by Ed Greenwood
* * * * *
“Hold hard!” barked one of the guards at the doors, swinging a halberd up from the floor to menace her.
Storm raised an eyebrow. “To what?” she asked tartly. From somewhere beyond the ruined door at the guard’s back, she heard Erlandar Summerstar laugh.
“It’s her,” the boldshield and the senior war wizard told the guard in unison, and he scowled and lowered his weapon.
“The way she came running up here …”
“You’d do more than run, man,” Thalance Summerstar told him crisply, “if you were trying to make it through all those blasts and falls of stone!”
Broglan stepped forward a pace ahead of Ergluth Rowanmantle. “Are you—well? Did you meet with the foe?”
“I’m fine,” Storm said, stretching. “Just a little weary—I’d grown unused to doing things without Mystra’s power. No, I didn’t see him, but I watched him bring down an entire turret, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he didn’t stop with just one, eith—”
She broke off and spun around. Someone was running toward them in the darkness, someone panting and not young and fit to begin with. Storm took two quick steps and put her hand on the guard’s ready halberd, forcing its point down to the floor.
“What’re you—” he snarled at her, straining with all his brawn to wrestle his weapon up again, and finding it as immobile as stone.
“Stand easy,” Ergluth ordered gently, putting a hand on the Purple Dragon’s shoulder.
Storm raised a hand. Everyone there fell suddenly silent as they saw a lone silver flame rise slowly from it. She held her palm up by her shoulder as if she held something she could hurl, and asked the darkness, “Who comes in such haste?”
The running steps halted, staggered, and then came on more slowly. “Insprin Turnstone, lady,” a breathless voice called back.
“The dragon watches!” Broglan snapped.
“And never smiles,” a reply came wearily out of the darkness. The speaker came forward into their torchlight. The senior war wizard relaxed; Insprin had obviously given the correct password to his challenge.
The older mage came up to them, still gasping for breath. He was covered with dust, and his sparse hair was in a wild twist of disarray.
“Are you all right?” Broglan demanded. “Did you see Corathar? Or Lady Shayna Summerstar?”
Insprin shrugged. “Corathar’s out there somewhere—we’d best look for him if we want to find him before the foe does.”
He looked down at his hand, and held up what was still clenched in his fingers. Erlandar made a wordless sound as he recognized the tatters of Shayna’s gown.
“I got this close to her,” the old wizard said directly to the two Summerstar men. The guards around them drew back silently, watching the blood drain out of the nobles’ faces. Insprin added quietly, “She tried to lure me into the Haunted Tower—but when we got there, she started to howl and bark like a dog, and then ran off—to him. I tried to hold her back, but …” He shrugged. “I dared not follow; if I fell with none of you knowing her fate, or that she belongs to the foe.…”
“No,” Erlandar whispered hoarsely. “No.” Then he spread his hands slowly, and turned around, gazing at all the grim men gathered there.
“If any hand must slay Shayna Summerstar,” he said slowly, “let it be mine. None other must take her—not even you, Thalance. If you get out of this, it must not be with blood-guilt riding your shoulders for the rest of your days. Let it be bad old Uncle Erlandar.”
To Storm he said, “Lady, I never thought to beg any woman for anything … but if you can bring our Shayna out of this—the Shayna we know—anything you ask shall be yours. The vale, the keep, all of it, if you want!”
Storm shook her head slightly. “I’ll restore Shayna to you all, if I can. If, I said; Harpers don’t make promises they cannot keep.” She turned to the guard whose halberd she still held. “Bring all the torches.”
Then she set off into the darkness.
“Storm—what’re y—” Broglan began, and she turned around.
“How else do you expect to rescue our strayed ones?” she asked simply. “Come with me, all who will. Those who remain behind, be free in your choice and without shame.”
Then she turned her head to lock eyes with Erlandar, and said, “One more thing, lord—if my hand does save Shayna, there will be no price. Saving things for their own sake is what Harpers do.” She smiled faintly and headed back into the darkness.
