by Ed Greenwood
The runes slowed to a lazy crawl, seemed to freeze for a moment, and then flowed slowly into clear, unwavering clarity. They were in Thorass, Auld Common, with its flutings and grand swirls, and read:
Sit not alone
On Thalon’s cold throne
Unless alone ye would be
Unmatched master of wizardry.
Sit ye there overnight
And of Art gain great sight
Wise beyond that of any mage
In the Realms, of this age.
Laeral’s lips twisted. A labored rhyme, to say the least, one she’d come across several times before in lore books and libraries of the North. This was the oldest instance yet, though, and the only concealed one. Moreover, it had a codicil she’d never seen before: two lines of detailed directions to the throne. It was apparently in a tower in the High Forest somewhere near Alander, the Lost Peaks.
Well enough. It was high time to go adventuring again.
THIS HAD BETTER BE WORTH MY TIME, LITTLE WORM. MY PATIENCE IS AT AN END FOR DIVERSION, NO MATTER HOW ENTERTAINING.
Everything is worth your time, Lord Nergal … or were you in a hurry to go somewhere?
[growl, slap, wry diabolic smile]
“At least tell me where you’re going,” Blaskyn said, showing her his easy grin. “Then I’ll know where to look for you if Elminster the Mighty or some king or other comes calling.”
Laeral smiled back at the eager mageling, then shrugged. Judging by his past behavior, the prettier lasses of Loudwater would have more to worry about while she was gone than she need trouble about the safety of the magic in her tower.
She smiled at herself. Save for her Art, she was one of those young local lasses. And pretty, too, if the words of some could be believed.
Well, she’d trusted Blaskyn enough these past years, and nothing ill had come of it.
“I go chasing legends, Master Blaskyn.”
“As always,” he said, bowing like a courtier of Silverymoon.
Laeral wrinkled her nose at him. “I seek Thalon’s Throne—a stone seat said to have been fashioned by the archmage Thalon, in the days before Myth Drannor rose.”
“Any wizard who sits upon the seat overnight will acquire mastery of wizardry greater than any living mage,” Blaskyn quoted in a singsong voice. “I’ve read that in four different places in your books here alone!”
He cocked his head at her. “With all the folk who must have read about the throne down the years, you think there’s still anything there?”
Laeral shrugged again. “To be a mage, one must be a seeker after knowledge.” She quoted the old maxim mildly.
Blaskyn sighed. “It would seem a wizard can use that phrase to cover any amount of nose-poking into other’s affairs,” he said, innocently addressing the ceiling.
Laeral chuckled. “Including your own, ah, moonlit lady-walks on Wychmoon Hill?”
Blaskyn colored, looked at her silently for a moment, and grinned again. “Speaking of which,” he added thoughtfully, a moment later, “doesn’t the verse about the throne speak of not ‘sitting alone’?”
Laeral shook her head. “No, Master Blaskyn. You’re not coming. Not this time, at least.” She went to a dark suit of plate armor that stood against a wall. Had it not been so covered with dust, it would have looked quite menacing.
“I need you here,” Laeral said, tugging the heavy helm off the stand and turning to offer it to him. “Here, looking after my affairs in the village, and gathering news.” She thrust the rather plain old war-helm into his hands. Blaskyn looked down at it and then up at her, brow raised in silent query.
“The Helm of Hiding,” Laeral told him. “The rest of the armor is simply so much shaped metal.” (This was not strictly true, but no mage ever surrenders all her secrets willingly.) “It hides you from searching magic, and all Art prying into the mind. At will, you can cloak yourself in shadows and escape most searching eyes. Use it if powerful foes come to call. If you value your life and Art, Blaskyn, hide—don’t challenge! The spellbooks you’ve been shown are yours to use freely. The others, you will not find.”
Blaskyn smiled and nodded. “Of course. I’ll have things enough to try with what you’ve made available; you needn’t fear I’ll go rummaging through the tower the moment you’re out the door. Or later, for that matter.” He cocked his head to look at the ceiling again. “So long as I spell-lock the upper doors, may I have visitors—ones who aren’t adept at Art?”
