Yet no searing spells tore into the men, though the crash and flicker of variegated lights was almost blinding. Magic spat and crawled all along the balcony before rebounding back at the strug¬gling spherical monster; Elmara's last spell was doing its work.
Those Blades who could see well enough hurled more dag¬gers, but in the fury of roiling magic around the balcony, most of these vanished in sparks and fragments or simply sighed into nothingness. Through the hail of blades, the furious dragon clapped its wings and rushed down at the beholder, seeking to slay the thing that had caused it such pain. As it came, it breathed fire again. The blackened eye tyrant rolled over in the streaming storm of flame so all its remaining eyestalks pointed straight at the great wyrm. Rays of magic leapt and thrust, and the oncoming dragon began to scream. The beholder rose a little to get out of the way as the dragon hurtled helplessly past. The wyrm crashed into the wall so hard that the Blades were hurled from their feet. The eye tyrant's eye-rays stabbed mercilessly at the thrashing dragon.
The beast seemed much smaller by the time it managed to flap free of the wall again, smoke rising from its body. Crushed balconies fell away in rubble as the dragon moved, its scream a raw and terrible sound of agony. Then its cries began to fade. The awestruck Blades saw bits of the dragon's straining body vanish as if it were just so much ice melting in the heart of a fire. It dwindled swiftly, lifeblood boiling away into nothing in the face of the cruel powers bent upon it. Beyond the fury of flashing magic, the Blades could see the floating figure of Elmara, arms waving in careful haste as she cast another spell.
When the dragon vanished in a last puff of dark scales and boiling blood, the beholder turned with menacing slowness to¬ward the mage and rolled over so that the broad ray of its central eye could strike at her—the eye that drained all magic.
Caught in that spell-draining field, Elmara fell, arms wav¬ing. The watching men heard her sob in fear. The beholder swiftly rolled over again to bring its eyestalks to bear all at once on the sorceress, as it had done to the dragon. As the Blades on the balcony desperately hurled blades, shields, and even boots at it, they heard the cold, cruel thunder of its laughter.
Rays and beams flashed out again. Through that bright fury, the Blades saw Elmara raise one arm as if to lash the beholder with an invisible whip. The wand she held flared into sudden life.
The beholder shuddered under its attack and spun wildly about. The Blades ducked desperately as its rays sizzled across the balcony, but Elmara's barrier still held, and the rending magics rebounded back at the eye tyrant.
Tarthe and Asglyn stood shoulder to shoulder at what was left of the balcony rail, tense and helpless, all their weapons hurled and their foe beyond reach. Through narrowed eyes they saw Elmara draw a dagger from her belt and soar up at the be¬holder like a vengeful arrow. Eyestalks wriggled, and explosive light burst forth anew. The flying mage was thrown aside by the violent force, and the dagger in her fingers suddenly flared into flames.
She hurled it away, shaking her hand in pain, but in the same motion swept her hand into the front of her bodice. There was another dagger—no, the broken stub of an old sword—in El¬mara's hand when she drew it forth. She tumbled in the air through a roiling area of intersecting rays and raced in toward the beholder.
Waiting spells burst into sudden life around the blade in her outstretched hand, coiling and flaring as Elmara struck home— and her tiny steel fang sank into a hard body-plate as if she were thrusting into so much hot stew.
The beholder shrieked like a terrified courtesan and hurled itself away from the sorceress. El was left tumbling alone in the air as the eye tyrant flew blindly into the nearest wall, snarling in pain.
Elmara snatched a wand from her belt and darted after it. Straight among the eyestalks she plunged to touch the thing's rolling body just above the hissing, snapping jaws. Then she kicked herself away and flew clear. Behind her, the beholder began to repeat its actions backward, rolling back to strike the wall again. Then it hurtled back to where Elmara had stabbed it.
It hung there a moment—and then rolled back at the wall again to crash and then roll away in an exact duplication of its previous movements. Fascinated, the watching Blades saw the monster's flight repeat, cycling through its squalling collision with the wall over and over again.
"How long will that go on?" Tarthe asked in wonder.
"The beholder is doomed to smash itself against the wall of the chamber over and over until its body falls apart," Asglyn said grimly. "That's not magic many wizards dare to use."
"I don't doubt it," Ithym put in from beside them. Then he gasped and pointed out into the center of the vast open chamber.
