Tell ye of the balhiir? Ah, a curious creature, indeed. I hear it was first—the short version, ye say. Very well, ye are paying. The short version is thus: a curious creature, indeed. Thank ye, goodsir, fair day to ye.
The sage Rasthiavar of Iraiebor
A Wayfarer’s Belt-Book of Advice
Year of Many Mists
“I expected to greet cultists here long ago,” Torm said, springing up onto a high, flat rock, “or at least entertain the dracolich. Why so quiet, so long?”
“Foes fear us,” Rathan said with a grin, waving at Florin, who stood guard by the entrance.
“I’m so scared I can scarce stand still,” Shandril burst out, “and you trade jests! How do you do it?”
“We always talk before a fight, Lady,” Rathan answered. “Look ye: One’s excited and among friends and may not live to see the dawn.”
The fat priest shrugged. “Besides … how better to spend the waiting? Much of what bards call ‘dashing adventure’ is a little running and fighting and lots of waiting. We’d grow bored wasting all that time in silence!”
“Hmphh!” Elminster observed severely, “all this jaw-wagging’s the mark of minds too feeble to ruminate.”
As Torm chuckled, Jhessail rose from the rocks, the sparkling and glowing balhiir moving above her. She went to Shandril and took her hand. “Elminster, tell us of this balhiir. It’s not approached you since destroying your globe, so you bear no enchanted items. It’ll rob you of spells as it’s done me if we don’t deal with it. What say you?”
“Yes, yes,” Elminster replied, “I’m not yet so addled as to forget the lass, or”—he pointed his staff at the shifting, twinkling mist—“that.”
Settling the tall, knobbed length of shadowwood in the crook of his arm, he doffed his battered hat, with a flourish hung it atop the staff, leaned back against a boulder, and cleared his throat grandly. “The balhiir,” the Old Mage began in measured tones, “is a most curious creature. Rare in the Realms and unknown in many—”
“Elminster!” Jhessail protested, “The short version! Please!”
The white-bearded wizard regarded her in stony silence. “Good lady, this is the short version. ’Twould do ye good to cultivate patience … ’tis a habit I’ve found useful on a few occasions these past several hundred winters!”
Pointedly he turned his head to speak solely to Shandril. “Listen most carefully, Shandril Shessair. In this place we lack all means for banishing or destroying this balhiir save one—and ye alone can master it. ’Tis a dangerous affair for all of us, but for ye most of all, but I fear there’s no other way. Are ye willing to attempt it?”
Shandril looked around at the adventurers who’d so swiftly become her friends. Calmly they looked back at her. She stole a quick glance at Narm and as quickly looked away—up at the strange, twinkling, magic-eating mist above her. Letting out her breath in a long sigh, she met the Old Mage’s eyes. “Yes. Guide me.”
Elminster bowed formally, drawing looks of surprise from the watching Knights. “Lad,” he asked, without turning his head, “ye retain a cantrip, don’t ye?” His twinkling blue eyes, grave and gentle, never left Shandril’s.
“Yes,” Narm replied, unsurprised that the famous wizard knew such so much about his magic.
“Then cast it while touching thy lady,” Elminster said, “and we shall stand clear. This will draw the balhiir to ye both. Shandril, thrust thy hands into the midst of its glow. Try not to breathe any of it, and keep thy face—eyes, in particular—away from it.”
One long-fingered hand lifted in warning. “When Shandril touches the balhiir, Narm, ye must flee from her at once, as fast as ye can. All here, stand clear of Shandril from then on. Her touch may well be fatal.”
The Old Mage stepped forward and clasped Shandril’s shoulders. If he felt her trembling under his hands, he gave no sign of it. The balhiir coiled watchfully above them both.
“Lass,” Elminster added, his voice gentle, “thy task is the hard one. The balhiir’s touch will tingle and seem to burn. If ye’d live, ye must keep hands spread within it, and not withdraw. Ye’ll find ye can take the pain—a cat of mine once did. Use thy will to draw the fire into thee, and ’twill flow down thy arms and enter ye. Succeed, and ye’ll hold the balhiir’s energy.”
Shandril looked up involuntarily at the twinkling mist so close overhead. It descended a little menacingly.
“Ye must then slay its will,” Elminster continued, “or perish in flames. Ye’ll know when ye’ve destroyed it. Master it as quickly as ye can, for the fire within thee will burn more the longer ye hold it. Ye can let it out from thy mouth, thy fingers, even thy eyes—but beware of aiming the blasts carelessly. Ye can easily slay us all.”