Laeral wrinkled her nose. “One at a time, I hope. And no drunken feasts—in a house of magic, the results can be fatal as well as spectacular.”
Blaskyn nodded again, all traces of levity gone. “I ask again, Lady: Are you sure you should go alone?”
Laeral laughed. “I won’t be alone. I’ll have this.” She took up the rod that lay on the cushion beside her seat. “This is the most precious of my things. It goes always with me.”
Blaskyn shook his head. “It was you who told me,” he reminded her, “that a mage who trusts in the magic of items trusts himself too much.”
Laeral returned his gaze, and answered gently, “Trust not too much in your own magic while I’m gone, Blaskyn. Guard your words and deeds carefully, for Art alone will not carry you through all the dangers of life.”
“Another maxim?” Blaskyn sighed. “You’d better go, before I fall asleep.”
Laeral gave him one of her looks. She unrolled the scroll that would teleport her to a hill she knew, where the River Dessarin flowed out of the High Forest. “I don’t plan to be gone long,” she added.
Blaskyn grinned. “Lost is the wizard who depends on plans, for the whims of the gods twist them always awry,” he chanted the old maxim at her triumphantly.
Laeral gave him another choice look just before she disappeared.
HMMPH. NOW I’M BEING FED HUMAN PHILOSOPHY? THIS HAD BETTER BE WORTH THE ATTENTION, LITTLE MAGE.
Aye.
“AYE”? IS THAT ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY? COULD THE GREAT ELMINSTER THE MIGHTY BE RUNNING OUT OF CLEVERNESS AT LAST?
As to that, we’ll see.
[dark look from flaming red eyes, wary pincers stealing forth]
IF THIS IS SOME SORT OF TRICK …
[silence, images deftly unfolding]
In the gathering twilight, the ruined tower rose out of dark encircling trees like the black blade of an upright sword. Laeral eyed it critically and cast another spell. Once it cloaked her, she went forward to the tumbled, overgrown pillars that had once marked the gate of a courtyard.
Within, gnarled, twisted tree roots thrust aside the paving slabs. No birds sang in the branches, and the feeling of waiting death was strong. Her Art told her no magic waited close by—but if a hidden beast still guarded the keep in the traditional wizards’ way, it would be about here.
The moss-covered boulder just inside the gate rose with menacing speed. Laeral used the flight spell she’d just cast to propel her away, soaring up and back to hover in midair.
As earth fell away, the rising rock opened eyes and regarded her with a look that was unsurprised but rather weary. It was a human-shaped head with beautiful female features of a green-gray hue and was as tall as she. The head swayed atop a massive serpentine body. A naga.
“So young and so pretty,” it said. “Come ye here, maiden, but to die?”
“That is not my intent,” Laeral replied calmly, preparing to move quickly. “Who set thee here, and what is thy purpose against me or my entry?”
“Thalon set me to guard this place and, by my powers, to slay all who cannot use Art to avoid me,” the deadly guardian replied. Its eyes flickered.
The bolt that leaped from its mouth was too fast for the mage to avoid entirely. Protective Art flashed as it crackled along her flank. Laeral wasted no Art in battle but extended her aerial dodge into a twisting, darting dive toward the dark, waiting windows of the tower beyond.
Behind her, the naga hissed sadly, “Ye will not find what ye expect to, when ye reach th
e throne.” By its tone, it seemed to like her.
The mage scarcely had time to be surprised at that. She cautiously slowed her approach to the nearest arched window but struck a solid barrier of invisible force, hard.
Had she been flying a little faster, Laeral thought as she tumbled away through the air, she’d have broken her neck. Bruised, she rose again cautiously and approached the next darkly gaping window … then another. Before all of them were barriers—barriers her detection spell did not show. They were there nonetheless. The lone exception flared with such a bright aura of magic that Laeral suspected the traps it held would outnumber even a handful of dispellings.
She settled cautiously to the ground and approached the lone doorway of the tower. It stood open, dark and waiting, its doors fallen. There was no magic about it that her spells could find.
