The monolith fractured into a hundred thousand jag-edged boulders, which bounded up from the point of impact and rushed outward, felling whole forests. The wet outside of the stone had cracked open to reveal a dry inside. Dust and stone shards rolled in the center of the crater. Smoke rose from trees ignited by the thousand lightnings of the pulverized city.
Then, the sound of the impact reached them, a boom so profound that it knocked a few riders from their hovering mounts, and slew one griffon by shattering its breastbone. The riders were caught by already-overburdened griffons. The dead griffon dropped from the sky like a battered maple leaf, whirling.
For a few moments, the cavalry circled in the air above the rolling dust clouds. The debris soon settled enough to show a massive impact crater and a field of rubble in which no one could have survived.
Still, the griffons lingered, vultures above a new corpse.
By silent mutual agreement, conquerors and crow-riders alike one by one turned westward, toward Tith Tilendrothael. In time, Peregrin banked to follow the others.
It was a weary and burdened crew. Their wings had been nearly spent before they began rescuing Lhao-dagms. One hope moved them, that everything would be sorted out at Tith Tilendrothael.
A deep longing swept through Josiah. I can't wait to see those ivory towers and streets of gold… to be warm and safe again… Atrocity and massacre and death… His thoughts ceased above the toil of wings. At last, in despairing tones, he wondered, How many of us are left?
Peregrin quickly counted the griffons before him. The numbers were not promising. Not quite half of the four hundred had won free of the plunging city and its powerful down drafts. Those who had escaped looked ragged, their fury spent. They jittered like a swarm of deer flies.
Too few, he answered.
Josiah leaned forward in the saddle and gazed down at the old woman.
She hung supine, her withered hands clutched up to her chest and her eyes closed as though in sleep. Her long gray hair played gently in the wind. If not for the craggy lines of her face, she would have seemed a little girl.
"What happened to Lhaoda?" he blurted.
The old woman opened her eyes. "It fell, Dear. Don't worry, I'm all right." She seemed to want one of her arms loose so she could pat his cheek.
"No," he said, "before that. Why was the city in the storm?"
"The storm caught us," she said simply. "We've been adrift for three days. Couldn't rise. Couldn't steer."
"Adrift? What do you mean? Your levitation council was still alive. Why didn't you call for help?"
"It would have been the same as calling for plunder."
"But, how did you lose control?"
"The Phaerimm," she replied.
"The Phaerimm?" echoed Josiah. "The Ones Below? They're just myths. And even if they were real, how could they bring down a flying city?"
She shrugged. "The Phaerimm brought down Lhaoda. They will bring down all the others. We must join forces. No more hiding in the clouds. Nowhere is safe now."
"Don't worry, we're safe enough," Josiah said. "We're on our way to Tith Tilendrothael."
"No," she replied. Her eyes were suddenly bleakly desperate, almost angry. "Nowhere is safe now."
"But Tith Tilendrothael is-" His words were cut off by a pang of terror and dread.
Peregrin voiced a raw-throated shriek.
Josiah glimpsed what the griffon already saw: an empty skyline ahead, only plains and stormy skies. There was no gleaming city. There were no ivory towers, no streets of gold…
Gone, sent Peregrin, gone.
The griffon riders and Lhaodagms ahead were descending to land. Many had already gathered beside the impact crater and rubble field-what once had been Tith Tilendrothael. Nothing was left-less than nothing: a deep pit instead of a floating heaven.
The survivors-that's what they were now, not Lhaodagms or Tith Tilendrotheans, but simply survivors- gathered on the verge of that pit. Fletching, Evensong, Glazreth, and the rest of Tith TilendrothaeFs cavalry stood wing and wing with the crow-riders and alley cats of Lhaodagm.
Both cities had fallen. Each had been brought down by-what? Old animosities? Older myths?
Whatever had once separated them now seemed inconsequential. Only the vast chasm mattered.
Peregrin approached. He gently landed, releasing the old crone from his grip.
The woman got to her feet and turned toward the pit. She stared, like all the others.