Elmara had retrieved her staff and flown into the heart of the last, smaller globe. One skeletal hand leapt at her eyes, but she smashed it aside. The second hand was already darting in at her from behind; they saw it dig bony digits into her neck as she whirled around, too late.
Elmara flung her staff away and spat the words of another spell, one hand flashing in intricate gestures. The skeletal hand was crawling its steady way around to her throat as she wove the spell—and the hand she'd hit away was flying at her face again, two smashed, bony fingers dangling uselessly.
Tarthe sighed in frustration. Elmara was struggling, a hand at her throat, jerking her head from side to side to keep the other bony claw from piercing her eyes. Her face darkened, but the Blades saw motes of light spring into being around her, growing brighter.
Then, without sound, both skeletal hands fell into dust, and the globe around them faded away entirely. As its magic failed, the Blades heard Elmara gasping for breath in the sudden si¬lence—and the first winking lights drifted past their shoulders from the passage behind them.
The Blades drew aside in wary surprise. The many-hued lights that had cloaked Gralkyn emptied themselves from the doorway in a steady stream, drifting along the passage and out into the open center of the chamber, heading for their sorceress.
"Elmara—beware!" Tarthe called, his voice hoarse and cracked.
Elmara cast a look at him, saw the lights, and stared hard at them for a moment. Then she waved a dismissive hand and turned back to the floating book.
Across the chamber, the trapped beholder threw itself help¬lessly against the wall again and again, the wet thuds of its im¬pacts marking a steady beat as Elmara bent to peer at the pages.
As her fingers touched the book, the moving lights suddenly rushed forward with a loud sigh. Elmara stiffened as they en¬veloped her.
The Blades saw the book drift out of her motionless hands and close smoothly. A band of shining metal crawled out of one end of the binding, darted smoothly around the tome, and tight¬ened. There was a flash of light, and the book was bound shut.
The lights around the floating sorceress began to wink out, one by one, until they were all gone. Elmara shook herself, float¬ing in midair, and smiled. She looked fresh, happy, and free of pain as she ran her finger along the metal band, tracing a runic inscription it bore. The Blades heard her gasp excitedly, "This is it! This is it! At last!"
The mage bound the book to her stomach with the length of climbing-cord she wore wound around her waist and retrieved what weapons she could find before she flew back to the balcony. Her companions eyed her with awe and new respect for a long moment before they stepped forward to reclaim their blades and embrace her sweat-soaked body in rough thanks.
"I hope it's worth all this," Dlartarnan said shortly, eyeing the tome and hefting the familiar weight of his sword. Then he turned away in disgust, striding back down the passage they'd taken to reach the chamber of balconies. "I hope this place holds something I can value as highly—a handful of gems, perhaps, or—"
His voice trailed away, and he lowered his sword in confusion. The room on the other side of the doorway now was not the dark room where they'd first found the lights, but a larger, brighter chamber they'd never seen before.
"More wizard tricks!" he snarled, whirling. "What do we do now?"
Tarthe shrugged. "Seek another balcony, perhaps. Ithym, look into yon room first—without putting yourself or anything else across the threshold—and tell us what you see."
The thief peered for long breaths, and then shrugged. "A tomb, I think it. That long block, there, is a stone casket, or I'm a dragon. There're at least two other doors I can see—and win¬dows behind those screens . . . they must be: the light changes, like cloud-drifted sunlight, not like conjured light."
They stared at the oval silhouette-screens, and the draperies behind them, glowing, backlit. The room was still and empty of life or adornments. Waiting.
"Ondil's tomb," Tharp said in tones of slow doom.
"Aye, but a way out, if all else fails," Tarthe replied, voice calm, eyes darting all round. His gaze fell on Elmara, standing silent in their midst, and he shook his head slightly in disbelief. He'd seen it all happen, but he still wasn't sure he believed it. Perhaps some of those ridiculous tavern-tales old adventurers loved to tell were true, after all....
"Let's try to get to another balcony," Gralkyn suggested. "I can reach at least four of them—more if El flies a rope to their rails."
"Aye, we must get out of here, now," Ithym said, "or no one at the inn will ever hear about our wizard destroying a beholder, a mind flayer, and a dragon—just to get something to read!"
As Gralkyn swung over the rail and dropped lightly onto the balcony below, the laughter from above him was a little wild.
