Stormlight

by Ed Greenwood

  Silence followed, and the dragon obviously expected him to fill it. “I—I don’t know what to say,” Broglan replied helplessly.

  There was a rumble of what sounded like astonished respect, and then the mind-voice said, THEY HAVE. I BEGIN TO FEAR FOR THE FATE OF MY KIN.

  Trapped in immobility, holding the scepter and thinking of the tentacled thought-stealer that must be lurking somewhere beyond this great floating eye, Broglan began heartily to fear for the fate of his kin, too.

  * * * * *

  Ergluth Rowanmantle leaned wearily against a pillar and said hoarsely, “It shames me to say this, but I find my eyes closing, again and again. I’ve been too long without sleep.”

  Erlandar Summerstar shrugged. “Do not reproach yourself. We’ve all treated you like the ever-vigilant mountains above the vale—always there, never changing. ’Tis time, perhaps, we took charge of ourselves instead of leaving the vigilance to others.”

  “I would not see it as cowardice in any man to withdraw back to the kitchens now,” Thalance said. One of his eyes was almost closed from the swelling of a great jagged gash on his brow—a gash that split his hair asunder, and spoke to all of how close the stone that made it had come to killing him. “We were all … overbold. Shapeshifters can be better hunted by daylight.”

  “Prudence would walk with you if you went back,” the boldshield told him, “not reproach. Yet I will stay. The Lady Storm should not be alone here.”

  “She has the wizards to look after her,” one of the armsmen said in the darkness.

  “The wizards,” another said in tones of disgust. “The Happy Dancing Mages—what use have they been so far? And just when will we see the tiniest flame of courage in any of their eyes?”

  “Warrior, I saw who stood closest back there when that light burst forth, and the great eye appeared,” Ergluth snapped. “It was the worried-looking one you lot have laughed so much about—the leader of the war wizards. We fled back to greater safety, and even the shapeshifter ran, screaming; Broglan stood like a statue. I saw him. Sneer no more at wizards in my hearing.”

  “So because this willful half-goddess has to prove herself as much a man as any of us,” a Purple Dragon veteran growled, “we must stay here, and get slaughtered.”

  “Aye,” another agreed from beside him. “What odds that if she falls, Mystra reclaims her, and sets her back alive again to wiggle her hips at poor fools in some other realm? Mystra won’t come down to succor the likes of us!”

  The faintly glowing head of a phantom—the shade of a smiling court lady—rose out of the stones at the armsman’s feet just then, and he jumped back with an oath. She went on smiling as she rose up, up into the ceiling above, and was gone.

  “Still so sure you know every last detail of the doings of gods?” Ergluth Rowanmantle growled. “I say again: we are no men if we leave a lady in distress, nor Cormyreans if we let Harpers do our duty for us. I will stay, in case the Lady Storm needs me.”

  “Then I’ll stay with you, to keep you awake,” Erlandar Summerstar muttered.

  “I’ll stay, too,” Thalance added quickly. “I’d rather die trying to rid our vale of this evil one than be struck down afraid, and hiding, and alone.”

  “Tarry it is, then,” a young Purple Dragon said briskly. “Leave to snore, sir?”

  There were snorts of amusement at this sally, and a few chuckles when their boldshield replied, “Only to windward, warrior.”

  The mirth stopped quickly when Thalance Summerstar asked the commander, “That eye—what do you think it is?”

  Ergluth raised and lowered his shoulders in a slow, heavy shrug. “In truth, I know not. Some being of great wisdom and power … and yet not a godling or divine sending, I think. I’ve no proof, mind—just a feeling.”

  “And I think we’re all going to die here,” one of the older armsmen said sourly. “I can’t prove that yet, mind … it’s just a feeling.”

  * * * * *

  Something moved in the lonely darkness. Slowly and stiffly, it rolled over. A single hoarse gasp of pain sounded in the chamber beyond the shattered door. A tentacle rose and flexed with a weary air, and then another uncurled slowly and tentatively. A face that had flowed like syrup rose up in dripping tatters, red eyes gleaming in the gloom. A jaw of wet fangs rose at the end of a fleshy tendril and retreated back into the face; a talon as long as a rack of swords wavered, shrank, and became a humanlike hand.

