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  Shandril stared into the darkness, shrugged, smiled, sat down on the most comfortable stone she could find, and composed herself to wait.

  After a long time there was a stirring in the darkness.

  “Torm?”

  “Rauglothgor’s spells seek us,” Torm whispered in her ear. “Your Narm lives and is unharmed. I’ll take you to him as soon as the dracolich settles down. For now, we must abide here.”

  A hand patted her shoulder—how could he see in this?—and Torm settled himself on unseen stones nearby. His breathing quieted.

  They sat in chilly darkness for a very long time.

  Torchlight flared like a small, blinding star in the distance and bobbed nearer.

  “Over here, most graceful of priests!” Torm called cheerfully.

  A voice bawled out merrily, “Torm? Where by the Lady’s winking eye have ye been?”

  “Paying a visit to Elminster by means of a little magic I preferred not to lose to the balhiir,” Torm called back. “I found Shandril and she found me. Have you spells left?”

  “Aye, if the accursed balhiir stays elsewhere,” Rathan rumbled, striding toward them.

  Jhessail was at his back, with Florin and Merith and more torches. After them came the plain-robed man who had shot fire at the Shadowsil and—Narm!

  Shandril sprang up and rushed to embrace him, passing Torm like the wind.

  He chuckled and said, “Oh, yes, and there’s one more little matter of immediate interest, gallants: Some seventy riders approach the keep above us; illustrious members of the Cult of the Dragon. Shall we rush to smite them with spells, or take them by surprise down here?”

  “No magic remains that we can trust,” Florin said grimly.

  Torm grinned and spread his hands. “Ah, well, I never planned on dying of old age.…”

  Shandril and Narm embraced, swaying in each other’s arms. “As long as I have you,” the thief of Deepingdale murmured into the apprentice wizard’s ear, “I can face anything the gods hurl at us. Never leave me.”

  “Nor you me,” Narm growled back, his arms tightening fiercely. “Lady most fair …”

  Torm tapped him on the shoulder. “If ever, young Tamaraith, you find yourself tired or overly busy, and need someone to stand in for you in such an embrace—just call my name.”

  Narm’s unappreciative look made Torm roar with laughter.

  Jhessail cleared her throat briskly. “Not that I want to cut short Torm’s merriment, but the only place we few can defend against so many is that dead end where Florin found Narm and Shandril. Shall we move?”

  As if her suggestion had been a stern order, the Knights set forth, their torches flickering as they hastened through twisting tunnels.

  No balhiir, bone dragon, or anything else rose to menace them. Soon they reached the space beyond the rockfall where Narm and Shandril had thought themselves entombed. Clambering through the gap Florin had made, the Knights turned and readied their weapons.

  “I presume you returned to Shadowdale to stow your magic,” Florin said to Torm. “Did you also ask Elminster to aid us?”

  The thief grinned. “Aye, but the Old Mage suspects me of youthful enthusiasm. I know not how serious he thinks our situation. I did mention the dracolich. That ought to intrigue him into putting in an appearance.”

  “Young and beauteous lady,” rumbled the priest to Shandril, “let us speak of the chosen of the gods—priests. Myself, for instance.” He grandly drew up his girth. “Rathan Thentraver, servant of Tymora.” He bent ponderously to bring Shandril’s hand to his lips. “With all this running and butchering, there’s scarce been time to get to know each other, though I daresay ye two have managed.” His chuckle was not—quite—a leer. “I know what it is to be young and in haste.”

  Shandril smiled and shook her head. “I must ask. You’re a priest and yet seem so—forgive me—normal. Much like the men who came to the inn each night. Does the service of Lady Tymora not change one?”

  Rathan nodded. “Aye, but we don’t all live the stuff of rousing tales. For all the glory of victories and treasure won there are painful days of marching hurt, lying wounded, or swinging swords in weary practice. The Lady helps those who help themselves.” He struck a heroic pose, and added grandly, “She doesn’t ask for change—she merely asks for our best.”

  “Yes,” Merith agreed, wiping his sword with an oily rag, “the gods are strange. Those who come against us now worship the monster that nearly slew us.”

