Shandril moaned. Pain atop pain raged within her. Tears blurred the wall of flames; when she could see again, Rauglothgor’s horned skull loomed over her.
His regard was a silent sneer, laughing down at her with all the arrogance and strength of cold centuries and dragon fire.
Her fear was suddenly swept away by anger. Aye, she was a mere lass, unskilled and unwise in battle and magic, but a rock—a mere rock!—had felled Symgharyl Maruel, in all her pride and magic. Yes, she faced a dracolich, but she had the means to strike back!
Burn, then, oh-so-mighty Rauglothgor. Burn and know how it feels, you who burn us like flies in torch fire … BURN!
Shandril flung her arms out as if she could stab the undead dragon with her fingertips. From them, with a vicious crackle and a cavern-shaking roar, streamed spellfire.
Rauglothgor burned. Hungry white flames raged around rearing bones. It howled. Stones raked from the cavern ceiling by its horns fell in a shower about it, its great claws convulsed. It tried to beat bony wings, seeking escape.
Bones scraped unyielding rock. Jaws that had forgotten how to scream shrieked high, girlish terror.
Shandril set her teeth and kept the fire flowing, her body shuddering with power.
The thing of bones writhed, clawing the air in trapped, unthinking agony. As fires raged on, the great undead dragon fell silent and sank down. Its bones blazed with white, blue, and purple flames as they blackened, split, and burst asunder. All that remained crumbled.
So passed Rauglothgor, Night Dragon of the Thunder Peaks.
Shandril stumbled into the darkness, spellfire raging in her.
The cavern beyond was large and dark but for a few torches flickering below. They glimmered on swords. More cultists! Blades raised, the new arrivals scrambled toward the easy prey.
Easy prey, indeed. Shandril opened her mouth and screamed. Flames gushed forth. She raised her hands and smote them with spellfire, hurling blasts, until none stood against her. Shandril stumbled on, exulting.
“Shandril!” Narm’s anguished voice broke through the roar of her flames.
She shook her head and waved at him to stay back. Spellfire spilled from her fingers like bright rain, and she ran on. The fire coiled inside, and she dared not simply blast rock—she’d been buried alive once, and that was enough. She ran across the cavern and up its far slope, seeking daylight … and any cultists who might lie ahead.
She found them, laden with treasure, though they dropped it to snatch out blades. Her blasts reached the foremost of them. Some raised their hands to cast spells, but Elminster’s bright bolts curled past Shandril’s shoulders to strike them down before magic could be unleashed.
It was too late for the Dragon Cultists to run or fight. Under her spellfire, they had time only to die. They did that very well.
More cultists met her in the cavern above, and more died.
Shandril ascended the tunnels and climbed crumbling steps. Blue flames licked the stone wherever her boots touched. Shandril finally saw daylight, pouring through the door of the keep.
There were no cultists on the mountain slopes below, and the sky was clear and cloudless. She turned, flames blazing around her swirling hair, and screamed to the Knights, “Get back!”
They obeyed. Elminster’s old hands dragged Narm back with surprising strength.
Shandril turned back to the sky and stones. She spread her hands, threw back her head, and screamed out her pain and exultation. Spellfire rolled forth. Stones cracked and fell around her, shards cutting her arms and face, and she laughed at them. Daylight grew as walls fell and stone crumbled. She backed down the stairs of the shattered keep as it fell around her.
“Back! Back!” she cried to the Knights again, smashing down stones with great sheets of spellfire. Pillars of broken wall stood like huge teeth against the sky for a few shuddering instants before they too toppled. The keep was gone, completely fallen, and still the fires raged.
Oh, Tymora, release me! Will this never end? Look, you gods—such power! Nothing stands against me—not the dracolich, not his worshipers, not the stones themselves—not even this mountain!
Shandril laughed. Her blazing fingers found the throat of her tunic and ripped it open. From her bared breast poured spellfire. She turned, backed down the steps, and blasted dark rock into the sky—here, and there, and over there.…
The fires diminished. Shandril shivered as the lessening flow poured out of her breast and mouth. Slowly she realized she was on her knees again, amid the scattered gold of the dracolich’s treasure. The last shards of the great cavern’s ceiling broke away and fell.
Exhausted, Shandril swayed, staring at her hands. The last rippling tongues of flame—blue and fitful, snarling into oblivion—faded. Her hands were—just hands. Empty.