At first, no one spoke. They only stood in shocked silence, one people-survivors.
The air was so still in that heartbeat that everyone heard the crone murmur:
"We must join forces. When even sky cities fall, nowhere is safe… No more sky cities. No more floating above it all. We must join forces and start over. We must fight to live, not live to fight. We must live like every other creature, dirty and afraid, like crows and beetles and worms. "When even sky cities fall, nowhere is safe."
The Grotto of Dreams
Mark Anthony
It all started the day that I died.
I know. That doesn't seem like a terribly good way to begin a story. But it's the truth. The fact is, dying was the first really interesting thing that ever happened to me.
Not that it was an enjoyable experience. On the contrary, I can't think of anything more unpleasant. There's nothing more degrading than watching one's own body… well, degrade. Let's just say it's not an activity I would recommend to someone looking for a good time. There was only one consolation in dying-knowing I would never have to do it again.
At least, that's what I always thought. But that was before I met Aliree, before we went looking for the Grotto of Dreams, and before I learned there's only one thing harder than gaining your greatest desire, and that's giving it up.
That day began like any other day in Undermountain: a cockatrice tried to sit on me.
That's one of the problems with being just a skull, even an enchanted one. Sometimes you get mistaken for an egg. And believe me, you can be hatched by better things than a cockatrice. Part bird, part bat, part lizard, and all repulsive. Imagine a turkey from the Abyss. And did I mention dumb? But I suppose that's what I get for making my home in a mad wizard's dungeon, and there's no wizard madder than Halaster Blackcloak.
Wait a second. I'm getting ahead of myself. Before I go any further, I need to explain how I got here in the first place, how I ended up down here in the underground labyrinth that is Undermountain.
It was all Gillar's fault.
Then again, everything that was bad in the world was Gillar's fault. Or at least it was the fault of people like Gillar, and since he lived just down the street from my hovel, in the Dock Ward of Waterdeep, he was a convenient target. I focused my proselytizing energies on him.
I was a priest at the time, a disciple of Lathandar, god of the dawn. Gillar was a wizard, and as evil as they come. Oil and water would have been a more natural mixture.
I would often wait for him outside his tower.
"Good morning, Gillar," I would say as he stepped out of the tower's door, black-robed, pale-faced, and scowling. Mind you, I wasn't a skull then, but a living man, young and rather good-looking, if I do say so myself. "Did you know that the evil magics you work are going to doom your spirit to eternal torment after you die?"
I would start to expound on this topic, but he would wiggle his fingers, and at that point toads would rain down from the sky. It's surprisingly hard to concentrate when toads are falling on you. Once I had shaken the creatures from my robes, and wiped away the worst part of the slime, I would jog down the street and catch up with the wizard.
"It's not too late to recant your dark ways, Gillar," I would say in earnest. "But don't wait too long. Remember, death could be waiting around any corner."
"I can only hope so in your case," he would snap.
Here he usually muttered a few queer words, and after that I would be distracted for a while as I hopped in circles and beat at the patch
es of flame that danced on my robes. By the time I put the fires out, Gillar was always gone. There was nothing to do but wander back to my humble hovel, mend my garb, and wait until the next morning.
Then one day, in a vision I'm certain was sent by my god, it came to me.
The next morning I shook away the toads and, as usual, followed after Gillar. This time when the flames appeared on my robe, they flickered for a moment, then vanished in tiny puffs of steam. I had soaked my robe in a bucket of water before donning it that day, and it was still sopping wet. Pleased with my own cleverness, I closed in on my quarry.
"If you make amends now, you needn't fear dying, Gillar," I told him in righteous glee.
His eyes narrowed. "And you are not afraid to die?"
I shook my head fervently. "Not at all. I know that in death I will find peace in the company of Lathandar."
'Truly?" he sneered. "Is that what you believe?"
"Yes," I said with perfect confidence.
All at once he laughed. It was a chilling sound. "We shall see," he said. "We shall see." Then he wiggled his fingers and muttered queer words. I braced my shoulders, expecting something unpleasant to fall on me, but nothing did. All I felt was an odd tingling, then nothing at all.