Time to play the hero, Laeral told herself. Unbidden, the next line of the ballad came to mind: Time to play the fool. Sighing, she stepped forward into darkness.
Dust swirled within; dust clung to cobwebs all about. All was dark and cold and still. Laeral gently took flight again, her feet treading air inches above the dusty stones. If Tymora smiled, she’d be safer that way.
Softly glowing motes of light kept Laeral company. She floated slowly and carefully from room to room of the tower. In one lay a gigantic stone block, fallen from the ceiling. The shattered, yellowed bones of a human skeleton protruded from under one corner. Its arms reached vainly, its jaw open in an eternal silent scream. Laeral floated over it in wary silence.
A little farther, as expected, there was a pit. More skeletons lay below, twisted and broken on dust-covered spikes—the death she had expected. Warily she advanced, wondering when she’d find the traps against those who flew.
All too soon she saw a spray of quarrels, projecting like the stems of some sort of thorny plant from one side of a dark wooden archway ahead. The skeleton among them still had scraps of dark brown sinew dangling from it.
Laeral halted before the arch and unclasped her cloak. Floating in the air, she swirled it forward.
There was a dull snapping sound. A quarrel leaped from a hidden fissure and tore through its folds to join the cluster in the arch, quivering.
Laeral swung the torn cloth again, but no more quarrels came. Rolling the cloak around her forearms as a sort of shield, she darted through the arch, diving low and to the side.
The rusty blade that squealed across the top of the arch missed her entirely.
Laeral sighed again. She wondered when she’d run into the trap that would try to strip any magic items she’d brought. Unfortunately, traps one knows about kill just as effectively as the unknown sort. At least, Laeral thought wryly, I haven’t run out of maxims yet.
FIRE OF NESSUS, NOR HAS SHE! LITTLE MAN, IS THIS GOING SOMEWHERE?
[silence]
[slow diabolic growl, eyes kindling into flame]
When it came, it was as blunt and effective as she’d thought it would be. The ground floor rooms had proven empty, stripped of all but skeletal corpses. Even these had mysteriously lost whatever they’d carried or worn.
The way down was flooded and choked with stone rubble, but the way up was an open stair. A skull had been placed neatly on the bottom step, grinning at her challengingly. Laeral sneered at it and flew up the stairs. Her rod rose to ward off blades and deflect quarrels.
The stair turned. The air all around her was suddenly full of springing, leaping, clutching claws—skeletal human and bestial hands that tore at her hair, face, and form, snatching and wrenching and grabbing.
Laeral swerved sharply to strike one wall with her shoulder. She rolled to run her back along the wall as she flew on, faster. Bony hands crunched unpleasantly under her spine and shoulders and fell away.
Smashing a hand out of the air with her rod, Laeral tore the throttling grasp of another from her throat. She reached up grimly to break fingers off yet another claw that was crawling down her scalp toward her eyes. Snarling, the sorceress plunged toward the steps to smash away the hands on her legs, moving like so many cold and crawling spiders.
She saw the danger just in time. Anyone on foot would have done just that, by now, and no doubt there’d be a trap waiting for them. Laeral turned her dive into a roll in midair just above the step.
The toe of one of her boots brushed the stone, and a row of iron spikes suddenly thrust upward. Laeral felt one scrape her arm coldly as she rose, leaving behind a pinioned, feebly wiggling claw.
Growling, Laeral tore another claw from her head. Handfuls of hair came too. She flung it away, twisting in midair without pause to pluck other claws from her legs. “Crawling claws,” these bony hands were called. Wizards had used them as guardians for a long, long time. Laeral wondered if she’d ever feel free of the bruises this lot had left.
At least they didn’t fly after her. Prying a last claw from her thigh, she punched it against the wall as she flew on. Finger bones bounced and sprayed, clattering off stone.
Another arch opened ahead. Blades snapped from both above and below this time. Laeral plunged and twisted desperately in the air, sweating now. She won past both seeking rusty steel edges—straight into a humming flight of quarrels. She arched away with furious haste and escaped with only a burning graze. One of the shafts had been swift, and she almost too slow.