Well, not quite. The ring and armlet of electrum and sapphires sparkled almost mockingly. Shandril managed to bring her arms up as she fell onto the cold stone.
The fire was gone. She was so cold, so numbingly cold.
“Shandril!” Narm shouted, snatching himself out of Elminster’s grip at last. He crashed full tilt into an invisible barrier the Old Mage had raised before the Knights as a shield. He clawed his way along it in helpless frustration. “Let me go to her, gods curse you! Is she—is she dead?”
The wizard shook his head, pity in his eyes. “Nay, but she may not live. I’d no idea how much Art that balhiir had absorbed! Careful now!” The barrier was gone.
Narm raced forward, falling twice amid shifting stones.
“Gods,” Florin murmured in awe.
Beyond where Shandril lay, the mountain had been blasted open into a vast crater, laying bare the dracolich’s cavern.
“ ‘Rare in the Realms,’ you said,” Torm muttered to Elminster, shaking his head. “And a good thing, too!”
Narm knelt beside Shandril’s sprawled body. The Knights reached him. The young apprentice raised his anguished face to Elminster. “Can I … will it hurt her if I touch her?”
Shandril lay on her face, motionless, her long hair spread over her back like a last lick of flame.
Elminster shook his head. “Nay, but—Rathan, can ye heal yet?”
The cleric spread his hands doubtfully. “I’ve only a little favor of the Lady left to me.”
Elminster nodded grimly. “Use what you can. Narm, after Rathan heals thy lady, carry her back to the cavern where ye waited for me. Haste matters more than gentleness. I go to Shadowdale now, for healing scrolls left hidden by Doust Sulwood when he was lord. We shall meet again shortly, at that cavern.”
Rathan chanted softly, kneeling by the fallen girl.
Narm looked up from Shandril, eyes blazing. “You knew this would kill her! You knew!”
Elminster shook his head. “Nay, lad, I knew not. I feared it might, aye—but I saw no other way.” He turned away. “Delay me not, now, or thy lady may die!”
Rathan touched Narm’s shoulder. “I’m done, lad. Let’s move her. If Elminster counsels haste, haste is the thing.”
Narm tore his eyes from the Old Mage’s back. “Yes. Sorry.” He looked down at Shandril, lying so still and silent.
A brisk voice said, “Stop gaping and lift your lady by the shoulders. I’ll take her feet. Jhessail, hold her head!”
Narm found himself looking at Torm, who waved his hand at Shandril. “Come on. Haste, the man said.”
“Y-yes.” Narm reached out a tentative hand and fumbled at the open front of her tunic.
“Leave it,” Torm said firmly. “I promise you I won’t look—much.”
Narm shouted at him, a raw torrent of fury that made Torm grin and roll his eyes in mock horror. Narm stopped in midword, realizing he had no idea what he was saying.
They clambered over broken rocks, Rathan at Narm’s elbow and Jhessail hip-to-hip beside him, cradling Shandril’s head.
Narm swallowed. Shandril’s eyes were closed, her lips parted. She looked so beautiful.…
Ahead, Flor
in and the elf, Merith, hurled aside charred cultists, clearing the way to the small cavern where he and Shandril had been trapped. The smell of burned flesh was strong as they shuffled and clambered on. Narm looked down at his ladylove in disbelief and fought tears down to nothingness.
He’d seen it, yes—raging flames and falling walls, the dracolich burned to ash. How much force had it taken? How much had Shan held? How in the name of all the gods could she survive?
“The scrolls—is Elminster back yet?” he asked frantically. They stumbled forward into the small, now-familiar cavern. Torchlight greeted them. Lanseril, in his own form, sat against one of the smoother expanses of wall. On either side of him, lit torches stood upright amid piled stones.
“No, no overclever wizards here,” the druid replied wryly. “I felt the mountain shake; Shandril?” Torm nodded. Lanseril shook his head in wonderment. “Bring her here. Not straight across—Elminster might teleport in there—around this way.”
“A fair thought, but unnecessary, as it happens,” came a familiar voice from the back of the cavern. “Rathan, behold: scrolls enough, and to spare. I only hope her fires did not damage her overmuch.”
“Damage?” Narm asked, icy fear gripping him as they gently laid Shandril down.
