The Realms of the Elves a-11

by Коллектив Авторов

  Rhespen felt doubt, and a sorrowing softness, ache inside him. Scowling, he struggled to extinguish them. "I told you to be silent. Another word, and I truly will smite you."

  She sighed, bowed her head in submission, and they simply waited until cries of alarm sounded beyond the windows. He hauled Winterflower to the nearest one.

  The opening was narrow, and the wooden wall was as thick as Rhespen's arm was long. But by virtue of an enchantment, the window provided a broad field of vision even so, albeit stretched and distorted around the edges. Beyond it, sentries scurried along the ramparts, or raised their weapons to the sky. A shadow flowed over them, and something immense and golden flashed above the treetops.

  "Orchtrien," Winterflower groaned.

  "Yes," Rhespen said. "I knew that if I could find you, he could, too, but I hoped it wouldn't happen as fast as this."

  Arrows flew up at the gold. Most failed to pierce his scales, and he seemed to take no notice of the ones that did. He cocked back his head, snapped it forward, and spewed flame in such abundance that he must have an enchantment augmenting the quantity.

  The rebels had surely laid wards to keep their stronghold from burning. Still, the sweeping column of fire reduced mighty branches and sections of trunk to charcoal and ash in an instant. Warriors leaped from their stations to escape the onrushing flame, and for the most part, achieved only a death by falling. Smoke billowed through the air, though not thickly enough to hide the brightness of Orchtrien's exhalation. It carried the odor of seared flesh.

  But not everything burned. Some portions of the fortress, including most of the central shadowtop, proved resistant. After trying and failing to ignite them a second time, Orchtrien roared an incantation.

  Rhespen experienced the same fleeting sensation of heaviness, of being stuck to the floor, with which Winterflower had previously afflicted him. He could tell from the way she grunted and swayed that she felt it, too. No doubt everyone in the stronghold had.

  Orchtrien snarled another rhyme, whereupon a gigantic dome of rippling rainbows shimmered into existence over the fire-ravaged stronghold. The gold then wheeled and flew away.

  "Curse it!" Rhespen cried. Orchtrien had made certain that no one could flee with the stolen texts again, either by translating himself through space or eloping in a more conventional fashion.

  "It's the end," said Winterflower. She sounded almost matter-of-fact, but Rhespen could sense the anguish burning just below the surface. "All the lives we sacrificed. My degradation. My deceit and betrayal of you. All of it for nothing."

  Rhespen drew a deep, steadying breath. "I wonder… Orchtrien brought an army into the forest. He's gone to fetch it, and that gives us a little time. Let's see if we can put it to good use."

  Just before dusk, the shell of rainbows vanished.

  Orchtrien had to dispel it to bring his warriors close enough to threaten what remained of the rebel stronghold. His colossal form glided over the charred, spindly remnants of the trees.

  It was time. Rhespen looked at Winterflower, and she at him. The moment stretched on until it became clear that neither knew what to say. He settled for giving her a smile, then exited the library, walked down a little corridor, and stepped out onto a small platform in the open air, still foul with drifting, eye-stinging smoke and stench. He cast a series of enchantments on himself, raised his staff, and flew up above the treetops, where Orchtrien was.

  Some dragons, like Bexendral, could hover in place with a certain amount of difficulty. Orchtrien had mastered the trick of halting and floating effortlessly in midair, as if he were weightless as a cloud. He did so as he regarded Rhespen with his burning yellow stare.

  "I assumed," the dragon said, "that, having escaped your cell, you'd run as far from me as possible."

  Rhespen grinned. He felt as he had when he'd battled the green wyrm. He knew he should be terrified, but experienced a sort of crazy elation instead. It was exhilarating to defy one of the masters of the world.

  "That might have been prudent," he replied, "but as you can see, you were mistaken. You often are, whether you realize it or not."

  "I was certainly mistaken about you. Have you always been a traitor, then, in collusion with Winterflower from the start?"

  "No. She had to trick me into it, and after you explained the ruse to me, I was appalled at my folly. As recently as this morning, my one desire was to win your forgiveness."