  It was joined by another, and together the two hands traced a gesture in the air. And then another.

  “Yes,” a voice above them said in sudden, fierce determination. “So, let me …” The voice sank into mutterings and a short, rising chant.

  Sudden radiance spilled out of one of those two hands, and the other suddenly held a scepter—a scepter topped by an eye. The swirling radiance formed an image of the astonished Broglan staring at his suddenly empty hand.

  The motes that formed it flickered, faded, and died.

  The scepter remained. Above it two eyes burst into sudden flame and bent forward greedily. Twin jets of flame lashed out, entwining the scepter. Around the immobile, intent head and hands, other tentacles grew claws that grabbed excitedly at empty air, or talons that slashed at stone. A mouth, swaying on its own stalk in the distant darkness, snarled to itself. A mind-voice rose to a thunderous, silent shout: GIVE ME. YOU WILL GIVE ME … I WILL PREVAIL. I WILL PREVAIL. I—AHHHH …

  The scepter blazed red-hot. Flames streamed around it, circling from one eye to the other. Then came a sharp crack, a flash of blue-white magic. The scepter broke into shards, which flew away into the darkness and crumbled to dust.

  The shapeshifter stiffened and then rose into a larger bulk. His two eyes were now black orbs surrounded by white flames.

  “Yes. Yes. Oh, yes. Now I have the power!”

  White fire leapt out. The shattered door disappeared—along with most of the wall around it. Stones collapsed in a quickening roar, and out of the heart of their dust, cold laughter arose.

  “Storm?” a voice called lightly. “Storm Silverhand? Your foe is back!”

  Seventeen

  MINDFIRE AND STORMLIGHT

  Shayna clung to Storm, emerald eyes large with fear. “S-Stay with me,” she begged. “Don’t let him touch my mind again!”

  “Be at ease, Shayna,” Storm murmured. “Gently, now.” She held the trembling heiress in her arms, drew in a deep breath, and reluctantly called on the silver fire.

  She wanted only a little thing from Mystra. There was a power learned by—thankfully—few archmages since the days of Netheril, the ability to “hang” spells so that they waited, cast and ready to take instant effect, in an unseen, undetectable limbo. Storm used it now, soothing the terrified heiress while a spell of deeper slumber crafted by Azuth himself slowly unfolded.

  When it was ready, she unleashed it on Shayna, kissing her to let the magic flow in.

  With no more than a murmur, the noble went limp in her arms. Storm spun a ring of silver fire around her to stop the questing mind of the foe. Then she laid the sleeping girl against a pillar, curled up on her side, and set three sloping timbers over her to turn away falling stones. Storm carried the dagger and the coronet two rooms distant and thrust them under a pile of rubble—not a moment too soon.

  As she set down the coronet, it blazed with sudden fire. A faint echo of the foe’s mocking laughter arose from it. Storm stiffened and then hurriedly heaped stones onto the circlet, being careful not to touch it again. When it was safely buried, she selected a rock as large across as a serving-platter, set her teeth, lifted the huge stone with a grunt of effort, and hefted it into place atop the pile she’d made.

  She turned again, looking back to where she’d left Shayna. Bursts of silver fire, like snowflakes of light, were winking and flaring out of thin air; her magic was under attack. The foe was seeking battle again.

  As the first gray glimmerings of dawn stole into Firefall Keep, Storm, sword in hand, stalked through it
s rubble-strewn heart. She’d tossed handfuls of dust over her blade to keep it from gleaming, and was walking as quietly and alertly as she could.

  Where was he?

  Tendrils of smoke curled up from charred timbers among the rubble. Dead armsmen lay everywhere, crushed and half buried under falls of stone. The keep sported an open central well it had lacked yestermorn, an open bowl of death. The work of the ruthless foe, a shapeshifter who could drink in and use the powers of his victims. A shapeshifter who was beginning to seem unstoppable. There were days of work, here, just to—

  With a sharp clack, a stone struck the tiles behind her and rolled away. Storm whirled around, looked up, and had a brief glimpse of a smiling mouth and a cluster of three watching eyes, all on their own tentacles. The mouth spat fire.