“Spellfire burns inside,” Elminster replied gently, advancing with a flourish of parchment rolls. “It can burn out lungs, heart, and even brain, if held overlong.” He shook his head. “She seemed to be master of it to the last, but she held more than I’ve ever known anyone to bear without bursting into flames.”
Narm gaped in horror at the Old Mage.
“Cheerful, isn’t he?” Torm observed with a bright smile.
Jhessail gave Torm a dark look and knelt to put her arms around Narm’s shuddering shoulders. “Torm,” she said in tones as sharp as a sword, “sometimes you’re a right bastard.”
The thief nodded—but broke off his florid bow to indicate Narm, and said gently, “He needed it.”
Jhessail held his gaze for a moment and then said quietly, “You’re right, Torm. I’m sorry I misjudged you.” She enfolded Narm in her arms, and the apprentice mage burrowed against her like an inconsolable child.
“All Faerûn misjudges the bright and shining Torm,” the thief announced mournfully, “almost all the time!”
“With no cause at all,” Merith added innocently. “Now shut your clever lips—painfully unaccustomed though you are to such heroism—and help spread my cloak over her.”
Rathan nodded to let the Knights know he was done with Shandril. He rose wearily to see to the wounded Lanseril.
“A hard day of healing?” the half-elven druid asked wryly as the priest approached.
Rathan grunted. “Hard on the knees, anyway.” He knelt with a grunt of effort. “Now lie still, damn ye—’tis hard enough to convince the Lady to heal an unrepentant servant of Silvanus.”
“True enough,” Lanseril agreed. “How does the young lady fare?”
Rathan shrugged. “Her body is whole. She sleeps. But her mind? We shall see.”
Across the cavern, Narm looked out of the comforting circle of Jhessail’s arms to see Shandril, sprawled on the stones and breathing so softly.… “Why does she not awaken? She’s healed, Rathan said—why does she sleep?”
“Her mind heals itself,” Elminster replied. “Disturb her not, and calm thyself. A fine mage ye’ll make, with all this weeping and shouting! Come away, rest, and eat something!”
“I’m not hungry,” Narm muttered.
Jhessail rose and pulled him up, her slender arms surprisingly strong.
“Oh, aye,” Elminster replied in obvious disbelief, handing him a sausage. He produced a knife from somewhere in his sleeve and sawed at the hard piece of bread on his lap.
Narm stared at what he held, thought of Shandril and himself and sausages, and burst into laughter. It proved wilder than he’d expected—beyond him to stop, in fact. Tears came again as he rocked helplessly back and forth.
“Stable fellow, isn’t he?” Elminster inquired of the world at large. “Eat,” he commanded, thrusting Narm’s arm toward his mouth with a swiftly snapped spell.
Suddenly Narm ate ravenously.
Shaking his head, Elminster used magic to pluck a flask from where it lay beside Torm and loft it through the air to his own waiting hand. Torm snatched for it much too late.
Merith, who with Florin had been carefully examining the chamber, came to Narm in silence and touched his elbow.
Narm slowly surfaced from the sausage. “Umm? Oh, sorry!”
“No need for that, lad,” Merith told him. “What we do need is to know where the Shadowsil lies.”
Narm blinked at him. “There, among the rocks!” He pointed, but his hand moved uncertainly when he could not see Symgharyl Maruel’s feet.
“Aye,” Merith said soberly. “We thought so.”
“She’s gone?” Narm asked, astonished.
“She’s nowhere in this chamber,” Florin told him quietly. “Not even among the bodies at the entrance.”
“Then—where is she?” Narm asked, his mind still full of Shandril, spellfire, and sausages.
“I’m afraid,” the gleaming Knight told him, “we’ll find out soon enough!”
Her jaw ached abominably. That little bitch had broken it, and her arm and probably her cheek, too. The cheek was so swollen her left eye was almost shut.
Symgharyl Maruel was still able to hiss spells and command words, though, and it would not be long before that wench would pay.
Pay dearly. Burn off her legs with a favorite wand’s fire, and then her arms. Then set to work with a knife. Oh, she’d whimper and plead—until her tongue was cut out.
Symgharyl Maruel chuckled, wincing at the pain this brought to her jaw. Gods spit on the little whore!
