before at last it began to smolder.
Gingerly borrowing the blackened sword from the fallen warrior, Shandril lifted the bundle on its point. It flared up, and she clambered hastily down the heap of coins with her improvised torch, looking for a door or stairs or anything that might lead out.
Above her, a stone rack ran along the ceiling, supported by arches between the squat pillars. Upon the rack lay three huge barrels. From each hung a cobweb-shrouded chain.
With a shiver, Shandril realized that a fourth barrel had hung over the heap of coins. Its shattered wooden ribs lay at the base of the heap. A rusty end of chain trailed out of the coins … beside a pair of skeletal legs. Someone had been crushed by enough riches to bury him—riches that hung overhead right now.
Shandril backed away so rapidly that her torch almost fell from her sword. Those sprawled, helpless legs.…
Trembling, Shandril took deep, shuddering breaths. Soon the cloth would be burned up, and she’d be unable to see in the darkness. She hurried on, through a chamber as vast as the hall that stood above it. She knew there were no stairs nor door in that hall, save perhaps at the end she’d not investigated, where the stirges had come from. She turned in that direction. Daylight grew dim behind her.
Her feeble flame revealed a stone stair spiraling up from the floor, without railing or ornament. It looked impossibly thin and graceful to bear her weight.
The cloth burned through and fell from her blade in a small shower of glowing shreds. Larger scraps flickered on the floor, but proved too small to balance on her blade.
Shandril shrugged. In the last of the light, she slid the blade through her belt and grimly climbed the stairs on hands and knees.
When she reached the floor above, she was in complete darkness. This should be the ground floor, and if there were a door, it would probably be over in that direction, somewhere.
So, a short walk will find me the light … that is, if the floor doesn’t give way and dump me into the basement again.
Holding the sword out crosswise before her to fend off unseen obstacles, Shandril advanced. She lifted and set down her feet with great care, as silent as possible. On into the dark she went, until her blade scraped on stone. She probed with the hilt, feeling the stone curve away: a pillar. Daring to draw breath, she went on.
One step made dry bones crackle underfoot. Another made her stub her toes on a large block of stone that had fallen from the ceiling.
Wrestling down terror—alone in the dark, underground with monsters that might even now be slithering closer, in a ruined city where devils ruled the daylight—Shandril went on.
It seemed a very long time before her blade found a wall. It ran off in both directions. Left, she decided arbitrarily, and walked in the wake of her probing sword tip until she found a corner.
Retracing her steps, Shandril scraped back along the wall until her blade found a wooden door, large and intricately carved. She felt for a pull ring but found none. Suddenly desperate to be out of the darkness, she ran full tilt at the door, driving her shoulder into the wood as she’d done before.
There was a dull thud, much pain, and Shandril found herself on the floor, the door unyielding.
“Tymora damn me!” she hissed, exasperated almost to tears. Would nothing go her way? Was this the gods’ way of telling her she should have stayed dutifully at the Rising Moon?
Shandril got up and pushed and pulled at the door—as solid and unmoving as stone. She felt for catches, knobs, latches, and keyholes, high and low. Nothing.
To the right, she decided abruptly. Look for another door.
She found one right away. It opened on the first try, making no sound and swinging weightlessly. She blinked foolishly but happily in the sudden light. She peered out curiously, growled at herself for being a fool, and stepped into the sunlight.
Another mistake. Not two hundred paces away across the tilted stones and crumbling pillars of Myth Drannor, six warriors fought a losing battle against three winged she-devils.
Shandril stepped hastily back—changed her mind, and slipped out, sword drawn. She ran across tumbled stones to the nearest trees. Crawling under a thorny bush, she peered out across the courtyard where the well lay, deceptively placid, and watched the men fight for their lives.
No one shouted. Wings beat, warriors grunted as they took blows on their shields or swung heavy swords two-handed, feet scraped, and blades rang. Two more adventurers lay sprawled a short distance behind the fight. The men tried to keep moving and find cover. One ran a few steps, abandoning his protective crouch. A devil swooped.