  Storm dodged aside and pulled back her blade to save it from being destroyed. She called up silver fire to cloak her. The stones by her boots melted away, smoking, as the gout of flames struck them. Dragonfire! Where by the names of all the gods had he found a red dragon to subsume? This was starting to seem a proper nightmare!

  The groaning behind and above warned her. Storm launched herself into a frantic headlong dive. She bounced and skidded painfully on stony rubble before rolling up and launching herself into another desperate dive. With ponderous, deadly momentum, the entire wall behind her broke loose and fell, crashing down in a mighty, ground-shaking river of shattered stone.

  Cold laughter rolled around her as Storm struck the floor again and slid to collide with the staring corpse of a Purple Dragon. There was dust on his eyeballs, and his hands were frozen into claws, reaching vainly for his sword. Storm snatched it up. With steel in both hands, she looked up at the foe, a snarl curling her lips.

  A row of bobbing mouths laughed at her in chorus. “Such defiance, little kitten!” one of them boomed cheerfully. The one next to it added with cold spite, “Do you know any other games, little trollop? I’ve seen running rabbits that were more amusing!”

  Storm thought she recognized the voice of Pheirauze Summerstar in that last remark. She glanced quickly behind her and then all around to be sure no sneak attack was snaking up to lash at her while the mouths taunted.

  The next moment, the smiling face of Maxer appeared at the edge of the room above, across from the mouths. It looked down at her. As hard as she could, she threw her newfound blade up at the face—just as the attack it had come to watch bore fruit.

  The air shattered into four rushing balls of flame that snarled into bright existence on all sides of her. Storm closed her eyes.

  A moment later, the world went up with a roar.

  Standing hunched, Storm felt the tatters she wore seared away from her, and whipped around her body in the blast of ravening fire. Her sword melted away and her hair lashed her face in a wild tangle as it sizzled and stank. A soothing coolness flowed through her. The powers laid on her long ago sucked the fiery assault into her and twisted it into beneficial energy. As it surged, she was healed and renewed. All weariness and discomfort washed away. Every dazed corner of her mind was relit. Still the energy came on.

  She let it swirl around the forearm of her empty hand, and gathered the divine fire of Mystra. She called up that silver fire from within her and from around the keep, into something that snarled and thrummed in her with a fury all its own.

  The fire raging around her abruptly faded away. Storm knew the foe would be looking down to see what his meteor swarm had wrought, unaware that it was one of the spells that could not harm her. She did not waste time looking up or pointing her arm grandly, but simply hurled the bolt of silver fire up where the false face of Maxer had been.

  A tortured chorus of agonized screams was her reward. The row of mouths pitched and trembled in pain. Something black and shriveled trailed smoke as it staggered away. The silver fire had bored through it, the ceiling beyond, and the two floors above that one, to where the faint rosy fingers of approaching morning touched the sky.

  Storm smiled tightly and ran from the scorched spot where she stood to a stairway that was still standing.

  She was only just in time. Another burst of flame shattered the ceilings above where she’d been, hurling a ton of stone down onto the scorched floor—and through it. The floors collapsed into the cellars below and shook the stair she was racing up.

  Glass shattered somewhere nearby. There were other, lesser crashes as shaken furniture pitched through holes in walls or floors, and tumbled down to crashing destruction.

  As the echoes died away, Storm reached the next floor and raced through a scene of devastation. There were gaping holes and tumbled walls everywhere around her. She was seeking the tentacles that led to those mouths, hoping to get to them before they could wriggle away or be retracted … and to get to the foe at their far ends.

  “Maxer?” she called in loud challenge, eyes flashing as she sought those tentacles. “Afraid to face me?”

  Her answer came from a jagged hole in the ceiling. Jaws appeared, and then dragonfire. The stream went on and on, fanning across stone and fallen timbers as it sought her life.

  Red ravening flames struck her. Storm staggered under their weight, planted her feet, and called on the silver fire again. Its shining stream split the roaring red flames asunder. With a savage smile, she turned her own fire up at the ceiling, seeking to strike through it at the unseen body of the foe above.

  Stone, plaster, and wood collapsed amid the roiling flames and crashed heavily to the floor. Tiles buckled, spilling the debris down through it to the level below.