There was a general roar as the men at her back scrambled to follow her.
Fifteen
CAT, AND MOUSE, AND DARK LORD
“Ah, they come at last,” the man who was not Maxer purred. He perched on the broken edge of a room that was no more. “Full of fear that makes them desperate, willing to face even the fabled phantoms of the Haunted Tower—we know what makes them run, though, don’t we?”
Shayna opened her mouth to reply—and closed it again in horror as the unmistakable voice of her grandmother Pheirauze came out of the shapeshifter’s mouth. “Of course we do, Gallant One. Make them truly fear the Summerstars, so that none dare set foot in Firefall Keep without our leave! Let them taste the fire I did, my Dark Master!”
The laughter that followed veered sickeningly from the cold, brittle mirth of Pheirauze to the hearty bellow that was the shapeshifter’s own.
“They call me the foe,” he mused aloud, breaking off his laughter abruptly. “Astonishingly apt.” He smiled thinly, and said, “Yet if I am to prevail against them when they’re finally sensible enough to come at me all together, I’ll need to burn me another wizard or two.”
He leapt up. His eyes went vacant, the way they looked when he was impressing commands on the Hungry Man. This time, no doubt, the Dark Master would be sending him away from the coming fray.
The shapeshifter swung around so that his lips could brush hers. “You, my pretty one,” he murmured, “must be the lure that endangers Storm. Do not mind-speak to me unless she brings clear doom to you; she can hear when we talk so. Lead her on a dance—topple stones upon her, appear where she cannot follow, wear her out running … but take her away from the stalwart men of Firefall Keep, after I split them. Slay her not—for that is to be the finale of our feast.”
“It shall be my pleasure, Master,” Shayna whispered in his ear, and kissed it. He gave her a savage grin, slapped her shoulder, and growled, “Let us be about it, then! To war, for the bloody joy of it!”
He grew a tentacle that soared across the open area of his devastation. The limb snapped around the end of a roof beam. Another tentacle took her by the waist, and then the air was rushing past their ears as they swung across the emptiness of the night.
Shayna saw a few stars glittering above them, and then felt stone and tile under their feet again.
Her master said, “Don’t mind-speak now, but heed: if you see Storm, cry out her name—sob, as if you’re terrified—and run toward her. The moment you get behind cover, stop and dodge away. Once you’re both away from the others, just try to stay ahead of her. I’ll do the rest. Hold still.”
He murmured something, touched her eyeballs with cool, feather-gentle fingertips, and said, “There. Now you can see in darkness.”
She could. “How long does the spell last?”
He shrugged. “If it fails and Storm’s close behind you, feign collapse, and I will free you when you awaken.”
She looked down at her hands and her tattered gown. “Shouldn’t I have a weapon? I—I’m all but naked.”
“And that will be a weapon, if any of the men ever get close to you. Don’t worry about who sees you. Save for Storm, none of them will see another dawn.”
* * * * *
The torches wavered. One of the men cried out and swung his blade at something that moved in the gloom beside him. It faded away almost mockingly: a ghostly helm on the shoulders of a spectral warrior striding along a corridor that was no longer there.
“Easy,” Ergluth
said, his voice deep and calm. “We’re in the Haunted Tower, now—there’ll be other phantasms.”
No one lowered a weapon. The two war wizards had their wands out, and only Storm walked barehanded, her blade riding ready on her hip.
The flickering torchlight showed them chaos ahead. Stone rubble was strewn everywhere, in some places heaped almost to the ceilings of chambers it had flowed into. The twisted, half-buried form of a chambermaid spoke silently of how swiftly and violently the collapse had come.
“Gods,” one of the men muttered, “what’re we fighting?”
“One who is insane,” Storm told them all in level tones. “If he strikes, don’t flee, but attack from all sides, repeatedly. We might push him howling over the edge, and he would cease to be a real threat.”
“Is that a Harper’s promise?” one of the armsmen asked almost slyly. There were hollow chuckles from those around him.