"Enjoy your afterlife, Muragh Brilstagg," he said, and that didn't make sense. I don't mean the second part, since Muragh Brilstagg was indeed my name, but the first. Why would he wish me a happy afterlife? Then it hit me. Maybe I was getting to him, maybe he was starting to believe in the goodness of Lathandar as I did. I decided this was more than enough progress for one day, and I smiled as I watched Gillar walk away.
My confidence bolstered by what I had interpreted as my victory over Gillar, that evening I decided to take my mission to a local tavern and spread the word of Lathandar there. The Sign of the Bent Nail was a rough and unsavory place. But if I could get my message through to an evil wizard like Gillar, certainly I could convert a few ne'er-do-wells and drunkards.
I approached a likely looking fellow at the bar, a very large man with very small eyes.
"Good evening," I said in my most cheerful voice.
"Did you know that carousing and drinking will consign your spirit to everlasting torture in the Abyss?"
He bared his filed-down teeth in a grin. "No," he said. "Did you know that my dagger is sticking in your heart?"
"No," I said. "Thanks for letting me know."
That was when I died.
It was a strange sensation. I had always thought death would be black and silent at first, and then there would be a great light, and I would find myself in a spring garden at dawn, the abode of my god, Lathandar. Instead I found myself being hauled out the back door of the tavern, into a stinking alley, and thrown atop a garbage heap.
There had been a moment of bright pain when I looked down and saw the dagger protruding from my chest, but that had passed quickly enough. Now I felt only a numbness that was somehow more disturbing than any pain. I was aware of the heavy weight of my body, but I could not feel it, could not move it. It seemed that my eyes no longer worked as they had, and yet somehow I could still sense my surroundings. Unable to do anything else, I lay there while my corpse cooled and stiffened. It was not long before I heard the first scrabbling sounds in the rubbish. Then the rats found me.
It was at that moment I finally realized the truth of Gillar's odd words, and the implication of the spell he had cast upon me. No, not spell, but curse. Even though I was dead, my spirit had not been allowed to fly from my body. I would never see dawn in the garden of my god. Instead I was doomed to dwell, conscious, in the lifeless husk of my mortal body. Forever. I would have cried then, but dead men can't shed tears.
I won't tire you with all the tedious details of my decomposition. For nearly a week I lay on the garbage heap. It did not hurt when the rats gnawed at me. Yet all the same it filled me with a sensation so vile that, had I been alive, I certainly would have never stopped puking.
As it turned out, the rats actually did me a service. For I found that, once my bones were free of the decomposing flesh, I was able to move my jaw and even speak aloud, though my voice, once warm with life, was now thin and reedy. Had Gillar planned this? Somehow I didn't think so. His magic must have had effects even he did not guess. New hope filled me then.
"Help!" I called out. "Please! Somebody help me!"
Little did I know it, but that was the beginning of my journey into Undermountain.
Before long, a drunken soldier heard my call for aid. Unfortunately, soldiers are a notoriously superstitious lot, and he mistook me for the ghost of someone he had killed in war, come back to torment him. He hacked my head from my body and tossed it into Waterdeep Harbor.
Just a skull at that point, I drifted in the brine for a while and soon lost the last bits of my flesh to the local eels. Then the merpeople who live in the harbor found me and kindly took me to a duty-wizard of the Water-deep Watch, one Thandalon Holmeir.
Thandalon was a nice enough fellow, and he set me to keeping watch over his spell library. Only, soon after, thieves broke in, and instead of stealing Thandalon's spellbooks, they stole me, then fled into the deepest sewers beneath Waterdeep. I never saw the thing that got them. It was big, and dark, and didn't rise fully from the foul water, but it sucked each of them under and crunched them to bits.
In turn, the current swept me away. I tumbled down a drain, and fell deeper and deeper until finally I found myself here, in these endless tunnels far beneath Mount Waterdeep. Undermountain. Maze of the Mad Wizard, Halaster Blackcloak. And here I've been ever since.
