“Take his usual pratfall,” Torm put in, his blade finding the throat of the Zhent whose frantic swing had made Rathan stumble back hastily. The fat priest tripped over a tree root and sat down heavily. “Oww!” he complained as the ground shook.
For their next few breaths, the knights were too busy slaying the last few Zhentilar to notice that the tree whose root had felled Rathan shook now in soundless laughter. Two golden eyes high on its trunk watched the last blood spilled, and then closed, just as Torm leaned against the bark below them, breathing hard, and said, “Well, still no sign of what we seek—how many Zhents is that, now?”
“Thirty-three,” Rathan’s voice came back gloomily to him from the other side of the tree. “Why do they always come along just when I need to relieve myself? Tymora, if ye’re listening—tell me that!”
The day passed in continuous plodding travel—one weary stride after another, slipping and ducking and scrambling through, around, and over trees—fallen trees, leaning trees, and gnarled, tangled, growing-in-all-directions trees, damp leaf-mold slippery under their feet. Here and there pale brown mushrooms the size of halflings’ heads rose up in clumps, and rotting stumps held lush green cushions of moss.
Shandril hadn’t thought she could ever tire of trees—but then, she’d never thought she’d see so many trees in her life, let alone in one day. These weren’t the beautiful giants of the Elven Court; Hullack Forest was dark and dense and damp, its trees grown thick together.
The three travelers felt like unwelcome intruders; none of them had wanted to stop at highsun to eat. They’d hastened on, instead, searching for higher ground and a clearing where they could camp.
The sun had sunk low by the time the ground began rising again. Here and there, rocks showed through the moss and the fungi-cloaked wreckage of fallen trees. Ravines and gullies appeared more often, and the black pools of standing water were smaller and fewer. As the sun slipped to a last, low red ribbon under the trees, the weary travelers’ hearts rose. They were climbing sharply at last.
“Delg,” Narm said excitedly from behind the dwarf as they slipped and clambered upward, Shandril between them, “some of these rocks have been cut and dressed. Look: straight edges on this one—this must be some sort of ruin.”
“You don’t say,” the dwarf said softly. “It wouldn’t surprise you overmuch, I suppose, if I told you I’d noticed a thing or two about these rocks myself ….”
The dwarf’s voice died away in wonder as they came out into a height of crumbling stone arches, walls, and broken stairs. Shattered pillars reached like jagged fingers up at the twilight sky. Selûne shone faintly just above the horizon as night came down on them.
“Well, here we are for the night, whatever your likings,” Delg said, peering all around with keen interest. “This is old, old indeed—and not dwarven nor yet elven, either. I’ll have a look at this in morning light …. I can tell the age of the stonework better then.”
“For now,” Narm put in firmly, looking at the dark trees behind them, “we’d better find a corner of this we can defend, or we may not live to see the morn.”
Delg sighed. “Shandril,” he said plaintively, “you had a thousand thousand dalesmen to choose from after—after the company fell. Did you have to choose a whiner and a worrier?”
Shandril sighed right back. “Delg,” she said mildly, “I love this man. Give him at least the respect you’d give a dwarf of his age, will you?”
“I am, Lady. I am,” Delg replied, and they saw his grinning teeth flash in the growing moonlight. He lurched over to Narm and clapped him low on the back, hard enough to send the young wizard stumbling ahead helplessly.
“Forgive my manner, lad. I don’t mean most of it—much. Your lady can tell you how it was in the company. We were swordmates together—and, mind you, she survived it, then. Ferostil was nastier than ever I was, and Rymel more the prankster, too. If mere words are enough to hurt you, lad, grow some armor speedily; it doesn’t get any easier on the ears as you get older.”
“My thanks, Delg,” Narm said shortly, “but I’d be happier if you could tell me what that is.”
“What, lad?” Delg’s axe glinted in the moonlight.
“That thing, there!” Narm said fiercely, pointing. Far away across tumbled arches and broken rubble, something dark and winged seemed to both fly and to flow over the stone beneath it, like some sort of giant black snake. A snake with batlike wings, eyes like glimmering rubies, and a cruel snout. It was coming toward them, not hurrying, as though dinner seldom escaped it.
“Shandril!” Narm said commandingly. “Hold still, and I’ll cast my light spell.” He lowered his voice, and added, “It’s my last—to feed your spellfire ….Ready?”
Shandril nodded, and Narm hurried through the gestures of casting the spell as the dwarf advanced to stand as foreguard, hefting his axe. “Battle again, is it?” he muttered. “Then let it come! Clanggedin be with me and guide my axe.”
Narm’s casting ended as the winged thing rose up into the air before them, passing over Delg’s reaching axe. No magical radiance appeared beneath Narm’s hands, which rested on Shandril’s neck. She had willed the light into her, drawing the tingling energy in through the bare skin of her neck. Flames danced briefly in her eyes as she waved him away, then looked up to face the winged horror directly.
It loomed above her. Dark and terrible, its leathery wings beat in eerie silence, its bony jaws spread wide, its red glowing eyes met hers. “Turn back,” Shandril said, “and we will not harm you. Turn back!”
Above the glowing crystal ball, a light feminine voice chuckled. “They do talk a lot, these fools. Always threatening and declaiming grandly—when they’re not pleading, that is.”
“True, Mairara,” came an older female voice in answer. “Yet I fear this servant creature will fail us as all the others have done.”
Gathlarue set her goblet down on the tabletop and stared into the crystal ball that had risen to float just above it. In its curved depths they both beheld the scene in the ruins. Both stared so intently into the globe that neither noticed as one leg of their table grew a silent, bearded smile for an instant, ere a quiet wisp of a shadow rose from it and slipped away.
In deadly silence, the dark horror folded its wings and plunged down on Shandril. Narm cried out and drew his dagger, and Delg’s axe rose as he raced in to swing at the flank of the descending menace. But there was a sudden flash and rolling roar of flame.
While backing toward a fallen stone wall, Shandril had hurled fire into the beast’s open mouth.
The man and the dwarf both staggered hastily back from the rush of flame as the monster, covered with it, perished in writhing tatters of smoking flesh. It gave off a horrible smell. With mixed awe and satisfaction, Narm and Delg watched for a moment while it shriveled and burned. Then they heard a queer choking sound from behind the ruined wall.