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
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 patches 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.