  “The Cult of the Dragon,” Shandril said slowly. “Why would anyone want to worship a dead dragon?”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Torm said airily. “I keep around me a few magics that should … hell’s fire!” A sparkling mist swirled around him. The balhiir was back. “Well … I had some magic.”

  “Why did it leave us?” Narm asked curiously, watching the mist rise above Torm to drift along the ceiling. It seemed larger and somehow brighter.

  “I think it sought the greatest concentration of magic,” Rathan replied, his eyes not leaving the balhiir, “either the dracolich’s hoard, or Rauglothgor itself, hurling spells as it was.” His head swung around to fix Torm with a glare. “Seventy cultists, ye said?”

  “Aye, and a dracolich. Let us not forget the dracolich,” Merith added dryly.

  “Enough; something comes!” Florin warned sternly, hefting his great sword as if it were a thing of feathers. “Lanseril?”

  The plain-robed man smiled and waved a hand. Every torch went out, leaving only drifting smoke. The balhiir plunged at the druid like a vengeful arrow but reached him too late to drain magic. Its sparkling stars swirled angrily around their heads.

  It moved to where Merith crept catlike over rocks to join Florin at the gap. The druid meanwhile became a blur and then a small gray bird. The balhiir raced back—too late, again.

  Torm turned to Narm and Shandril, indicating the hopping bird. “Be known to—Lanseril Snowmantle; our druid. His every feather quivers at thy service.”

  Narm and Shandril grinned at the thief’s impudence. He waved at a heap of hand-sized stones. “And here’s where your service can be, in the fray to come. A thrown stone can spoil spells and aimed arrows better than the strongest Art.”

  Shandril took one and hefted it, trying not to remember the Shadowsil’s blood.

  “Not too quick with those stones now,” Torm added. “If they don’t see us at first, we’ll let them come ahead until there are some to slay. Strike when they notice us—not before.”

  Beyond the gap, a bobbing sphere of radiance floated nearer, dancing and playing like a curious firefly.

  The balhiir gathered itself and raced along the roof of the cavern toward the light.

  The radiant sphere shone on the robed shoulder of a lone, walking man. He wore a tall, large-brimmed, pointed hat. He was tall, too, and thin, with a long white beard, and bore a knobby staff of wood a head taller than himself. He strode in the air above the shifting rocks, and he hummed something soft and intricate.

  When the balhiir reached the floating globe at the wizard’s shoulder, radiance flared, flooded in a twinkling cloud, and died.

  “Put away that overlong fang, Florin, and light me a torch,” said a familiar voice disgustedly. “Ye have a balhiir indeed. Young Torm managed to cleave to the truth for once.”

  “Elminster,” the ranger said in pleased greeting. “Well met.”

  “I know, I know … ye’re all delighted to see me—or will be if ye ever manage to make a light to see anything.”

  Fire promptly flared on Florin’s torch.

  Elminster stood in its flickering light, his keen eyes fixed Shandril and Narm. “A fine dance ye’ve led me on,” he said gruffly. “Gorstag was in tears when I left him, lass; nearly frantic. Ye might have told him a bit more about where ye were going. Young folk have no consideration, these days.” His tone was severe—but his words ended in a wink.

  Shandril felt suddenly very happy. She cast the throwing-ston
e in her hand so that it crashed at the Old Mage’s feet.

  “Well met, indeed,” Elminster said dryly, “O releaser of balhiirs. We may as well get to know each other before the dying starts.”

  7

  TO FACE THE BRIGHT DANGER

  Tell ye of the balhiir? Ah, a curious creature, indeed. I hear it was first—the short version, ye say. Very well, ye are paying. The short version is thus: a curious creature, indeed. Thank ye, goodsir, fair day to ye.

  The sage Rasthiavar of Iraiebor

  A Wayfarer’s Belt-Book of Advice

  Year of Many Mists

  “I expected to greet cultists here long ago,” Torm said, springing up onto a high, flat rock, “or at least entertain the dracolich. Why so quiet, so long?”

  “Foes fear us,” Rathan said with a grin, waving at Florin, who stood guard by the entrance.

  “I’m so scared I can scarce stand still,” Shandril burst out, “and you trade jests! How do you do it?”

