It was joined by another, and together the two hands traced a gesture in the air. And then another.
"Yes," a voice above them said in sudden, fierce determination. "So, let me. ." The voice sank into mutterings and a short, rising chant.
Sudden radiance spilled out of one of those two hands, and the other suddenly held a scepter-a scepter topped by an eye. The swirling radiance formed an image of the astonished Broglan staring at his suddenly empty hand.
The motes that formed it flickered, faded, and died.
The scepter remained. Above it two eyes burst into sudden flame and bent forward greedily. Twin jets of flame lashed out, entwining the scepter. Around the immobile, intent head and hands, other tentacles grew claws that grabbed excitedly at empty air, or talons that slashed at stone. A mouth, swaying on its own stalk in the distant darkness, snarled to itself. A mind-voice rose to a thunderous, silent shout: GIVE ME.
YOU WILL GIVE ME … I WILL PREVAIL. I WILL PREVAIL. I-AHHHH …
The scepter blazed red-hot. Flames streamed around it, circling from one eye to the other. Then came a sharp crack, a flash of blue-white magic. The scepter broke into shards, which flew away into the darkness and crumbled to dust.
The shapeshifter stiffened and then rose into a larger bulk. His two eyes were now black orbs surrounded by white flames.
"Yes. Yes. Oh, yes. Now I have the power!"
White fire leapt out. The shattered door disappeared-along with most of the wall around it. Stones collapsed in a quickening roar, and out of the heart of their dust, cold laughter arose.
"Storm?" a voice called lightly. "Storm Silverhand? Your foe is back!"
SEVENTEEN
Shayna clung to Storm, emerald eyes large with fear. "S-Stay with me," she begged. "Don't let him touch my mind again!"
"Be at ease, Shayna," Storm murmured. "Gently, now." She held the trembling heiress in her arms, drew in a deep breath, and reluctantly called on the silver fire.
She wanted only a little thing from Mystra. There was a power learned by-thankfully-few archmages since the days of Netheril, the ability to "hang" spells so that they waited, cast and ready to take instant effect, in an unseen, undetectable limbo. Storm used it now, soothing the terrified heiress while a spell of deeper slumber crafted by Azuth himself slowly unfolded.
When it was ready, she unleashed it on Shayna, kissing her to let the magic flow in.
With no more than a murmur, the noble went limp in her arms. Storm spun a ring of silver fire around her to stop the questing mind of the foe. Then she laid the sleeping girl against a pillar, curled up on her side, and set three sloping timbers over her to turn away falling stones. Storm carried the dagger and the coronet two rooms distant and thrust them under a pile of rubble-not a moment too soon.
As she set down the coronet, it blazed with sudden fire. A faint echo of the foe's mocking laughter arose from it. Storm stiffened and then hurriedly heaped stones onto the circlet, being careful not to touch it again. When it was safely buried, she selected a rock as large across as a serving-platter, set her teeth, lifted the huge stone with a grunt of effort, and hefted it into place atop the pile she'd made.
She turned again, looking back to where she'd left Shayna. Bursts of silver fire, like snowflakes of light, were winking and flaring out of thin air; her magic was under attack. The foe was seeking battle again.
As the first gray glimmerings of dawn stole into Firefall Keep, Storm, sword in hand, stalked through its rubble-strewn heart. She'd tossed handfuls of dust over her blade to keep it from gleaming, and was walking as quietly and alertly as she could.
Where was he?
Tendrils of smoke curled up from charred timbers among the rubble. Dead armsmen lay everywhere, crushed and half buried under falls of stone. The keep sported an open central well it had lacked yestermorn, an open bowl of death. The work of the ruthless foe, a shapeshifter who could drink in and use the powers of his victims. A shapeshifter who was beginning to seem unstoppable. There were days of work, here, just to-
With a sharp clack, a stone struck the tiles behind her and rolled away. Storm whirled around, looked up, and had a brief glimpse of a smiling mouth and a cluster of three watching eyes, all on their own tentacles. The mouth spat fire.
Storm dodged aside and pulled back her blade to save it from being destroyed. She called up silver fire to cloak her. The stones by her boots melted away, smoking, as the gout of flames struck them. Dragonfire! Where by the names of all the gods had he found a red dragon to subsume? This was starting to seem a proper nightmare!
The groaning behind and above warned her. Storm launched herself into a frantic headlong dive. She bounced and skidded painfully on stony rubble before rolling up and launching herself into another desperate dive. With ponderous, deadly momentum, the entire wall behind her broke loose and fell, crashing down in a mighty, ground-shaking river of shattered stone.
Cold laughter rolled around her as Storm struck the floor again and slid to collide with the staring corpse of a Purple Dragon. There was dust on his eyeballs, and his hands were frozen into claws, reaching vainly for his sword. Storm snatched it up. With steel in both hands, she looked up at the foe, a snarl curling her lips.
A row of bobbing mouths laughed at her in chorus. "Such defiance, little kitten!" one of them boomed cheerfully. The one next to it added with cold spite, "Do you know any other games, little trollop? I've seen running rabbits that were more amusing!"
Storm thought she recognized the voice of Pheirauze Summerstar in that last remark. She glanced quickly behind her and then all around to be sure no sneak attack was snaking up to lash at her while the mouths taunted.
The next moment, the smiling face of Maxer appeared at the edge of the room above, across from the mouths. It looked down at her. As hard as she could, she threw her newfound blade up at the face-just as the attack it had come to watch bore fruit.
The air shattered into four rushing balls of flame that snarled into bright existence on all sides of her. Storm closed her eyes.
A moment later, the world went up with a roar.
Standing hunched, Storm felt the tatters she wore seared away from her, and whipped around her body in the blast of ravening fire. Her sword melted away and her hair lashed her face in a wild tangle as it sizzled and stank. A soothing coolness flowed through her. The powers laid on her long ago sucked the fiery assault into her and twisted it into beneficial energy. As it surged, she was healed and renewed. All weariness and discomfort washed away. Every dazed corner of her mind was relit. Still the energy came on.
She let it swirl around the forearm of her empty hand, and gathered the divine fire of Mystra. She called up that silver fire from within her and from around the keep, into something that snarled and thrummed in her with a fury all its own.
The fire raging around her abruptly faded away. Storm knew the foe would be looking down to see what his meteor swarm had wrought, unaware that it was one of the spells that could not harm her. She did not waste time looking up or pointing her arm grandly, but simply hurled the bolt of silver fire up where the false face of Maxer had been.
A tortured chorus of agonized screams was her reward. The row of mouths pitched and trembled in pain. Something black and shriveled trailed smoke as it staggered away. The silver fire had bored through it, the ceiling beyond, and the two floors above that one, to where the faint rosy fingers of approaching morning touched the sky.