  "Yet now it's plain, from your tone and manner as much as the place where I find you, that you mean to oppose me. Why?"

  "This may amuse you: I'm not certain myself. The sacrifice of all those warriors, year after year? The injuries to the woodlands? Your pet devil? The humiliation of my people, obliged to grovel to an overlord of another race? The humans who cheered me specifically as a 'dragonslayer,' a hint that they too chafe under your rule? Or perhaps I simply resent the way you treated me in particular. In any case, you're correct. I do stand with the rebellion."

  "So be it, then." Orchtrien spat a stream of flame.

  Rhespen brandished his staff, and the bright, crackling jet forked to pass him by on either side.

  "It won't be that easy," he said, "While you were bringing up your troops, I passed the time preparing spells I stole from your library."

  Unfortunately, even the great charm of unbinding hadn't eradicated the enchantment preventing teleportation, or obliterated the mystical barrier around the stronghold. But his afternoon of study had equipped him for arcane combat as never before.

  Orchtrien lashed his wings and hurtled forward. Luckily, the enchantment of flight Rhespen had cast on himself made him just as quick and considerably more nimble in the air, and he whirled out of the way. At the same time, he rattled off an incantation and brandished a talisman shaped like a silver snowflake.

  Enormous, sparkling, floating ice crystals leaped into existence directly in front of Orchtrien. As he streaked through them, their razor edges gashed his scales and ripped his leathery wings.

  The dragon wheeled, roared words of power, and spat. The exhalation leaped forth in the form of dozens of winged serpents composed of living flame. Flying as fast as arrows, they spread out with the obvious intent of encircling Rhespen and attacking from all sides.

  Recognizing that he had no hope of evading them all, Rhespen called to the spirits of the air. Whirlwinds sprang into existence all around him then leaped to intercept the snakes. The vortices engulfed, shredded, and extinguished the creatures of fire.

  Rhespen experienced an instant of satisfaction, which gave way to fear when he perceived that, while he was busy dealing with the serpents, Orchtrien had taken advantage of his preoccupation to attempt to close with him. The wyrm had climbed above him then furled his wings and plummeted, talons poised to seize and rend.

  Rhespen whipped himself to the side. One of the dragon's claws caught a fold of his cloak and tore the garment from his shoulders, giving his neck a painful jerk. The scalloped edge of a colossal pinion swept past, nearly bashing him. Then Orchtrien was below him, turning, lashing his wings to gain altitude once more.

  Lower still, all the way down on the ground, the royal army began its assault on what was left of the rebel stronghold. Tiny with distance, but the unnatural white of his long hair conspicuous even so, Maldur waved a line of warriors forward. Rhespen could only hope that one of his fellow elves would succeed in killing his longtime rival, because, the Black Archer knew, he was unlikely to find an opportunity himself.

  Indeed, orienting on him anew, Orchtrien already required his attention. He hammered the dragon with a downpour of acid that seemed to do him little harm. Orchtrien riposted with a charm that turned a portion of his adversary's blood to fire and poison in his veins. Rhespen convulsed in agony, and rather to his surprise, the pain abated. The spell had injured him, perhaps grievously, but not enough to kill him instantly. Most likely one of his defensive enchantments had shielded him from the full effect.

  As twilight faded into night,
he and Orchtrien fought on, assailing one another with all the powers at their disposal, fire, cold, lightning, terror, blight, transformation, and madness. Meanwhile, warriors battled on the ground, and in each case, the struggle proceeded about as Rhespen had anticipated.

  The stolen texts had augmented his powers considerably, but Orchtrien, who'd had centuries to master the secrets contained therein, was still the better mage, and in addition, possessed an overwhelming superiority in toughness and stamina that enabled him to weather attack after attack. Despite the damage to his wings, the dragon still flew as fast and maneuvered as ably as ever, still hammered his opponent with spell after spell. Blistered and frostbitten, his whole body aching, Rhespen was running low on magic, and questioned his ability to cast much more of it in any case. Pain and fatigue eroded his concentration.