Shandril nodded. Her eyes were very dark.
“Ye must go out yon entrance,” the Old Mage added gently, “if the dracolich or the cultists have not attacked us by then. Seek them out and blast them until ye’ve none of the balhiir’s energy left in ye. Let go of it all, or it may slay thee.”
Their gazes held a moment longer, and then he bent slowly to kiss her brow.
His beard tickled Shandril’s cheeks, and his old lips were warm. They left her forehead tingling, and she felt somehow … stronger. Shandril drew herself up and smiled.
“We shall tarry nearby,” he said. “Narm will follow thee, and we’ll guard ye both. Be ye ready?”
Shandril nodded. “Yes,” she said, mouth suddenly dry. “Do it. Now.” She hoped the effort of keeping her voice steady did not show on her face.
Elminster bowed and stepped back.
Shandril raised her hands over her head and cast a quick glance back at Narm. Reluctance and fear filled his face, and he slowly stepped toward her. She gave him a bright smile of reassurance. This, at last, was something she could do.
The balhiir winked and swirled closer overhead, as if waiting to be destroyed.
“Forgive me,” Narm said, “but this cantrip will make you—uh, belch.”
Her helpless laughter rang out across the cavern. Shandril was still laughing as the magic was cast. Her mirth became a loud eructation—and the balhiir descended and enveloped her.
She saw, heard, and knew nothing but curiously coiling sparks and a mist that smelled faintly of rain on leather. The pain began. Sparks, fire, energy somehow flowed into her, stirring her, awakening something.…
Shandril bent her head back to gasp for breath, arched and stared at the dark rock above for some time, heard herself sob, moan, cry out.… It hurt! By the gods, it hurt!
The tingle grew along with the searing pain until her whole body shook and twitched. She had to fight to hold her hands out. She wanted desperately to pull back and clutch herself as the fire spread down her shuddering arms and across her chest. Shandril sobbed. Blue-purple flames licked up her outflung arms.
Narm rushed forward, though the fire didn’t touch her hair or clothes. “No!” He reached desperately for her.
Elminster extended a long, thin arm and caught hold of one robed shoulder. “Nay! Keep back, if ye love her!”
Narm scarcely heard the words, but the hand gripping his shoulder was like an iron claw; he could not break free.
Shandril’s sobs rose into a raw, high shriek. “Gods have mercy!” Flames leaped from her mouth.
Elminster waved at the Knights to get down and seek cover.
Fire raged down Shandril’s arms and flared up from her shoulders. She could not see; flames of blue and purple rose from her nostrils and mouth. Energy rolled restlessly around her arms and breast, coiling and flaring, drawing all of her in. Anger blazed in her, coiling behind her throat and snarling forth in roars like Rauglothgor’s.
Flames rolled before her nose. Startled, she ceased her cries. She cast a burning gaze at Jhessail. The flames reflected from the mage’s beautiful, anxious face as pain spread across it. Waving hasty apology, Shandril looked away. Her veins boiled; her body shook. Something writhed snakelike in her, awakening fear. She couldn’t control it! She’d bring death to these new friends, to Jhessail, Florin, the great Elminster, Narm … No!
The flames rolled away, and she could see Narm’s face. The reflected flames danced on it, his eyes meeting hers and darkening in pain.
Elminster stepped in front of her love. His eyes met hers gravely, wise and knowing, calmly urging her on. How like Gorstag’s those eyes were—kind and jovial, roughly wise and knowing.…
Shandril closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to fight the coiling thing within her. Heat and pain rose sharply, squeezing her heart in a blazing grip. From somewhere a world away, came shouts and the clang and shriek of swords meeting in anger.
She fell onto rocks, and sharp pain exploded in her knees. White heat built within. She burned, shuddering, but she could master it. Exulting, Shandril rose.
Blades flashing, Florin and Merith fought many men in the narrow mouth of the cavern.
Shandril’s heartbeat was deafening in her ears as she ran forward. The elf and the ranger drew aside, steel flashing. Florin raised his blade in solemn salute as she rushed past.
Shandril shouted. White lightning lanced from her hands, mouth, and eyes and crackled ahead of her. Wherever she looked, men burned and died. She heard screams and drowned them out with a long, triumphant shriek of her own, a howl that rose high and swept men away in flames.