Eleven
A BLUE FLAME
The most awesome thing a wizard can hope to see in a lifetime of hurling down towers, calling up fiends, and turning rivers into new beds? Why, the blue flame, lad. If ever ye see the blue flame, ye will have looked on the most awesome sight a mage can be¬hold—and the most beautiful.
Aumshar Urtrar, Master Mage
said to an apprentice at Midsummer
Year of the Weeping Moon
The cold hand of doom was tightening around the Brave Blades again. They could all feel it. They'd tried nine balconies now, and every door led somehow into the same silent tomb chamber. It lay across their paths like a waiting pit, patient and inescapable.
"Magic!" Dlartarnan spat, crouching down on a balcony and leaning on his drawn broadsword. "Always magic! Why don't the gods smile on a swung sword and a simple plan?"
"Mind, there!" Asglyn said sharply. "Tempus puts valor of the sword before all else, as well you know, and presuming to know better than any god, Dlar, is a fast leap into the grave!"
"Aye," the priest of Tyche agreed. "My Holy Lady looks well on those who complain little, but take advantage of what befalls and make their own good fortune!"
"Well enough," Dlartarnan grunted. "To please both your gods, I suppose I'd best lead the way into this tomb, and be the first to go down. That will make Tempus and Tyche both happy."
Without another word he rose from his haunches and strode into the tomb chamber beyond, his blade gleaming in his hand.
The other Blades exchanged glances and shrugs, and fol¬lowed.
Dlartarnan was already across the chamber and at the near¬est of its two closed doors, prying at the frame with his blade. " 'Tis locked," he snarled, putting his weight behind his blade, "but if—"
There was a loud snapping sound. Blue fire burst from the door, racing briefly up and down the frame. Smoke rose from the blackened thing that had been Dlartarnan of Belanchor before it fell to the floor. The warrior's ashes rolled away in dark gray swirls as his bones bounced on the flagstones. The skull rolled over once and came to a stop grinning up at them reproachfully. They stared down at the remains, stunned.
"Tyche watch over his soul," the Hand of Tyche whispered, lips trembling. As if in answer, Dlartarnan's twisted, half-melted sword fell out of the door. With a cry like the sob of a young maiden, it struck the flagstones and shattered.
Elmara swayed, then fell to her knees and was sick. The com¬forting hand Ithym put on her shoulder trembled violently.
"Perhaps a spell to try to open the other one?" Gralkyn sug¬gested, voice high.
Asglyn nodded. "I have a battleshatter that may serve," he said quietly, "Tempus willing."
He bent his head briefly in prayer, leveled one hand at the re¬maining door, and murmured a phrase under his breath.
There was a splintering crash. The door shook, but did not burst. Dust fell from the ceiling here and there, and a long, jagged crack split the flagstones with a sharp sound that smote their ears like a hammer. The Blades reeled back, staring, as the crack raced out from the base of the tomb toward the door. Asg¬lyn was running away, face tight with fear, when sudden fire blazed up from his limbs.
"Nooo!" he cried, sprinting vainly across the chamber. "Tem¬pussss!" Flames roared up to scorch the domed ceiling high over¬head, and when they died away, the priest of Tempus was gone.
Into the shocked silence, Tarthe said, "Back—out of this place. That magic came from the tomb!"
Tharp was nearest the passage back to the balcony, so it was only a breath later that he plunged through the doorway—and froze in mid-stride, limbs trembling under the attack of some unseen force. The Blades watched in horror as the warrior's bones burst up out of his body in a grisly spray of blood and van¬ished near the ceiling. What was left collapsed in a boneless heap, blood raining down around it as Tharp's helm and armor rang on the floor.
The five remaining Blades looked at each other in horror. El¬mara moaned and closed her eyes, face pale—but no less white than Tarthe's, as he reached out a reassuring arm to grip her shoulder. Othbar, the Hand of Tyche, swallowed and said, "Ondil slays us with spells spun from his tomb. Undeath and fell magic will take us all if we do not set our feet right."
Tarthe nodded, face sharp with fear. "What should we do?
You and Elmara know more of magic than the rest of us here."
"Dig our way out of the chamber?" Elmara asked faintly. "The doors and windows he must have covered with hanging spells that wait to slay us, but if he's not expected us to pry at the flag¬stones, he may have to rise from his rest to hurl spells at us."
