But where? There was no place that the two battling wyrms might not imperil... no safe place to run to. The carter stared helplessly at the house and shops all around as more screams broke out from their windows. Down on the street folk began to run. He looked at them sprinting in all directions, and then turned his gaze back up to the sky. He shrugged. If fleeing won no safety, he might as well stay here and see all he could. He'd never see such a thing again . . . and if he lived to tell about it, he could always say he'd been there, and watched it through to the end.
*****
The black dragon roared out a challenge. Baerithryn of the High Forest wasted no breath in reply. He was working a magic as he rose in a tight spiral, banking and curling his tail to avoid the bolts of death the wizard was firing repeatedly from his wand.
"Stand and fight!" Undarl snarled. A moment later, a bolt caught the wheeling silver dragon's tail. It convulsed and plunged down below him, wind rippling in its wings, followed by the mage royal's triumphant laughter.
Something flickered in the air around him, but Undarl felt no pain. A failed spell, he thought, dismissing it with a shrug, and urged Anglathammaroth into a dive. If its claws could rake the silver wyrm's wings, this battle could be ended right now.
The black wyrm's shoulders surged powerfully. Undarl ex¬ulted in its might as the wind streaming past his ears rose into a wail. Aye, let it be now!
The silver wyrm was beating its wings frantically, trying to evade Anglathammaroth's dive. Undarl snarled at his steed to turn, turn, and not let their foe escape . . . but the smaller, lighter silver dragon was turning tightly back in and under them. They were going to plunge past it....
Anglathammaroth twisted violently; only the harness kept
Undarl from falling helplessly out of his high saddle. The black dragon's limbs curled as he tried to rake or bat at their foe with at least one cruel claw, but the silver wyrm was arching away from them. It was going to slide completely clear! As the rooftops of Hastarl rushed up to meet them, Undarl snarled in anger and triggered his wand again, aiming at the silver dragon's face. Its eyes, proud and sorrowful, met his own: it knew he could not miss.
The green bolt leapt out—and there was a flash as it struck a hitherto unseen barrier, a sphere around Undarl that . . . gods!
The mage royal roared out in helpless fear as the rebounding bolt crashed into him. Faerun seemed to explode around him. The torn ends of harness-straps slapped his face and shoulders, he spun in agony and felt a new, greater pain as one of the other wands in his sleeve exploded, blasting that arm to noth¬ing and flinging him out of the saddle.... Then, mercifully, Un¬darl Dragonrider lost all sight of sky and twisting dragons and rooftops below....
The black dragon screamed, a raw sound of horror and agony that echoed back from the city below, awakening every citizen of Hastarl who still slept. The wyrm arched and writhed, but its back was broken, the torn flesh where the saddle had been streaming gore into the wind. Nerveless wings trembled help¬lessly. Unable to turn, Anglathammaroth dived on toward Athalgard.
The crash shook all Hastarl. Flying raggedly, curled around his own weary agony, Braer saw those black wings crumple like those of a crushed insect—and the castle tower they'd struck shifted, cracked, and with a thunderous roar, toppled over into the courtyard below. Doomed armsmen screamed as they saw death coming down on them; Braer closed his eyes so as not to see the destruction.
Pain ruled him now. Braer felt his magic failing, his torn and bleeding body shifting and dwindling. As his wings receded back into the slim shoulders of an elf, he began to fall.
The rooftops were very close; he hadn't much time for a last prayer. "Mother Mystra," he gasped, fighting to open his eyes. He had a brief glimpse of smoke trailing from his own limbs, and then he was caught by something and cradled gently, the rushing wind around him slowing. Tears were blinding him. Fu¬riously Baerithryn blinked them away and stared up into the face of his rescuer.
Dark eyes glowed with power in the face bent so close over his own. It was Elminster's colleague, Myrjala, and yet—
Braer's eyes widened in recognition and awe. "Lady?"
* * * * *
It was dark and cold this deep in the dripping cellars of Athalgard. Here below the sewers, the solid stone walls sweated water, and things long undisturbed scuttled or slid away as the sudden fire blazed in their midst. Blood and formless flesh curled and flowed at its heart; flesh that blurred and coiled and spasmed, as all that was left of Undarl Dragonrider fought to rebuild his body. A long time the mage royal struggled, the light flickering and waning as the man shaped one arm onto the shoulder, head, and back that had survived. Then he fought with all his will, panting, to give himself legs again.