  The defenders in the trees were in just as desperate a condition. From the little that Rhespen had been able to observe, they'd fought well, but they needed more than valor to withstand their foes. Orchtrien had simply killed too many of them, and burned too much of their system of fortifications, before the present battle even started.

  Sadly, there was nothing to be done about it. Nothing but keep resisting for as long as they could.

  Rhespen conjured an animate blade seemingly made of inky shadow. It was all but invisible against the night sky, and as he sent it flying at Orchtrien, he dared to hope that even a dragon might not see it coming.

  Orchtrien disappointed him by snarling a rhyme. White flame outlined the dark blade, and it crumpled in on itself and disappeared. The milky blaze, however, remained. It floated in the air for another heartbeat then flung itself at Rhespen.

  He tried to dodge, and the streak of white fire twisted to compensate. It splashed against his chest.

  The impact didn't hurt, indeed, he didn't even feel it, and wondered if somehow, miraculously, the spell hadn't affected him. Then he realized he was falling. The flame had burned away his charm of flight, and most likely, all his defensive enchantments as well.

  With the aid of his staff, he could at least float and so keep from plummeting to his death. He could only move straight up and down, and had little hope of dodging his foe's subsequent attacks. He began to conjure the phantom duplicates that had confused the ghargatula. Then something slammed into his back, and he passed out.

  When he woke, his various pains had given way to numbness. Yet he still had a feeling that something was hideously wrong, and when he looked down at himself, he found out what it was. Dark with blood, one of Orchtrien's talons stuck out of his chest. The dragon had gotten behind him somehow, struck, and driven the claw completely through his torso.

  "Poor fool," Orchtrien said, actually sounding a shade regretful. "Did you really imagine that, because you killed a green, you could defeat me?"

  "I did defeat you," Rhespen croaked, praying it was so.

  Winterflower spent a month in the hut by the sea before accepting the grim truth that no one else was coming to keep the rendezvous.

  After Orchtrien's initial assault, everyone had known the rebellion was doomed. But they'd dared to hope they could save the stolen texts, so other elves could employ them another day.

  The question was, how? Orchtrien's first enchantment precluded the use of sending spells, and the shimmering, multicolored cage he'd dropped over the stronghold would prevent anyone from fleeing on foot until such time as his army surrounded the place.

  At that point, however, the shell would come down. Accordingly, the rebels had entrusted one of the copybooks to each of a number of runners, who would employ magic, guile, and their knowledge of the terrain to try to slip past the advancing royal troops and vanish into the forest.

  It might work-but not if Orchtrien oversaw events on the ground. His wizardry was too powerful, his senses too acute, and he'd be too intent on divesting his foes of their plundered lore. Therefore, Rhespen had volunteered to engage the dragon high in the air and keep him occupied long enough for his newfound allies to attempt their escape.

  He'd managed it, too, even though it had surely cost him his life. The problem was that even so, none of the other runners had made it through the enemy lines. Maldur and his ilk had killed or captured them all.

  So everyone else had died to salvage a single text-and what a text it was! Winterflower and the other runners had divided up the copybooks in haste, without paying any particular attention to who was getting what. Later on, when she'd had the leisure to examine the tome in her possession, she'd discovered it wasn't really a spellbook at all, but rather an abstract metaphysical treatise on the fundamental nature of dragons and their links to the forces of creation, to the elements of nature and the stars.

  Thus, it couldn't teach her how to strip hundreds of people at once of the ability to employ teleportation, or how to imprison an entire stronghold in a bubble of force. It couldn't provide her with any sort of weapon or tool at all. Her mouth twisting, tears stinging her eyes and blurring her vision, she lifted it to fling it onto her mean little fire.

  But she couldn't bring herself to do it, couldn't bear to concede finally and completely that all the sacrifice had been in vain. Orchtrien had kept the book locked away in his tower of wizardry, hadn't he? Surely that suggested it could serve some practical purpose.

  She conjured a floating orb of soft white light, opened the volume, and started to read it again.