Shandril caught her breath, but the run was a ruse.
The warrior turned and swung his silver blade with both hands, beheading the devil with a triumphant grunt. Black, smoking blood ran down the warrior’s sword as he cut the body apart. The corpse smoldered. Greasy soot curled up in snaky wisps.
The man dared not take up the devil’s fallen dagger. Two more swooped down with screams of anger, uncoiling ropes in their hands. The warrior looked from one to the other and suddenly turned to flee. The devils flew wide to strike at him from two sides.
Shandril swallowed and looked away.
The man must have been the leader, for as the devils tore him apart, his fellow adventurers ran, crying and cursing. The devils circled, teeth gleaming.
Shandril decided to flee before the slaughter was over and she might be seen. She crawled into the trees, hoping she was heading out of Myth Drannor. Judging by the sun, she was probably moving south, but she had no idea whether she was near the edge of the city or not.
After twenty minutes of clambering and skulking, she decided “not” was the correct answer. Tumbled stones and gaping, empty buildings were everywhere. Gnarled trees had broken through anything that got in their way, rending once-beautiful spires and high, curving bridges. Most of those bridges had cracked and fallen; a few were intact, though choked with creepers, trailing vines, and old nests.
Shandril stayed low and tried to avoid open spaces. Here and there in the ruins she saw devils: some black and glistening, some blood-red, barbed and scaled, and some mauve or yellow-green. They perched on crumbling spires or battlements or sprawled at ease on bridges or atop heaps of tilted stone. A few—winged devil women and horned, spine-tailed horrors—flew in lazy circles through the ruins.
If this was Myth Drannor, it was a wonder the dales still existed! What had brought the devils here, and what was stopping them from flying forth in all directions, murdering and wreaking havoc?
Well, it mattered not. What mattered was escaping.
Shandril lay huddled under the edge of a slab of stone carved with a very beautiful scene of mermaids and hippocampi, now forever shattered. Her large boots had rubbed her calves raw as they flapped with every step, and her borrowed blade was too heavy to lift quickly. Against these devils, she dared not fight. It was a long time before she dared leave the shelter of the stone slab.
The sun cast long shadows as day gave way to dusk. Shandril knew she had to move soon, or be trapped in the ruins after dark. She set off past more cracked and tumbled buildings, dreadfully afraid she might unwittingly be traveling in circles, touring her own death trap.
The ruins seemed endless, though she saw more trees among the stones than she had earlier. Perhaps I am nearer the edge.
It was then she saw them. In a place of tilted heaps of stone, where all the buildings had toppled, two figures confronted each other across a wasteland. A sharp-eyed man in robes of wine-red stood on the cracked base of a long-fallen pillar. He faced a tall, slim, cruel-looking woman in purple atop what w
as left of a wall.
“Die, then, Shadowsil,” the man said coldly, and his hands moved like coiling snakes.
The thief from Highmoon crouched low and kept very still. The Shadowsil’s hands also were moving. Shandril wondered briefly if everyone in Faerûn would arrive in Myth Drannor before she could get out of it.
From the man’s hand burst sparkling frost—a white cone that spread, roaring, as it closed on the beautiful woman.
She stiffened, arms shining with frost. Four whirling balls of fire burst from her hands, trailing winking sparks as they flashed through the fading frost.
On hands and knees Shandril scrambled around a pile of rubble and behind the corner of a ruin. It was well she did. An instant later, there was a flash of flame and a roar, and a wave of intense heat passed over her.
When she peered cautiously back around the rubble, the man was gone. There was a large, blackened area on the rocks, and the woman in purple walked triumphantly across mountains of jagged stone to where her foe had stood.
The stone creaked as it cooled. The woman turned on her heel to stare levelly all around. She saw Shandril immediately. They stared into each other’s eyes for an instant that seemed a frozen eternity.