Several times he slipped toward his true form, but each time regained the semblance he wanted—a taller, more regal Un¬darl. The pain ebbed as his confidence grew. ... He was win¬ning. ... He could weave all matter to his will, given time enough.
A second arm lengthened into a hand and fingers. Undarl fought to control its thrashing, but could not. Not yet. Give me, gods, just a little more time....
* * * * *
The magelords were arguing bitterly as Elminster rose like a vengeful wraith from Ithboltar's crystal. Bits of the ceiling broke off here and there to fall and shatter on the floor below. Proud wizards stepped back hastily. El's hard eyes were on the Old One as he whispered the last careful words of a mighty in-cantation.
It ended—and the stone floor of the chamber split from end to end with a crack that deafened them all. Gems, blazing like tiny fireballs, flew in all directions from the Old One's crown.
Ithboltar staggered, screamed in pain, and clutched his head.
A few of the magelords saw Elminster as he vanished back into the crystal, but their angry and disbelieving gazes were caught by the flickering forces spiraling out from the shattered skullcap on Ithboltar's head. Smoke was rising from their stag¬gering ex-tutor's eyes. The crown pulsed, spinning a vortex of gathering force out into the chamber.
Hasty incantations were being chanted all over the shattered chamber as the vortex shivered, throwing off roiling waves of force that swept the wizards into each other and dashed them against the walls . . . and the crown exploded, white bolts of destruction stabbing out in all directions. Mage-lords wailed and flickered in and out of visibility as contingen¬cies took effect.
Watching the scene from a balcony across the courtyard, Myrjala murmured the last words of a spell of her own. A bloody, disheveled Elminster appeared out of the air beside her, gasping.
They stared together into the shattered chamber. Ithboltar's headless body swayed for a moment, took one unsteady step for¬ward and fell. Over against one wall, a magelord was gibbering on his knees, and another of the mages had become a smoking heap of bones and ashes.
The other wizards were struggling to escape, hands moving in frantic spellcastings. The vortex, adorned with the swirling bolts the crown had spat into it, gathered speed and strength like an angry cyclone as it swept across the chamber toward them. A roar like a deep, unending roll of thunder grew and moved with it, throwing back echoes from the walls and towers of Athalgard. The entire castle began to shake.
Myrjala frowned and made a pulling motion with her hands. The seeing eye she commanded slid through the ragged gap in the wall to hang just outside the tower. "The crown," she mur¬mured, "must be holding them in the room."
The vortex struck the mages—and whirled through them to the back wall of Ithboltar's spellchamber. It smashed into those old stones, the tower shuddered . . . and slowly, with terrible purpose, the shattered room folded in on itself and collapsed, bringing down the upper reaches of Ithboltar's tower in a titanic crash and roar of falling stone.
An earsplitting explosion burst from where the chamber had been, flinging stones out of the avalanche of falling rock, and among them, one magelord was dashed across the courtyard like a rag doll. He was still struggling weakly to work a spell as his body smashed into another tower. The face of a servant, watching in fascinated horror from a window, was spattered with the wizard's gore. What was left of the mage slid limply down the stone wall. . . and then vanished in a little cluster of winking lights as a last contingency magic awoke. Too late.
Stones were cascading down the walls of the riven tower when the courtyard itself rocked and shuddered. Gratings, paving stones, and dust leapt aloft, borne on sudden geysers of magical radiance, as something exploded in the unseen dungeon depths of the castle.
The shattered stump of Ithboltar's tower swayed, sagged sideways, and crashed into utter ruin. Flames leapt up here and there about the courtyard, amid the frantically running arms-men. The soldiers of Athalantar stumbled on through smoke and dust vainly waving their halberds about as if cleaving the air would fell some invisible foe and set all to rights again. Somewhere a raw screaming arose and went on and on, amid fresh rumblings.
"Come," Myrjala said, taking Elminster's hand and slipping up to the balcony rail. Elminster followed, and she stepped calmly off it into the air. Hands clasped, they drifted slowly down through the tumult. Athalgard was erupting with run¬ning, shouting soldiers. The two mages were still a few feet above the paving-stones when a band of armsmen sprinted around a nearby corner and swept down on them.
The guardcaptain saw wizards in his path and slowed, throwing his arms out to signal his men. "What befell?" he bel¬lowed.