  Eighty-nine years later, late in the spring, Orchtrien and his court repaired to the gardens to enjoy the balmy night air and the spectacle of the comet. Burning a fiery red, its tail spanning much of the heavens, it was a fascinating sight. Indeed, the dragon could hardly tear his eyes away from it.

  Though everyone wanted him to-all the tiny, scurrying folk wheedling and whining for his attention. He reminded himself that it was part of being the king, and a part he usually enjoyed, but at the moment, that didn't make it any easier to tolerate.

  In his present humor, the jabbering, blathering mites seemed as contemptible as gnats, and when he felt obliged to glance down at them, he discovered the light of the new star still colored his vision, as if he saw them through a haze of blood.

  Something about that made him feel excited and uneasy at the same time. He shifted his gaze back to the sky, and a hand stroked his foreleg, startling him.

  "Let's go to my chambers," a husky voice purred. He looked down at a human woman, and after a moment remembered she was his current mistress, though even then, her name escaped him. "I can show you better sport than this."

  He picked up his foot and stamped her to paste.

  For an instant, he was appalled at himself, then a wave of elation swept the previous feeling away. He licked up what remained of an arm and gobbled it, tasting human flesh for the first time. It was savory enough to make him shudder with pleasure.

  But even so, it couldn't long distract from the even greater ecstasy of slaughter. He killed another human, and another, until he lost count.

  Indeed, he lost nearly all sense of himself. He only vaguely comprehended and cared not at all that he was laying waste to his own palace. And once he ran out of prey there, he went on destroying his way across his own city.

  Nor did he consider the implications when he smashed his way into the fortress where he'd quartered much of his army. Or register the pain of the wounds he suffered when the men-at-arms and war wizards, trapped and desperate, started fighting back.

  Until the strength spilled out of him all at once, and he flopped forward onto his belly. Then a measure of clarity returned.

  He tried and failed to stand. Struggled to muster another blast of flame and couldn't manage that, either. His sight dimmed.

  Meanwhile, warriors stabbed and chopped at him. It shouldn't be happening. If he'd fought as he was accustomed to, using his intellect and magic, he could have crushed a dozen armies. But he'd engaged them like a rabid beast, and here was the result.

  "The red star murdered me," he whispered.

 
Conceivably, someone heard. For in the days that followed, as all the wyrms in Faerun ran mad at once, slaughtering those closest to them, their loyal lieutenants and warlords, first of all, destroying all that they themselves had built, people began to name the comet the King-Killer.

  THE STAFF OF VALMAXIAN

  Philip Athans

  The 23rd Year of the Sapphire (-7628 DR)

  The heat from the explosion seared Valmaxian's unsuspecting lungs from precisely five hundred ninety-eight feet, seven inches away. It burst into a perfect sphere of orange fire, traced with veins of red and flashes of yellow, and a painful white at its heart. It rolled out of its central point to a diameter of forty feet in the time it took for Valmaxian to close his eyes against the blast. He put his hands to his face and felt the Shockwave tousle his long blue-green hair and whip his plain white satin robe around him.

  "Oh, no," he breathed, then coughed once, trying to hold the rest of the coughs in.

  The Shockwave passed, but residual heat washed over him and drew sweat out of every pore in his trembling body to plaster the silk robe tightly to him.

  "Well," his mentor said over a sharp exhale, "that was… less than successful."

  Valmaxian let his hands fall to his side, his fingers balled into tight fists. He blinked open his eyes and waited for the spots to clear, listening to his mentor's footsteps approach. The spots cleared, and Valmaxian could see the fine gold inlays in the green marble floor. The gold traced a series of precise lines and arcs that marked the distance from the center of the room and defined various angles. It was how he knew with such precision how far away from the center of the blast he stood.

  Valmaxian looked up, ignoring the scope of the enormous chamber. The domed ceiling soared twelve hundred feet above his head, the inside of the dome likewise marked with radii and calibrations. The round casting chamber-his mentor's private studio-was exactly two thousand feet in diameter, the centerpiece of the fifth largest building in the Western Provinces of Siluvanede, the kingdom of the Gold elves and all that remained of the past glory of mighty Aryvandaar.