As if the mirth had been a cue, a sudden flash and roar came from above and ahead. The standing stump of a lone pillar toppled into their midst, showering jagged rocks in all directions as it came.
“Scatter!” Ergluth roared, scant seconds before the crash came. They all heard one agonized scream before the deafening thunder smote them.
Almost immediately, lightning cracked and snarled through the dust cloud above the tumbled stones of the pillar, reaching into the area the armsmen in the rear had fled to. There were more cries.
“Fall back!” Ergluth roared out of the darkness. “Back into the open hall—Redgarth Hall, where the stair had fallen!” He took two steps forward, holding his sword carefully upright so as not to stab anyone and reached down to where he knew a man lay.
His fingers encountered something shattered and sticky. He straightened with a sigh—only to stiffen, cold fear stabbing at his heart, as a voice said in his ear, “I’m the one he wants. I’ll skulk off by myself and see if I can draw him away.”
“Ye gods, woman!” he snarled. “Don’t scare me like that! Why …” And then he fell silent. She was gone.
He stood still for a moment, breathing hard, staring around into the darkness and trying to see. There were no torches left alight hereabouts—only over there, beyond where the pillar had crushed a dozen men or more.
Time to start earning the tall stacks of coins a boldshield was paid—tall if they were coppers, at least.
As Ergluth turned that way, he saw under the shattered stone the agonized face of a veteran, a man he knew well. The armsman’s back was broken; the pillar had crushed him below the waist, and now he was twisting and contorting in soundless agony, drumming one fist vainly against the ruined floor tiles.
Without hesitation, the boldshield said gravely, “You shall be avenged,” and drove his sword in deep through that gaping mouth, to end the pain.
Time indeed to start earning those coins.
* * * * *
Storm went forward like a soft shadow moving through the gloom. Her eyes could see as well as those of any cat. Sometimes it was useful to be a Chosen of Mystra. The foe had been above them, and just about … there. If she took that stair—
The night behind her suddenly lit up with a burst of flame, and she heard more screams and groans. More Purple Dragons down. She set her teeth grimly. Still, if they’d stayed in the rooms by the kitchens, the shapeshifter could have strolled up and cooked them all at leisure by hurling that same spell into their laps … At least this way the armsmen would die with swords in their hands. Still—they died.
There was a second flash, a little nearer. This one showed Storm a lone figure standing two rooms away, staring at her: Shayna Summerstar.
“Storm!” the young woman screamed. “Lady Storm! Save meeee!” She broke into a run, bare feet slapping on the stones in her frantic haste.
“Shayna!” the bard cried. She took twelve quick strides to the right, into deep shadow, and drew her sword.
It would be a bright sunset and a royal visit here, both, before she’d believe that lass was anything but a pawn of the foe.
She waited, still and silent. As long, wary breaths dragged by, she knew she’d been right. Shayna would have reached her by now if that terrified run had been genuine.
As if that thought had been a cue, there were scattered shouts from far off behind her, and one despairing wail. The foe was on the loose.
Storm glared into the darkness and then set forth like a panther on the hunt. If she let this go on, she might be the only defender still alive by the time the sun rose over the ruin of Firefall Keep. Yet she could do nothing to stop it that would not endanger her friends even more … and all this death was coming down on them because of her.
They died just as Maxer had died.
Sometimes it was a terrible thing to be a Chosen of Mystra.
Enough brooding. Somewhere off to the right should be the outermost passageway, and a stair that would take her up. Then she could circle back toward the foe. Shayna Summerstar, pretty little lure that she was, would have to start following, not lying in wait here, there, and everywhere.
A lance of ruby light split the darkness behind her. Storm threw herself headlong through a door, onto rubble, and smelled burnt leather from her right boot as the ravening radiance sang on down the passage. Calling up a shield spell, she stepped back out into the hallway. Ruby fire stabbed at her again.
She had a brief glimpse of Shayna’s smiling face, chestnut hair plastered to an ivory forehead beneath a coronet whose upswept tips were emitting the ray—and then ruby death struck her shield, splashed out a spectacular shower of rosy sparks, and rebounded back down the hall.