Gasping, Shandril broke free of the thrall of that cold gaze. She ran. Scrambling down a ruined street in a few frantic, headlong moments, she ducked around a corner into a place of many vines and sagging walls. Her blood hammered in fear. Biting her lips to silence her panting, she stared wildly around, not daring to believe she’d escaped.
The air in front of Shandril shimmered. Suddenly the lady in purple stood before her. “Who are you, then, little one?” the wizardess asked softly. She was very beautiful.
Shandril stared at her, managing only to shiver.
The lady gave her a smile that held no mirth or welcome and added, “I am Symgharyl Maruel, called the Shadowsil.”
Shandril held up her sword in silently menacing answer.
The lady mage laughed. Her hands wove swift, deft gestures.
Shandril rushed at the wizardess, knowing before she started that the woman was just too far away. Her limbs locked in midstride and she froze—straining, immobile, on the verge of toppling, and utterly helpless.
Purple robes swished nearer. The lady undid a rope from around her sleek hips as she approached.
Tymora, aid me, Shandril prayed desperately.
The lady mage put her rope gently around the thief’s sword-wrist. She looped it also about Shandril’s neck, drawing it tight across her throat, and said crisply, “Ulthae—entangle.”
Shandril’s skin prickled in horror as the rope slithered of its own accord about her, tightening around arms and neck and knees, binding her securely. When it was done, Shandril was trussed as tightly as any Highmoon butcher’s parcel. A short length of rope led from a great knot at her waist to the languid hand of the lady in purple.
Shandril caught her breath. At least this means she’ll take me out of here … although with the favor Great Lady Tymora has shown me, devils will slay her and leave me a ready meal for anything that happens by.
She had a brief memory of the thing in the well, and in sinking horror found she could not even shudder. Her own body was her prison.
Symgharyl Maruel jerked on the rope that bound her, and Shandril fell over helplessly to crash and bounce on broken stones that had long ago been a pleasant winding lane in the City of Beauty. The side of her face scraped painfully. Grit made her eye water, and her blade fell out of frozen fingers. It was left behind as the lady in purple dragged her away.
“I don’t know who you are, yet,” Symgharyl Maruel said with mocking malice, between tugs that bumped Shandril over heaved stones. “You remind me of someone. You may well be the one those stoneheads of Oversember let slip away. Are you, hmmm? The girl with the Company of the Bright Spear whose name isn’t on their charter? You’ll tell me, girl. Yes, you’ll tell. Their lost one or not, the cult will value you highly for your blood, dear, if you are a virgin.” Again the tinkling, mocking laughter. “But you shall be my present to Rauglothgor in any case. So pretty …”
Shandril could not even weep.
Narm took leave of the two Knights at the very spot where he and Marimmar had met the elf and his lady. Narm was surprised to see who waited there: the two ladies who’d been in the Deepingdale inn, who’d faced down the angry adventurers. Narm nodded to them as Torm made known to him (with many a verbal flourish, not all of them mocking) the names Sharantyr and Storm. To Narm’s surprise, both smiled at him.
The younger woman clasped his arm and said, “Yes, we’ve met, at the Rising Moon in Deepingdale, though you were under the heavy eye of—your master of the Art? A strict man.”
Narm nodded. Yes, Marimmar had been that.
The silver-haired bard nodded, remembering. Torm explained Mourngrym’s decision to let Narm into the city. The two ladies acquired identical small frowns and shook their heads. They shouldered their bags and harp and took charge of the horses and mules.
As they settled into their saddles, Storm leaned down and said to Narm, “Until next we meet. I think our paths will cross again soon, good sir. Fare well in Myth Drannor!” With that, she and Sharantyr rode away.
“Will you go into the city after all?” Torm asked, after they’d watched the ladies disappear amid the trees.
“Yes,” Narm said, grinning weakly.
“May Tymora smile upon thee, then,” Rathan grunted. “Being such a fool and all, ye’ll need the full favor of the Lady’s luck to see even this day out. Don’t forget how to run for thy life. The devils are the ones with wings.”