Almost, aye. She flew on up the curving stairs to where they opened into a huge, dark, high-ceilinged hall. There the mage waited, floating cautiously above the last step. Motes of light stole about the room at her bidding, searching the vaulted ceiling, tapestry-hung walls, and dusty stone floor like wandering fireflies.
The room was bare save for rotting tapestries—now only strips of black, cobwebbed rags—and a simple seat carved from one massive block of stone. Half-hidden behind one of the decaying hangings was a stone shelf that held a watchful row of yellowing human skulls.
The whole thing was another trap, no doubt. Laeral let her lights wander back to her as she pondered what to do next.
Bars of faint radiance suddenly sprang into being all around her. A calm, rasping voice with an unpleasant rattle in it said from behind her, “Welcome, mageling. Who are ye, and whence hail ye?”
Laeral spun about as she dispelled the force cage. Its collapse and the end of her flight dropped her to the steps. She faced her assailant.
He was tall and thin, half-skeletal—a lich clad in a cowled black robe. Two cold white flames leaped in black pits where his eyes should have been. He smiled as his lips moved soundlessly. Bony fingers moved in gestures smooth with long practice.
Laeral sighed—was everything in this place to be a well-worn jest? She plucked a small token from her belt. It was shaped like a buckler of silvery hue and grew speedily to cover her hand.
She was in time. The lich’s spell struck her and rebounded from the shield. It gleamed with sudden light and sang faintly.
Another spell followed. This time the shield blazed away to nothingness in her fingers, consumed by the power sent against it. The lich advanced slowly and deliberately up the stairs, ignoring the spells that crashed into him.
Laeral retreated into the room. Everything she’d faced in the tower thus far had been the tired stuff of apprentices’ tales—perhaps this place was so ancient that they’d all been fresh, or the only known means, when it was built.
The rattling voice came again. “Silent, pretty maiden? A spell shield wasted on a mere sleep spell and a simple charm—and no attack on thy part? Not a word to me? How unlike a mage, not to want to talk!”
The lich raised its hand and hurled forked lightning at her. Laeral ran toward one bolt and leaped over it. Her hair danced as death crackled under her. She slammed hard into the floor and found herself fighting for air.
The lich seemed unsurprised that its attack had missed. “Have ye come just for the throne?”
Laeral saved her breath for counterspells, dispelling in turn another charm, an attempt to telekinese her farther i
nto the room, and a spell that made her eyes water and blur ere she foiled it. She was still backing away when roaring flames enveloped her.
The odor of singed hair hung around her, but the protective shield Laeral always wore saved her from serious harm. It flickered to the verge of exhaustion. She moved quickly to one side—but even as the last of the hungry flames rolled away into nothingness, bony hands were moving again. Laeral felt the naked feeling of her magic being stripped away.
Hastily she cast another shield of cold fire around herself. This must be what a target in an archers’ shooting gallery feels like!
As her foe advanced, Laeral reached to her bodice sheath and drew forth the only wand she carried. Hard-eyed, she blasted the lich with magic missiles.
They struck home, but the undead mage calmly continued its advance. Laeral fired again, her mystic bolts swarming around the black robes. Expressionlessly the lich raised a bony hand and struck back with similar missiles of its own.
Blazing agony lanced into her in five places. Laeral screamed and shuddered involuntarily at the pain, doubling over. The lich advanced.
“Thy name, she-mage?” it asked again, in dry, almost mocking tones.
Laeral made no reply. Setting her teeth, she snatched one of her daggers from its boot sheath and rose from her knees. She hissed a spell of her own devising. As the dagger spun through the air, her Art snarled around it. It grew longer, flashing and whirling as it went, becoming—a sword.
Gleaming steel whipped end-over-end through the gloom to strike the lich’s shoulder. Bone crumbled amid spurting dust, and one skeletal arm fell away from the lich to the floor, collapsing there in dusty splinters.
The lich advanced as though nothing had occurred. “If this continues,” it told her calmly, “I shan’t be able to guard the throne—and ye’ll have won.”
Laeral rolled her eyes. What children’s tale had all of this come from? She dodged aside desperately as the lich cast lightning at her again and snapped out a counterspell.