There was a startled cry and then darkness and silence. Tasting her own weapon was not something a Summerstar heiress welcomed, it seemed.
“That’s a Battlestar circlet,” Storm murmured aloud. “Did she slay Zarova to get it?” She turned and ran lightly down the passage, heading for the stair she’d intended to use. No skulking. No little miss was going to dictate where she could go in this battle.
She was halfway up it when a rattle of tiny bouncing stones warned her. She threw herself sideways, slipped on stones, and ended up half over the rail. The wind was knocked out of her and she almost plunged over it.
A moment later, a statue as large as she was smashed into the steps above her. The impact showered her with jagged stone shards. The statue bounced past and slid to the bottom of the stair, leaving ruin in its wake. The rail under her shuddered, but the stair held.
“Bitch,” she muttered to herself. “So it’s toss the tower at Storm time again, is it?” She ascended the stairs at a run, lifting her voice merrily in the ballad “I Walk Carefree In the Moonlight.”
A fist-sized stone whizzed past her nose. She grinned, somersaulted, and listened to another stony missile strike the floor and skitter away into the night. Aiming was not Shayna’s strength.
Storm finished her song as she dodged forward in a series of zigzag runs at the place where Shayna must be—and was rewarded by a soft curse and the sounds of frantic fleeing.
Now we’re getting somewhere. Run, little rabbit, and don’t look back, because I’ll be close behind you.
They burst out into an open gallery, running toward where the foe had toppled the pillar. Shayna was a pale, flitting form ahead. Storm put her head down and sprinted.
She was only a few paces behind when Shayna darted aside, into a chamber whose floor now formed a jagged bridge across an open, blasted ruined area.
Startled at how close Storm was, the Summerstar heiress called on her coronet again, splashing the bard—and the pillars on either side of her—with ruby fire.
Storm’s shield held, but the pillars burst apart—and the Bard of Shadowdale had to leap for her life as the ceiling came down.
Mocking laughter echoed around Storm as she rolled, came to her feet and ran on. She caught her hand on a doorframe to spin around into that room—and found the space no longer had a floor.
She fell hard, jarring her chin
against her knees as she struck loose rubble with both boots … and then started to slide helplessly backward. Above her, ruby fire flashed again. A larger explosion shook the loftiest levels. Storm saw remnants of walls toppling slowly down at her as she rode shifting rubble down. At last she could roll over and find her feet again. Huge stone blocks were crashing down all around her by then.
It was time to find another stair and do it all over again.
“Shayna, dear!” she called gaily, “I’m coming for you!”
Storm was rewarded with a hissed curse and ruby death stabbing wildly down through an empty chamber behind her. As sparks danced and flew in the darkness, Storm found steps going up. She took them.
“Mystra, be with me now,” she breathed. She whirled around a landing and pounded up the next flight. “If you like fun and folk making idiots of themselves with magic, you won’t want to miss this!”
* * * * *
“Something moved, I tell you!” the Purple Dragon snarled. He pointed with his sword. “Right—there!”
“Easy,” Insprin Turnstone said from behind him, raising his wand. “There’s naught but death to be gained from rushing off into the darkness hacking at things!”
“What do wizards know of real war?” the armsman spat over his shoulder. “Keep to what you know, mage, and—”
His words broke off in a sudden gurgle.
To the warrior at his other shoulder, Insprin said sharply, “Your torch! Quickly!”
They’d been cut off from the boldshield’s rally by falling stones and spells that sent small, seeking balls of flame. We’ve not been cut off, but herded, Insprin thought bitterly. Now they were somewhere along the backstairs passage the servants called the Lower Run, well away from the Haunted Tower. The darkness around seemed a waiting, watching, menacing thing.
Now, as Insprin had feared, the darkness was beginning to grow tentacles. Playing with its prey.
The fluttering torchlight showed the black, glistening tentacle he’d expected. Purple Dragons shouted in disgust and rage all around the wizard and rushed at it, hacking and slashing.