When she let it die away, the cavern before her was blackened and empty, except for dead foes in sizzling armor, blades smoking in their crisped hands.
Oh gods, what have I done? Six, seven … twelve … how many? Is there no end to them?
Shandril recoiled, fighting the fire within her. As she stood there, hands spread and smoking, a skeletal neck swung down into the cave mouth. A chilling gaze stabbed at her. Rauglothgor the Undying opened his bony jaws, and the world exploded in flame.
Shandril moaned. Pain atop pain raged within her. Tears blurred the wall of flames; when she could see again, Rauglothgor’s horned skull loomed over her.
His regard was a silent sneer, laughing down at her with all the arrogance and strength of cold centuries and dragon fire.
Her fear was suddenly swept away by anger. Aye, she was a mere lass, unskilled and unwise in battle and magic, but a rock—a mere rock!—had felled Symgharyl Maruel, in all her pride and magic. Yes, she faced a dracolich, but she had the means to strike back!
Burn, then, oh-so-mighty Rauglothgor. Burn and know how it feels, you who burn us like flies in torch fire … BURN!
Shandril flung her arms out as if she could stab the undead dragon with her fingertips. From them, with a vicious crackle and a cavern-shaking roar, streamed spellfire.
Rauglothgor burned. Hungry white flames raged around rearing bones. It howled. Stones raked from the cavern ceiling by its horns fell in a shower about it, its great claws convulsed. It tried to beat bony wings, seeking escape.
Bones scraped unyielding rock. Jaws that had forgotten how to scream shrieked high, girlish terror.
Shandril set her teeth and kept the fire flowing, her body shuddering with power.
The thing of bones writhed, clawing the air in trapped, unthinking agony. As fires raged on, the great undead dragon fell silent and sank down. Its bones blazed with white, blue, and purple flames as they blackened, split, and burst asunder. All that remained crumbled.
So passed Rauglothgor, Night Dragon of the Thunder Peaks.
Shandril stumbled into the darkness, spellfire raging in her.
The cavern beyond was large and dark but for a few torches flickering below. They glimmered on swords. More cultists! Blades raised, the new arrivals scrambled toward the easy prey.
Easy prey, indeed. Shandril opened her mouth and screamed. Flames gushed forth. She raised her hands and smote them with spellfire, hurling blasts, until none stood against her. Shandril stumbled on, exulting.
“Shandril!” Narm’s anguished voice broke through the roar of her flames.
She shook her head and waved at him to stay back. Spellfire spilled from her fingers like bright rain, and she ran on. The fire coiled inside, and she dared not simply blast rock—she’d been buried alive once, and that was enough. She ran across the cavern and up its far slope, seeking daylight … and any cultists who might lie ahead.
She found them, laden with treasure, though they dropped it to snatch out blades. Her blasts reached the foremost of them. Some raised their hands to cast spells, but Elminster’s bright bolts curled past Shandril’s shoulders to strike them down before magic could be unleashed.
It was too late for the Dragon Cultists to run or fight. Under her spellfire, they had time only to die. They did that very well.
More cultists met her in the cavern above, and more died.
Shandril ascended the tunnels and climbed crumbling steps. Blue flames licked the stone wherever her boots touched. Shandril finally saw daylight, pouring through the door of the keep.
There were no cultists on the mountain slopes below, and the sky was clear and cloudless. She turned, flames blazing around her swirling hair, and screamed to the Knights, “Get back!”
They obeyed. Elminster’s old hands dragged Narm back with surprising strength.
Shandril turned back to the sky and stones. She spread her hands, threw back her head, and screamed out her pain and exultation. Spellfire rolled forth. Stones cracked and fell around her, shards cutting her arms and face, and she laughed at them. Daylight grew as walls fell and stone crumbled. She backed down the stairs of the shattered keep as it fell around her.
“Back! Back!” she cried to the Knights again, smashing down stones with great sheets of spellfire. Pillars of broken wall stood like huge teeth against the sky for a few shuddering instants before they too toppled. The keep was gone, completely fallen, and still the fires raged.
Oh, Tymora, release me! Will this never end? Look, you gods—such power! Nothing stands against me—not the dracolich, not his worshipers, not the stones themselves—not even this mountain!