The cockatrice gave a gurgling hiss. I think it was supposed to be an affectionate sound, but if I'd still had skin, it no doubt would have crawled. The creature spread its leathery bat wings and started to lower its scaly backside onto my cranium. Maybe I didn't have flesh anymore, but I still had teeth. I bit its rump. Hard.
The thing let out a squawk that would have made a banshee wince, then sprang away. I started to laugh in satisfaction, but one of the fleeing creature's wings struck me and batted me backward. Before I knew it, I was rolling.
That's another problem with being just a skull. Once you're rolling, it's extremely difficult to stop.
"Wait!" I shouted to the cockatrice. "Come back!"
The thing only glared with its beady eyes. Apparently it had decided I was not a very nice egg.
I rolled out the door of the chamber in which I had been minding my own business until the cockatrice came along, then tumbled down the steep incline of a rough passage. A moment later I hit the staircase.
Yes, skulls do bounce. However, we do not enjoy it.
Each time I struck one of the hard stone steps, it was like an explosion. Then the staircase ended, and I was rolling again. A second later I saw it, yawning like a toothy mouth: a crack ran across the corridor from side to side. It wasn't very large. A living man could have easily stepped over it. But it was just wide enough to accommodate a runaway skull.
Down, I have learned over the years, is the one direction in Undermountain you don't want to go. The deeper you go in this maze, the nastier things get. And going back up is always a hundred times harder. I clattered down the narrow crevice and clenched my jaw. What would I strike at the bottom? A bubbling black pudding, ready to dissolve me? A blazing circle of fire newts? The crushing mandibles of a carrion crawler?
All at once the crevice ended. For a moment I fell through dark air, then I landed on something…
… cushiony and warm?
"Oh!" a soft voice gasped.
I couldn't see anything, just darkness. All at once two hands lifted me up. Something had captured me, had me in its clutches! But what? Some slavering beast, ready to grind me to bone meal? Then the hands turned me-gently-around. I clacked my teeth in surprise.
She was a half-elf, that much I saw right away. The fine cheekbones, the tilted brown eyes, the ever-so-slightly pointed ears were all giveaways. Clad in a patched tunic, she sat o
n the stone floor of a shadowy chamber, her back to the wall. I had fallen into her lap, and it occurred to me then that I couldn't have imagined a better place to crash land.
Her smooth forehead crinkled in a frown as she studied me. "Now where did this come from?" she asked aloud.
"From up there!" I said cheerily. "Thanks for breaking my fall!"
Often when I first speak to people, they react strangely. It's as if they've never met a talking skull before. All right, I'll grant you, most of them likely never have. Still, it would be nice if they would at least feign a polite hello before they flung me down and ran away screaming. However, she did neither of these things, though her tilted eyes went wide in surprise.
"You can talk!"
"Yes," I said. "A lot, in fact."
She blinked in astonishment. "I thought I was the only one alive down here."
"And you still are."
I rattled my jaw for emphasis and expected a grimace of disgust to cross her pretty face. Instead she laughed, a sound as bright as chimes.
"Well," she said, "I'm not feeling very picky at the moment. I'll take any friend I can get in this place."
Her words filled me with a warm glow I hadn't known I was still capable of.
"I'm Aliree," she went on.
"My name is Muragh," I said. "Muragh Brilstagg."
She rested me on her knee and gazed into my empty orbits. "How did you get here, Muragh?"
"It's a long story," I said. I opened my mouth to begin recounting everything that had led me to this place, from Gillar onward. However, she gently but firmly held my jaw shut.
"I'm sorry, Muragh," she said. "I'm sure it's a fascinating tale. And I wish I could hear it, really. But I'm afraid I don't have time enough." Her fingers slipped from my jawbone.
I was disappointed, of course, but pleased nonetheless at her kind apology. 'That's all right," I said. "But do you mind if I ask what you're doing here? It's surprising, I know, but there aren't a great number of beautiful half-elven maidens down here in Undermountain."
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