Elminster shrugged. "Ithboltar got a word or two of a spell wrong, methinks."
The officer stared at them, and then at the fallen tower, and his eyes narrowed. "I don't know you!" he said sharply. "Who are you?"
Elminster smiled. "I am Elminster Aumar, Prince of Atha¬lantar, son of Elthryn."
The guardcaptain gaped at him. Then with a visible effort, he swallowed and asked, "Did you—cause this?"
Elminster gave the wreckage around a pleasant smile, then shifted his gaze to the halberds blocking his way and said, "And if I did?"
He raised his hand. Beside him, Myrjala had already raised her own. Small lights spun and twinkled above her cupped palm.
The armsmen cried out together in fear . . . and an instant later were in full flight, flinging down their halberds and slip¬ping and sliding on the stones underfoot in their headlong haste to get back around the corner.
"You may go," Myrjala grandly told the empty courtyard where they'd stood. Then she chuckled. After a moment, Elmin¬ster joined in.
*****
"We can't hold on much longer!" Blood from a gash left by the axe-stroke that had split his helm was dripping into Anauviir's eyes as he shouted desperately at Helm.
The old knight roared back, "Tell me something I don't know!"
Beside him, a red-faced Darrigo Trumpettower was panting as he swung a heavy blade he'd snatched from a dead hand. The old farmer was protecting Helm Stoneblade with his faltering right arm and his life. That was a price, it seemed, soon to be paid.
The surviving knights stood together on the slippery, blood-smeared cobbles of Athalgard's outer courtyard. Armsmen were charging in at them from all sides now, streaming in the gates from barracks and watchtowers. A few old men in motley armor couldn't stand against such numbers for long.
"We can't hold!" one knight cried despairingly, hurling an armsman to the ground and wearily stabbing the man in the face.
"Stand and fight!" Helm roared out, his raw voice rising above them all. "Even if we fall, every armsman we take with us is one less to lord it over the realm! Fight and die well for Atha¬lantar!"
A First Sword got through Darrigo's guard, laying the old man's cheek open with the point of his blade. Helm lunged for¬ward and ran the man through, his sword buckling against the man's spine and the armor plate behind it. He let go of his weapon and tore the man's own blade out of failing hands to fight on. "Where are you, Prince?" he muttered as he slew an¬other armsman. Aye, the knights of Athalantar couldn't hold out much longer....
*****
King Belaur was wont to partake of evenfeast at about the time lesser men sought their morning meal. He would dine heavily on fresh fish slathered in fresh-frothed cream, and then turn to venison and hare cooked in spiced wine. When he felt full to bursting, he'd retire to the royal chambers to sleep his belly's load off. He awoke now, stretched, and strolled naked into his larger, more public bedchamber. Belaur expected to find there fresh minted wine and warmer, livelier entertainment.
This day, rising to the waking world amid the thunders of a strange dream of shakings and rumblings, he was not disap¬pointed. In fact, he was pleased to see two women waiting in the ornate and gigantic bed. One was the woman who'd led that Moonclaws thieving band. Isparla 'Serpenthips' glittered, lan¬guorous and dangerous, amid the cushions. Smiling at him in her collar and hip-string of jewels, she looked like a cat strung with diamonds, and trembling beside her was the new wench he'd noticed the evening before outside a midtown bakery. Un¬clad, the new arrival was even more entrancing than he'd hoped. She wore only the spell-chains magelords used to make defiant prisoners more biddable, and for the occasion someone had polished the links and the collars encircling her wrist, an¬kles, and throat so they gleamed as bright as Isparla's jewels.
Belaur met her eyes with a savage grin, snatched up a goblet and a decanter from the shining row atop a nearby board, and expressed his approval with a long, rumbling snarl as he strode to the bed. Like a purring lion he lowered himself between them, quaffing wine lazily, and wondered which pleasure to enjoy first. The new treasure ... or save her, turning first to fa¬miliar delights?
Isparla gave a low, throaty purr of her own, and moved her body against him. The king cast a look at Shandathe, lying anx¬ious and still in her chains, and then smiled and turned away from her. He laid a cruel hand on a rope of jewels, and pulled. Serpenthips hissed in pain as the stones cut into her and she was dragged against him. Belaur bent his mouth to hers, in¬tending to bite. He remembered earlier tastes of her warm, salty blood....