Shandril laughed. Her blazing fingers found the throat of her tunic and ripped it open. From her bared breast poured spellfire. She turned, backed down the steps, and blasted dark rock into the sky—here, and there, and over there.…
The fires diminished. Shandril shivered as the lessening flow poured out of her breast and mouth. Slowly she realized she was on her knees again, amid the scattered gold of the dracolich’s treasure. The last shards of the great cavern’s ceiling broke away and fell.
Exhausted, Shandril swayed, staring at her hands. The last rippling tongues of flame—blue and fitful, snarling into oblivion—faded. Her hands were—just hands. Empty.
Well, not quite. The ring and armlet of electrum and sapphires sparkled almost mockingly. Shandril managed to bring her arms up as she fell onto the cold stone.
The fire was gone. She was so cold, so numbingly cold.
“Shandril!” Narm shouted, snatching himself out of Elminster’s grip at last. He crashed full tilt into an invisible barrier the Old Mage had raised before the Knights as a shield. He clawed his way along it in helpless frustration. “Let me go to her, gods curse you! Is she—is she dead?”
The wizard shook his head, pity in his eyes. “Nay, but she may not live. I’d no idea how much Art that balhiir had absorbed! Careful now!” The barrier was gone.
Narm raced forward, falling twice amid shifting stones.
“Gods,” Florin murmured in awe.
Beyond where Shandril lay, the mountain had been blasted open into a vast crater, laying bare the dracolich’s cavern.
“ ‘Rare in the Realms,’ you said,” Torm muttered to Elminster, shaking his head. “And a good thing, too!”
Narm knelt beside Shandril’s sprawled body. The Knights reached him. The young apprentice raised his anguished face to Elminster. “Can I … will it hurt her if I touch her?”
Shandril lay on her face, motionless, her long hair spread over her back like a last lick of flame.
Elminster shook his head. “Nay, but—Rathan, can ye heal yet?”
The cleric spread his hands doubtfully. “I’ve only a little favor of the Lady left to me.”
Elminster nodded grimly. “Use what you can. Narm, after Rathan heals thy lady, carry her back to the cavern where ye waited for me. Haste matters more than gentleness. I go to Shadowdale now, for healing scrolls left hidden by Doust Sulwood when he was lord. We shall meet again shortly, at that cavern.”
Rathan chanted softly, kneeling by the fallen girl.
Narm looked up from Shandril, eyes blazing. “You knew this would kill her! You knew!”
Elminster shook his head. “Nay, lad, I knew not. I feared it might, aye—but I saw no other way.” He turned away. “Delay me not, now, or thy lady may die!”
Rathan touched Narm’s shoulder. “I’m done, lad. Let’s move her. If Elminster counsels haste, haste is the thing.”
Narm tore his eyes from the Old Mage’s back. “Yes. Sorry.” He looked down at Shandril, lying so still and silent.
A brisk voice said, “Stop gaping and lift your lady by the shoulders. I’ll take her feet. Jhessail, hold her head!”
Narm found himself looking at Torm, who waved his hand at Shandril. “Come on. Haste, the man said.”
“Y-yes.” Narm reached out a tentative hand and fumbled at the open front of her tunic.
“Leave it,” Torm said firmly. “I promise you I won’t look—much.”
Narm shouted at him, a raw torrent of fury that made Torm grin and roll his eyes in mock horror. Narm stopped in midword, realizing he had no idea what he was saying.
They clambered over broken rocks, Rathan at Narm’s elbow and Jhessail hip-to-hip beside him, cradling Shandril’s head.
Narm swallowed. Shandril’s eyes were closed, her lips parted. She looked so beautiful.…
Ahead, Florin and the elf, Merith, hurled aside charred cultists, clearing the way to the small cavern where he and Shandril had been trapped. The smell of burned flesh was strong as they shuffled and clambered on. Narm looked down at his ladylove in disbelief and fought tears down to nothingness.
He’d seen it, yes—raging flames and falling walls, the dracolich burned to ash. How much force had it taken? How much had Shan held? How in the name of all the gods could she survive?
“The scrolls—is Elminster back yet?” he asked frantically. They stumbled forward into the small, now-familiar cavern. Torchlight greeted them. Lanseril, in his own form, sat against one of the smoother expanses of wall. On either side of him, lit torches stood upright amid piled stones.
“No, no overclever wizards here,” the druid replied wryly. “I felt the mountain shake; Shandril?” Torm nodded. Lanseril shook his head in wonderment. “Bring her here. Not straight across—Elminster might teleport in there—around this way.”
