A great open cavern lay before them. Its walls were studded with the fist-sized, sea-green gems which Shandril recognized as the fabled beljurils, for at odd intervals one or more would give forth a silent burst of light just as the storytellers had said. Shandril could tell by their light that the cavern stretched away to her right, but of its true size she had no idea. It was big, she knew-and suddenly she shivered in the twinkling darkness. Would the mage slay her here, leave her in a cage to be tortured later, or killed or deformed by magic in some experiment or other? Or did something lair here? Shandril could hear only the soft sounds of the mage behind her and the noise of her own passage as she descended into that winking display of lights. Where in the Realms was she?
“Halt, little one, and kneel.” Shandril did as that quiet voice bade her; the rope was already tightening about her knees to reinforce the order. The pale globes winked out. Behind her, Shandril heard The Shadowsil chant something softly, and then there was light all about, and Shandril could see clearly the rough walls of the huge cavern around her.
The floor descended in front of her, and its lowest reaches were heaped with things that gleamed and sparkled in the light. There were gems, and coins beyond number, and here and there statuettes of ivory and of jade. The gleam of gold also caught her eye, and there were many other dazzling things beyond Shandril’s knowledge.
Then a great voice boomed and echoed around them, freezing Shandril in terror. It spoke deeply and slowly in the common tongue of humans, and to Shandril the voice seemed old and patient and amused-and dangerous.
“Who comes?” it demanded. Something moved deeper in the cavern, beyond the mage’s light, and then Shandril saw it. Her dry throat tightened, and she would have fled if the rope’s coils had not held her firmly where she stood. As it was, her struggles caused her to fall sideways on the stone, where she lay face-down and did not have to see.
“Symgharyl Maruel Shadowsil stands before you, O mighty Rauglothgor. I have brought you a gift: a captive, gained among the ruins of Myth Drannor. Its blood may be valuable to you. But the followers of Sammaster would question it first. It may be one who escaped them at Over-sember, and they would know how that was accomplished.”
The lady faced the great night dragon calmly and spoke with respect but in tones that held no fear. Shandril peered sidelong up at it. She dared not meet its eyes again; she shuddered at the very thought. But the thief of Deepingdale saw its great skeletal bulk advance across shifting treasure toward them, vast and terrible. By its great wings and claws and tail it was a dragon, but except for the chilling eyes, it was only bones. Its long, fanged skull leered down at her. Shandril knew it could see her looking at it and knew further, with a stirring of defiant anger, that it was amused.
“Look at me, little maid,” it rumbled, the creature’s voice echoing in Shandril’s head. She shook her bonds in terror. She would not look at the creature! Tears blinded her. She sobbed as the ropes tightened about her, pulling her to her knees again, pulling her brow and throat to turn her head up. Through a mist of tears, Shandril looked, and she saw.
The cunning eyes held hers, like two tiny images of the moon reflected in mica panes, like two candles set at the head and foot of a shrouded corpse. Shandril shivered uncontrollably as she looked, and she felt those eyes boring into her very soul. She looked back as deeply herself, and she knew much.
It had been old, this sly and gnarled giant among dragons, when men first came to the Sea of Fallen Stars and fought with elves and the tribes of bugbears and kobolds of the Thunder Peaks, the mountains that the elves called Airm-bult, or ‘Storm-fangs.’ Rauglothgor had been the fangs amid the mountain storms often. Rauglothgor the Proud, dragonkind had called the creature, for its presumption and quickness to take offence or pick quarrels.
In cunning and malice it had sought out weak, old dragons and slain them, often by trickery, to seize their lairs and treasure. Hoard upon hoard had fallen into the dragon’s claws, and it had piled them up in deep and secret places beneath the Realms known only to it-for other creatures of all sizes who ventured therein were slain, from peryton to centipede, without mercy or patience.
Years passed, and Rauglothgor grew and devoured whole herds of rothe in Thar and buckar on the Shining Plains and more than one ore horde coming down the Desertsedge from the North. Rauglothgor became strong and terrible, a giant among dragons. It thrust aside pretense and prudence and slew all dragons as it met them; in air, on land, and even in their lairs, slaying with savagery and skill, and adding hoards anew to its own.
Yet in its dark heart the old red dragon grew afraid-as it grew older and escaped clever traps set for it and slew more dragons-that one day its strength would fail and some younger, greedier dragon would drag it down as it had served its elders, and all its striving would have been for naught. For years such worries ate at the creature’s old heart, and when men came with offers of eternal strength and wealth, the dragon slew them not, and it listened.
By the arts of the Cult of the Dragon, the great and evil red dragon became, in time, a great and evil dracolich. Dead it was and yet not dead, and the years touched not its vigor and strength, for it had become only bones and magic, and its strength was of the art and could not be diminished by age.
The years passed, and Faerun changed, and the world was not as it had been. Rauglothgor flew less often, for there was little left to match its memories, and few lived that it had known, and willing men of the cult brought it treasure to add to its dusty hoard. The dracolich grew moody and lonely as kingdoms fell and seas changed and only it endured. lb live forever was a curse. A lonely curse.
Shandril could not look away from those lonely eyes. “So young,” said the deep voice, and abruptly the bony neck arched up and the eyes closed and she was alone, shivering.
“Well met, Great One,” Symgharyl Maruel said. “By your leave, I would question this one before I leave her with you.”
“Given, Shadowsil,” Rauglothgor replied. “Though she knows little of anything, yet, I deem. She has the eyes of a kitten that has just learned to walk.”
“Aye, Elder Wyrm,” said the Shadowsil, “and yet she may have seen much in the few days just past, or even be more than she seems.” The lady in purple strode around to stand before Shandril. At a gesture, the rope slithered slowly from Shandril and left her free. Shandril gathered herself to flee, but Symgharyl Maruel merely smiled down at her in cold amusement and shook her head.
“Tell me your name,” she commanded. Shandril obeyed without thinking.
“Your parents?” the mage pressed.
“I know not,” Shandril replied truthfully.
“Where did you dwell when younger?” The Shadowsil continued quickly.
“In Deepingdale, at The Rising Moon.”
“How came you to the place where I found you?”
“I… I stepped through a door of light that glowed in the air.”
“Where was that door?” the mage continued, a note of triumph in her voice.
“I… I don’t know. In a dark place-there was a gargoyle.”
“How came you there?”
“B-by magic, I believe. There was a word, on a bone, and I said it… “
“Where is the bone now?”
“In a pool, I think-in that ruined city. Please, lady, was that Myth Drannor?”
The dracolich chuckled harshly. The Shadowsil stood silently, eyes burning into Shandril’s. “Tell me your brother’s name!” she demanded abruptly.