The lady mage found her feet and unsteadily crossed her cave refuge. Too unsteadily. Gods, the pain! She leaned against the shelves that held her grimoires, arbatels, and librams. It was no use. She couldn’t study Art in this pain. Where were those thrice-damned potions?
The silver-strapped chest! Of course. She clawed her way along the shelves, fell on her knees, and fumbled it open with her good arm. Careful, now; the right ones …
She searched among many vials for a certain rune. It would not do to make a mistake now.
She’d never thought to need these, carefully gathered here so long ago. If one plays with fire, one must expect to get burned. Her burns at least had come later rather than sooner … but from a mere nothing of a girl, and with a rock!
She snarled through the blood in her mouth—and winced. The pain! Would it never end?
Never, indeed, if she didn’t drink the potions! Gather your wits, Symgharyl Maruel—who knows but one of them might follow here! Aye, the cave was spell-sealed, but not to anyone with a tracer spell.
There! This vial, and that one.
Carefully she drew the precious vials out and cradled them against her breast. She wormed her way across the floor to a heap of cushions where she was wont to lie and study. At last!
The liquid tasted clear and icy, with a tang of iron and an odd, faint scent. Symgharyl Maruel lay back. The balm spread in a delicious slow wave through her breast and shoulders and arms.
The stabbing, sickening pain in her arm sank to a dull throb. Ah, good. Now the second vial. Her long-ago mentor was a sentimental fool, but not devoid of cunning. He’d insisted she cache these potions, all those years ago.…
Well, even if he came to Rauglothgor’s lair, he could save neither the little thief nor the powerless lack-lore who’d tried to protect her. They’d been gone when she’d come to her senses, with a stranger in the cavern—a druid, by his garb—and the stench of burned flesh from the cave mouth. Doubtless Rauglothgor had cooked some reckless adventurers. Perhaps the wench was among them, but not likely; she’d interested Rauglothgor.
Well, too bad, Symgharyl Maruel thought savagely. The dracolich can be interested in her corpse.
The pain was almost gone. She could think. She rolled from the cushions to her feet. Her robes were well and truly torn. Breeches and boots, yes, and a half-cloak; she’d be dragon riding, if all went well. Wands, rings, and potions, too; adventurers were always trouble if you lacked Art enough to overmaster their every crazed attack. They’d give her no second chance.
Symgharyl Maruel began the complicated ritual of passing the magical and monstrous guardians of her main cache of Art.
Oh, yes, pain had to be repaid, thrice over and more. Blood would spill, indeed.
Far away, in a high cavern within a mountain, a dracolich sat on much gold. Before it knelt three men in armor. Its voice was a vast hiss that held the echoes of hammers on metal and high winds through leathery wings. Its glowing eyes floated chilling-white in dark eye sockets. Otherwise, it seemed a gigantic blue dragon, vast and terrible rather than skeletal, its scales gleaming in the torchlight.
“Treasure, yesss, good treasure,” it said. “As alwaysss. But I can play with treasure only ssso much. Pile it here, pile it there … asss with all, I grow bored. You never entertain me! What newsss in the world without?”
“A dracolich’s lair is despoiled!” rang out a new voice. “The followers need your great strength, O Aghazstamn!”
The dragon reared its spike-crested head. “Who comesss?”
Swords flashed as the three cultists scrambled to their feet and turned to seek the intruder.
They had not far to look. Upon a coach of iron with chased gold and ivory panels, half-buried in a sea of coins, stood a woman in black and purple. She was beautiful, proud, and alone, appearing out of thin air.
The warriors of the Cult of the Dragon came at her to slay. Gold coins slithered underfoot.
She raised a hand. Before them flashed the image of the dracolich Rauglothgor, its huge skeletal wings spread from wall to wall.
Aghazstamn hissed involuntarily and spread its own wings. Wind scattered treasure like drops of rain and hurled one warrior to fall among high heaps of coins.
The skeletal dragon spoke in a deep, booming voice. “The Shadowsil, mage of the Cult of the Dragon, stands before you and would serve you. She seeks aid for one who is not used to asking for it; I, Rauglothgor of the Thunder Peaks. I am beset by thieves. They have loosed a balhiir that confounds my spells. Will you aid me? Half my hoard is yours, Aghazstamn, if you come speedily! Let the lady ride you. You can trust her.” The bone dragon slowly faded away.
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