“A fair thought, but unnecessary, as it happens,” came a familiar voice from the back of the cavern. “Rathan, behold: scrolls enough, and to spare. I only hope her fires did not damage her overmuch.”
“Damage?” Narm asked, icy fear gripping him as they gently laid Shandril down.
“Spellfire burns inside,” Elminster replied gently, advancing with a flourish of parchment rolls. “It can burn out lungs, heart, and even brain, if held overlong.” He shook his head. “She seemed to be master of it to the last, but she held more than I’ve ever known anyone to bear without bursting into flames.”
Narm gaped in horror at the Old Mage.
“Cheerful, isn’t he?” Torm observed with a bright smile.
Jhessail gave Torm a dark look and knelt to put her arms around Narm’s shuddering shoulders. “Torm,” she said in tones as sharp as a sword, “sometimes you’re a right bastard.”
The thief nodded—but broke off his florid bow to indicate Narm, and said gently, “He needed it.”
Jhessail held his gaze for a moment and then said quietly, “You’re right, Torm. I’m sorry I misjudged you.” She enfolded Narm in her arms, and the apprentice mage burrowed against her like an inconsolable child.
“All Faerûn misjudges the bright and shining Torm,” the thief announced mournfully, “almost all the time!”
“With no cause at all,” Merith added innocently. “Now shut your clever lips—painfully unaccustomed though you are to such heroism—and help spread my cloak over her.”
Rathan nodded to let the Knights know he was done with Shandril. He rose wearily to see to the wounded Lanseril.
“A hard day of healing?” the half-elven druid asked wryly as the priest approached.
Rathan grunted. “Hard on the knees, anyway.” He knelt with a grunt of effort. “Now lie still, damn ye—’tis hard enough to convince the Lady to heal an unrepentant servant of Silvanus.”
“True enough,” Lanseril agreed. “How does the young lady fare?”
Rathan shrugged. “Her body is whole. She sleeps. But her mind? We shall see.”
Across the cavern, Narm looked out of the comforting circle of Jhessail’s arms to see Shandril, sprawled on the stones and breathing so softly.… “Why does she not awaken? She’s healed, Rathan said—why does she sleep?”
“Her mind heals itself,” Elminster replied. “Disturb her not, and calm thyself. A fine mage ye’ll make, with all this weeping and shouting! Come away, rest, and eat something!”
“I’m not hungry,” Narm muttered.
Jhessail rose and pulled him up, her slender arms surprisingly strong.
“Oh, aye,” Elminster replied in obvious disbelief, handing him a sausage. He produced a knife from somewhere in his sleeve and sawed at the hard piece of bread on his lap.
Narm stared at what he held, thought of Shandril and himself and sausages, and burst into laughter. It proved wilder than he’d expected—beyond him to stop, in fact. Tears came again as he rocked helplessly back and forth.
“Stable fellow, isn’t he?” Elminster inquired of the world at large. “Eat,” he commanded, thrusting Narm’s arm toward his mouth with a swiftly snapped spell.
Shaking his head, Elminster used magic to pluck a flask from where it lay beside Torm and loft it through the air to his own waiting hand. Torm snatched for it much too late.
Merith, who with Florin had been carefully examining the chamber, came to Narm in silence and touched his elbow.
Narm slowly surfaced from the sausage. “Umm? Oh, sorry!”
“No need for that, lad,” Merith told him. “What we do need is to know where the Shadowsil lies.”
Narm blinked at him. “There, among the rocks!” He pointed, but his hand moved uncertainly when he could not see Symgharyl Maruel’s feet.
“Aye,” Merith said soberly. “We thought so.”
“She’s gone?” Narm asked, astonished.
“She’s nowhere in this chamber,” Florin told him quietly. “Not even among the bodies at the entrance.”
“Then—where is she?” Narm asked, his mind still full of Shandril, spellfire, and sausages.
“I’m afraid,” the gleaming Knight told him, “we’ll find out soon enough!”
Her jaw ached abominably. That little bitch had broken it, and her arm and probably her cheek, too. The cheek was so swollen her left eye was almost shut.
Symgharyl Maruel was still able to hiss spells and command words, though, and it would not be long before that wench would pay.
Pay dearly. Burn off her legs with a favorite wand’s fire, and then her arms. Then set to work with a knife. Oh, she’d whimper and plead—until her tongue was cut out.
Symgharyl Maruel chuckled, wincing at the pain this brought to her jaw. Gods spit on the little whore!