“Most of them,” Torm agreed with a smile, “though they can be hard to see with blood pouring into your eyes.”
“Aye, that be very true,” Rathan agreed gravely.
Narm grinned and waved farewell to them, shaking his head. A merry life the other Knights must lead, indeed, in the company of these two jacks! He set off down the path quickly before fear could slow him or turn him back.
The ruined city of Myth Drannor rose out of the trees before him. Alone, Narm drew in a deep breath and strode swiftly on. He was going to see devils. He was going to look his fill of them and somehow survive. By Mystra, he was going to do something on his own, now that Marimmar was gone!
Loose and broken stones shifted under his feet. Cautiously, Narm went on. Off to his right was a leaning stone tower, its needle spire still grand. Ahead lay heaved, tilted pavement choked with shrubs and clinging vines. Steps led down in a broad sweep from the street into unknown depths.
Motion caught his eye. Narm crouched and looked.
A slim woman in purple robes dragged someone thin and longhaired along the ground. Her hapless captive was completely entangled in a glowing rope. Mocking laughter rose as they descended from view down the stair.
Narm crept to the topmost step, but nothing was visible below. He hardly paused to think before he followed. The Art! Strong magic—just what Marimmar had sought here!
The stair became an underground way that led to a space lit only by a fitful glow. Narm walked quietly and cautiously toward it, until he could see that the passage had opened into a natural cavern.
Within it, the lady in purple and her captive stood before the source of the light. An oval of glowing radiance hung like a doorway in midair. Magic, indeed.
The woman in purple was stronger than her slim frame suggested. By main strength she held her captive upright—a girl who struggled violently. The rope that bound her moved by itself to fight her. She managed to tear its slithering, snakelike coils free of her face and throat.
Narm could scarcely believe it—he knew her! It was the girl from the inn. Her beautiful face had stared at him from the shadows. How came she to be here?
The woman in purple let go of the rope, laughing. The girl fell hard to the cavern floor. Her face was set as she battled the rope.
Anger burned in Narm. He raised his hands, pointed at the
woman in purple, and spoke the word of the spell Marimmar had forbidden him to study, the spell he’d studied while his master slept. Its magical bolt burst from his finger like a racing arrow of light, and flashed at the lady.
She stiffened as it struck her and whirled in alarm. Seeing her foe, she laughed, her hands already moving.
Narm dodged aside, thinking how feeble the rest of his Art was. The mage completed her casting, gave him a cold, sneering smile, and locked her fingers in Shandril’s hair. As Narm watched in dismay, she dragged the struggling girl through the oval of radiance and vanished.
Then, with a shattering roar, the fireball exploded all around him.
5
THE GROTTO OF THE DRACOLICH
There in the darkness many a wyrm sits and smiles. He grows rich and lazy and fat as the years pass, and there seems no shortage of fools to challenge him and make him richer and fatter. Well, why wait ye? Open the door and go in.
Irigoth Mmar, High Sage of Baldur’s Gate
Lore of the Coast
Year of the Trembling Tree
The radiance faded and left her somewhere cold. She was lying on stone again. Shandril twisted against the ever-tightening, ever-slithering rope. “Where are we?”
The Shadowsil shrugged. “A ruined keep. Come.”
The rope shifted to bind Shandril’s arms to her torso; she found she could rise to her knees and, painfully, to her feet. The lady mage led her down a curving stone stair, but not before Shandril got a good look out the window.
Cold, jagged mountains jutted into an icy sky. They were many days’ journey from Myth Drannor. A snow hawk glided across the scene.
Shandril could see no other life before she was forced down the dark stairway. It was narrow and steep, littered with old feathers and bird droppings. She was propelled down the stairs with a firm hand.
“I told you he’d poke his nose into something straight away and buy a swift grave before you’d even got to your next sausage!” said a familiar voice, swimming somewhere above Narm. “That’s why I followed—not for treasure.”
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