  The dragonfire suddenly ceased. The jaws that had spouted it were gone.

  Storm frowned, held back her outpouring of silver fire, and broke into a run, getting away from where she’d stood before the foe could trigger another ceiling collapse. She’d taken a bare dozen running steps when the floor heaved so hard it threw her to her knees. A deafening crash set her ears ringing. She was plucked up and flung on by tumbling timbers.

  From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the ponderous plunge of an entire turret, arched windows and all, down from above, through the floor where she’d been—and on, on down through all the levels below.

  Storm struck a pillar, ribs shattering like dry twigs. She spun around it with the force of her tumbling flight, and fell to a now-tilting floor, roaring out her pain like any dismayed warrior. She was still skidding to a dusty stop when a sudden thought made her chuckle.

  “Apt name—Firefall Keep.”

  As the thunder of rolling stone died away, the tatter-clad bard lay still and turned the energy inside her to healing. One bloody end of a rib was protruding from her flank; Storm frowned down at it and then grasped it, set her teeth, and pulled it forth. Warm blood drenched her fingers and she shuddered, let silver fire burn both gore and bone fragment away to nothing, and held her hand to her side.

  “About now,” she muttered, “he’ll see the morning sun and remember there’s a kingdom out there he could be despoiling—and it’ll be ‘rend the annoying barrier’ time again.”

  She laid her sword across her knees, made herself as comfortable as she could, and closed her eyes, letting the web of silver fire tell her where things were. The morning sun fell through the shattered ruins of the keep and laid bright fingers of sunlight across her cheek. The warmth made Storm almost purr with pleasure—an instant before the stabbing spells and mind-thrusts at her barrier began. Then her gasps became loud and quick and urgent. She rolled around on the stones, clutching her half-healed gut and wondering if she could hold him back this time.

  “Mother Mystra,” she hissed, “be with me now!”

  There was no answer.… Slowly, very slowly, the floor beneath her started to tremble.

  * * * * *

  The sun on his cheek was bright and warm. Broglan Sarmyn, war wizard of Cormyr, blinked at it. He slowly became aware that he was lying on sharp stones, in stillness. The only sounds he could hear were some tentative bird calls, though he dimly recalled the r
ubble beneath him shaking as sounds like thunder rolled and crashed all around, not long ago … or perhaps it had been a dream.

  His last clear memory was a blinding flash from the floating black eye, as it shuddered and blinked at him almost beseechingly. That had come soon after the scepter—and where had it come from, anyway?—had disappeared. Now the eye was gone, probably consumed in that flash of energy, and he was lying in the rubble alone. Ah, well, even among wizards, the gods rarely grant the sight and wits to know what’s going on.

  Speaking of stumbling … Cautiously he got up, testing his aching body. Bruises everywhere, some very painful, but it seemed that Broglan Sarmyn was whole and could walk unhampered. It seemed he would have another chance to walk straight into his own waiting grave.

  Well, he’d best be about it. With a grunt of pain, Broglan got up, made sure the dagger and the two wands were still sheathed at his belt, and started a cautious exploration.

  This part of the keep was roofless: shattered walls and rubble, rubble everywhere. It looked like a manor-house he’d once seen after two wizards had dueled each other to death in it: a rubble-choked shell. He could scarcely recognize the bones of the proud old family fortress he’d seen upon his arrival, only days ago. Dead Purple Dragons lay everywhere, and here and there a stray hand or bit of livery betrayed the resting place of a luckless servant. It looked like the place had been fought through and then pillaged by victorious invaders.

  Aye. Pillaged by one man.

  Or rather … one monster. The foe was probably still alive. Broglan could not bring himself to believe that the shapeshifter was dead. Nor would he—not until he saw either the death or the remains with his own eyes.

  The rubble here was almost roof-high, fallen across his path in drifts. He dug his boots into it and climbed, waving his hands awkwardly to keep his balance, trying to make no more noise than was necessary.

  At the top of the pile he found the reason for its height: the stones had cascaded down a still-intact stairway, leading up onto the floor above. He ascended, rising warily into similar devastation to what he’d seen below. Still there was no sign of life.