The armored corpse was cooked black; Shandril avoided it. The other had a dagger, which she took quickly, boots-too large, but her feet had bled enough for her to take any boots over no boots-a skin of water, which she drained thirstily, and the shoulder bag. She tugged it free of the body and examined the scraps of wood curiously. The thickest piece, from the butt end of the stick, bore the word 'Ilzazu,' but nothing happened when Shandril cautiously said it aloud. She scrambled down the heap again.
The bag proved to contain hard, dark bread, a wheel of cheese sealed in wax, another half-eaten wheel speckled with mold (Shandril ate it anyway, saving the other for later), and a small book. Shandril opened it cautiously, saw crawling runes and glyphs, and slammed it again. There was also a hopelessly smashed hand lamp, a flint, and a metal vial of lamp oil. She put everything but the flint and oil back into the bag and slung it on her shoulder. She crawled back to the dead magic-user again and tore off what she could of the man's robe, doused it in oil, and wearily struck the flint against coin after coin, and finally upon the scorched armor of the other corpse to strike sparks onto the soaked cloth, until at last it began to smolder. Then she gingerly borrowed the blackened sword from the fallen warrior and lifted the bundle on its point. It flared up, and she clambered hastily down the heap of coins, looking for a door or stairs or anything that might lead out of here.
Above her was a stone rack that ran along the ceiling, supported by arches between the squat pillars that held up the ceiling itself. Upon the rack lay three huge barrels. From each hung a dusty, cobwebbed chain. With a shiver, Shandril realized that a fourth barrel had hung over the heap of coins; looking back, she saw the shattered wooden ribs of the fallen barrel. And at the base of the heap on this side, where she had not ventured before, the rusty end of the chain projected out of the heap beside a pair of skeletal legs. Trembling, Shandril opened her mouth to scream and then shut it again. Soon the cloth would all have burned, and she would be unable to see in the full darkness away from the hole again.
She hurried on, through a chamber as vast as the hall that must be above it. She had come far enough, Shandril realized, to be well beneath that vast hall. She knew there were no stairs nor door in the top level she had arrived in except perhaps down at the end she had not investigated, where the stirges had come from. She turned in that direction, the daylight growing dim behind her.
The flickering, feeble light of her flame revealed a stone stair spiraling up from the floor, without railing or ornament. It looked impossibly thin and graceful to bear her weight. Shandril hesitated, looking around-and then the cloth burned through and fell from her blade in a small shower of glowing shreds. Larger scraps flickered on the floor, but proved too small to balance on her blade. Shandril sighed and shrugged. In the last of the light she slid the blade through her belt and grimly started to climb the stairs on hands and knees.
When she reached the floor above, she was in complete darkness. This should be the ground floor, she reasoned, and if there were a door, it would probably be over in that direction, somewhere. That is, if the floor doesn't give way and dump me into the basement again, she thought grimly. Holding the sword out crosswise before her to fend off any obstacles, she advanced forward gingerly. Slowly, slowly she went, lifting her feet gently and quietly, listening tensely for any unusual sounds. Nothing.
On into the dark she went until her blade scraped on stone. She probed, carefully, and then felt her way around the stone. A pillar. She drew breath and went on.
Once she heard dry bones crackling underfoot, and another time she stubbed her toes on a large block of stone that had fallen from above. Carefully she went on, until her blade found a wall, a wall that ran on in both directions for at least six paces. Left, she decided arbitrarily, scraping the wall and feeling it barehanded a foot or so behind her probing blade until she found a corner.
Having mapped out that section of wall in her mind, she retraced her steps. Quite soon she found a wooden door, intricately caved, from the feel of it. She felt for a pull-ring, but found none. Feeling desperate, she stepped back and ran full tilt at the door, driving her shoulder into the wood as she had done before.
There was a dull thud, much pain, and Shandril found herself on the floor. "Tymora damn me!" she said exasperated almost to tears. Would nothing go her way? Was this the gods' way of telling her she should have stayed dutifully at The Rising Moon? Growling a little in her throat, Shandril got up and pushed and pulled at the door. Solid as stone and as unmoving. She felt for catches, knobs, latches, and keyholes, both high and low. Nothing.
To the right, she decided abruptly. Look for another door.
She found one right away and, surprisingly, it opened on the first try, leaving her blinking foolishly, but happily. It made no sound, this door, and swung as if it had no weight. She peered at it curiously, and then growled at herself for being a fool and stepped quickly through, into sunlight.
Another mistake. Not two hundred paces away across the tilted stones and crumbling pillars of Myth Drannor, six warriors were fighting a losing battle against three more of the winged she-devils. Shandril stepped back into the doorway again, and then changed her mind and slipped out, sword drawn. She ran across the tumbled stones to the nearest trees. Crawling under a thorny bush, she peered out to look across the courtyard where the well lay, deceptively placid, and watched the men fighting for their lives.
The battle was eerily silent. The flapping and beating of wings, the grunts of warriors taking blows on their shields or swinging a heavy sword two-handed, the scrape of shuffling feet, and the occasional metallic ring of dagger on blade was all that could be heard. There had been two more adventurers, she saw; both lay motionless a short distance behind the fight. The men were trying to keep moving and find cover.
Even as she watched, one of the men ran a few steps, abandoning his protective crouch, and one of the winged devils swooped. Shandril caught her breath, but the run was a ruse. The warrior turned and swung his blade with two hands, beheading the devil with a triumphant grunt. Shandril saw the black, smoking blood run down the edges of the warrior's silver blade as he turned and cut the body apart. The body began to smolder, greasy black smoke curling up in snaky wisps.
He dared not try to take up the devil's fallen dagger, for two more were swooping down with screams of anger, uncoiling ropes in their hands. The warrior looked from one to the other and suddenly turned and fled in terror, sword waving wildly. The devils flew wide to take him from two sides. Shandril swallowed and looked away.
From the reactions of the party, the warrior must have been the leader. As the devils tore his body apart, his fellow adventurers ran in all directions, crying and cursing. The devils circled, teeth gleaming, and Shandril decided to flee before the battle was over and she risked being seen.
She crawled into the trees, hoping she was heading out of the city. Judging by the sun, she was probably heading south, but she had no idea whether she was near the edge of the city or not.
Twenty minutes of clambering and skulking later, she decided she definitely was not near the city's edge. Tumbled stones and gaping, empty buildings were everywhere. Gnarled trees had broken through marble and anything else that got in their way as they grew, rending once-beautiful spires and high, curving bridges. Most of the bridges had cracked and fallen; a few were intact, though choked with creepers, trailing vines, and old nests. Shandril stayed low and tried to avoid open spaces, for here and there in the ruins she saw devils-some black and glistening, some blood-red, barbed and scaled, and some mauve or yellowish green. They perched on crumbling spires or battlements, or sprawled at ease on bridges or atop heaps of tilted stone. A few, mainly the winged devil-women, but some horned, spine-tailed, and scaly horrors, too, flew in lazy circles around the ruins. If this was Myth Drannor, it was a wonder any of the dales still existed. What was bringing them here-and what was preventing them from flying in all directions, murdering and wreacking havoc?