The lady mage found her feet and unsteadily crossed her cave refuge. Too unsteadily. Gods, the pain! She leaned against the shelves that held her grimoires, arbatels, and librams. It was no use. She couldn’t study Art in this pain. Where were those thrice-damned potions?
The silver-strapped chest! Of course. She clawed her way along the shelves, fell on her knees, and fumbled it open with her good arm. Careful, now; the right ones …
She searched among many vials for a certain rune. It would not do to make a mistake now.
She’d never thought to need these, carefully gathered here so long ago. If one plays with fire, one must expect to get burned. Her burns at least had come later rather than sooner … but from a mere nothing of a girl, and with a rock!
She snarled through the blood in her mouth—and winced. The pain! Would it never end?
Never, indeed, if she didn’t drink the potions! Gather your wits, Symgharyl Maruel—who knows but one of them might follow here! Aye, the cave was spell-sealed, but not to anyone with a tracer spell.
There! This vial, and that one.
Carefully she drew the precious vials out and cradled them against her breast. She wormed her way across the floor to a heap of cushions where she was wont to lie and study. At last!
The liquid tasted clear and icy, with a tang of iron and an odd, faint scent. Symgharyl Maruel lay back. The balm spread in a delicious slow wave through her breast and shoulders and arms.
The stabbing, sickening pain in her arm sank to a dull throb. Ah, good. Now the second vial. Her long-ago mentor was a sentimental fool, but not devoid of cunning. He’d insisted she cache these potions, all those years ago.…
Well, even if he came to Rauglothgor’s lair, he could save neither the little thief nor the powerless lack-lore who’d tried to protect her. They’d been gone when she’d come to her senses, with a stranger in the cavern—a druid, by his garb—and the stench of burned flesh from the cave mouth. Doubtless Rauglothgor had cooked some reckless adventurers. Perhaps the wench was among them, but not likely; she’d interested Rauglothgor.
Well, too bad, Symgharyl Maruel thought savagely. The dracolich can be interested in her corpse.
The pain was almost gone. She could think. She rolled from the cushions to her feet. Her robes were well and truly torn. Breeches and boots, yes, and a half-cloak; she’d be dragon riding, if all went well. Wands, rings, and potions, too; adventurers were always trouble if you lacked Art enough to overmaster their every crazed attack. They’d give her no second chance.
Symgharyl Maruel began the complicated ritual of passing the magical and monstrous guardians of her main cache of Art.
Oh, yes, pain had to be repaid, thrice over and more. Blood would spill, indeed.
Far away, in a high cavern within a mountain, a dracolich sat on much gold. Before it knelt three men in armor. Its voice was a vast hiss that held the echoes of hammers on metal and high winds through leathery wings. Its glowing eyes floated chilling-white in dark eye sockets. Otherwise, it seemed a gigantic blue dragon, vast and terrible rather than skeletal, its scales gleaming in the torchlight.
“Treasure, yesss, good treasure,” it said. “As alwaysss. But I can play with treasure only ssso much. Pile it here, pile it there … asss with all, I grow bored. You never entertain me! What newsss in the world without?”
“A dracolich’s lair is despoiled!” rang out a new voice. “The followers need your great strength, O Aghazstamn!”
The dragon reared its spike-crested head. “Who comesss?”
Swords flashed as the three cultists scrambled to their feet and turned to seek the intruder.
They had not far to look. Upon a coach of iron with chased gold and ivory panels, half-buried in a sea of coins, stood a woman in black and purple. She was beautiful, proud, and alone, appearing out of thin air.
The warriors of the Cult of the Dragon came at her to slay. Gold coins slithered underfoot.
She raised a hand. Before them flashed the image of the dracolich Rauglothgor, its huge skeletal wings spread from wall to wall.
Aghazstamn hissed involuntarily and spread its own wings. Wind scattered treasure like drops of rain and hurled one warrior to fall among high heaps of coins.
The skeletal dragon spoke in a deep, booming voice. “The Shadowsil, mage of the Cult of the Dragon, stands before you and would serve you. She seeks aid for one who is not used to asking for it; I, Rauglothgor of the Thunder Peaks. I am beset by thieves. They have loosed a balhiir that confounds my spells. Will you aid me? Half my hoard is yours, Aghazstamn, if you come speedily! Let the lady ride you. You can trust her.” The bone dragon slowly faded away.
Symgharyl Maruel stood calmly silent, arms crossed on her breast. Her Art had shaped Rauglothgor’s image; she knew not how the old bone dragon would take to losing half his treasure, nor did she care, so long as the wench died.
The cult warriors had halted in awe at Rauglothgor’s speech. They looked to the real dracolich, their swords glittering with torchlight.
Aghazstamn’s wings lowered slowly; its head sank, its gaze fixed snakelike on the lady mage. “That wasss not real,” it said, “and yet I know you, sssmall and cruel one. You came to me before, not long ago, did you not?”
“Aye, great Aghazstamn. I brought you treasure fourteen winters past. One of my first duties in the cult.”
Symgharyl Maruel’s crossed hands rested on the ends of the wands sheathed on her hips. Her eyes darted from the warriors to the dracolich and back, but her voice and manner were relaxed and easy. The Shadowsil had come a long way to stand where she did in the cult; fear and timidity were luxuries she had no time for. She waited.
“Ssso!” The dracolich put its great head to one side and regarded her. It had been proud in life and very curious. It had thought much on the intricacies of the Art, and on death, and so had accepted the cult’s offer to die and become undead.
Aghazstamn had accepted young. It had missed many years of high flying and dealing death on lesser creatures, of battling wyrms in clear air and mating in roaring silence. It regretted the losses.
Now here was a call to war. To leave its safe lair and its rich hoard, to face enemies … enemies, hah! Puny humans, even as these at its feet, waving tiny steel fangs and making much commotion. To ride the high winds again, to see the land spread out below, feel the cold bite of the air whistling past as lesser creatures fled in terror, far below …
“Kneel to me, Ssshadowsil, and pledge to turn not against me nor aid Rauglothgor in altering the ssstated bargain. Do that, and I will accept!”
Symgharyl Maruel knelt among the coins, on the ornate top of a coach that had once carried young princes of Cormyr to hunt in the high country. Hiding her smile in a low bow over the coins, she was rewarded by the great voice.
“Mount, then. Warriorsss of the cult! Attend! Guard well my hoard in my absssence, and let not one coin be missssing when I return, nor any of you gone, or all will answer for it. Bow and pledge your obedience!”
The cult warriors, with frightened looks at Symgharyl Maruel, did so.
She wasted a flight spell in bravado (she’d intended to have its protection about her when on Aghazstamn’s back, in case of a fall in aerial battle or treachery from the great dracolich). The Shadowsil flew past the swordsmen, skimming low over heaped coins, gems, and splendidly inlaid armor to reach Aghazstamn.
She paused in the air before the dracolich’s broad head and bowed again, eyes lowered. Even a great mage could not safely meet the eyes of a dragon, let alone a dracolich. She flew slowly up and around in a smooth arc to settle lightly between its wings.
“My thanks, Great One,” Symgharyl Maruel said, as she drew gauntlets from her belt, settled the wands on her thighs for rapid drawing, and nestled herself behind a fin she could grasp once her gloves were on.
“Nay, little one,” came the hissing reply. “The thanksss isss from me to you.”
Great wings arched above them—and the dracolich leaped upward in a great bound.
The shaft from its lair twisted and bent back upon itself to entrap and discourage flying intruders, but Aghazstamn knew it well. The great wings beat twice, precisely where they had room to spread. Daylight burst over them, and they slid into a great roaring glide that curved up to become a steep climb. The dracolich let out a roar that echoed thunderously from the surrounding peaks. It wheeled out over the Desertsedge and back again through the Desertsmouth Mountains, where of old had been the realm of Anauria before the Great Sand Sea swept its greatness away, and gained the name Anauroch.
“Where is this lair we ssseek? In the Thunder Peaksss?” the great hiss came back to Symgharyl Maruel.
She did not shout into the wind, but used her cult ring to speak to Aghazstamn’s mind: Yes, Great One. On the eastern flanks of the range, above Lake Sember.
“Ah, yesss! Fried Elf Water! I know it.”
The Shadowsil managed to stifle her giggle. “Fried Elf Water”? No doubt. Hmm … there’d been an elf among the adventurers who attacked her. Well, well … who knows what the future holds and the gods see?
On the back of the mighty blue dracolich, she rode toward the lair of Rauglothgor, to deal death upon them all.
“Die, and let the Shadowsil rise on your bones!” She did not realize she’d shouted aloud until she heard Aghazstamn chuckle.