  “We always talk before a fight, Lady,” Rathan answered. “Look ye: One’s excited and among friends and may not live to see the dawn.”

  The fat priest shrugged. “Besides … how better to spend the waiting? Much of what bards call ‘dashing adventure’ is a little running and fighting and lots of waiting. We’d grow bored wasting all that time in silence!”

  “Hmphh!” Elminster observed severely, “all this jaw-wagging’s the mark of minds too feeble to ruminate.”

  As Torm chuckled, Jhessail rose from the rocks, the sparkling and glowing balhiir moving above her. She went to Shandril and took her hand. “Elminster, tell us of this balhiir. It’s not approached you since destroying your globe, so you bear no enchanted items. It’ll rob you of spells as it’s done me if we don’t deal with it. What say you?”

  “Yes, yes,” Elminster replied, “I’m not yet so addled as to forget the lass, or”—he pointed his staff at the shifting, twinkling mist—“that.”

  Settling the tall, knobbed length of shadowwood in the crook of his arm, he doffed his battered hat, with a flourish hung it atop the staff, leaned back against a boulder, and cleared his throat grandly. “The balhiir,” the Old Mage began in measured tones, “is a most curious creature. Rare in the Realms and unknown in many—”

  “Elminster!” Jhessail protested, “The short version! Please!”

  The white-bearded wizard regarded her in stony silence. “Good lady, this is the short version. ’Twould do ye good to cultivate patience … ’tis a habit I’ve found useful on a few occasions these past several hundred winters!”

  Pointedly he turned his head to speak solely to Shandril. “Listen most carefully, Shandril Shessair. In this place we lack all means for banishing or destroying this balhiir save one—and ye alone can master it. ’Tis a dangerous affair for all of us, but for ye most of all, but I fear there’s no other way. Are ye willing to attempt it?”

  Shandril looked around at the adventurers who’d so swiftly become her friends. Calmly they looked back at her. She stole a quick glance at Narm and as quickly looked away—up at the strange, twinkling, magic-eating mist above her. Letting out her breath in a long sigh, she met the Old Mage’s eyes. “Yes. Guide me.”

  Elminster bowed formally, drawing looks of surprise from the watching Knights. “Lad,” he asked, without turning his head, “ye retain a cantrip, don’t ye?” His twinkling blue eyes, grave and gentle, never left Shandril’s.

  “Yes,” Narm replied, unsurprised that the famous wizard knew such so much about his magic.

  “Then cast it while touching thy lady,” Elminster said, “and we shall stand clear. This will draw the balhiir to ye both. Shandril, thrust thy hands into the midst of its glow. Try not to breathe any of it, and keep thy face—eyes, in particular—away from it.”

  One long-fingered hand lifted in warning. “When Shandril touches the balhiir, Narm, ye must flee from her at once, as fast as ye can. All here, stand clear of Shandril from then on. Her touch may well be fatal.”

  The Old Mage stepped forward and clasped Shandril’s shoulders. If he felt her trembling under his hands, he gave no sign of it. The balhiir coiled watchfully above them both.

  “Lass,” Elminster added, his voice gentle, “thy task is the hard one. The balhiir’s touch will tingle and seem to burn. If ye’d live, ye must keep hands spread within it, and not withdraw. Ye’ll find ye can take the pain—a cat of mine once did. Use thy will to draw the fire into thee, and ’twill flow down thy arms and enter ye. Succeed, and ye’ll hold the balhiir’s energy.”

  Shandril looked up involuntarily at the twinkling mist so close overhead. It descended a little menacingly.

  “Ye must then slay its will,” Elminster continued, “or perish in flames. Ye’ll know when ye’ve destroyed it. Master it as quickly as ye can, for the fire within thee will burn more the longer ye hold it. Ye can let it out from thy mouth, thy fingers, even thy eyes—but beware of aiming the blasts carelessly. Ye can easily slay us all.”

  Shandril nodded. Her eyes were very dark.

  “Ye must go out yon entrance,” the Old Mage added gently, “if the dracolich or the cultists have not attacked us by then. Seek them out and blast them until ye’ve none of the balhiir’s energy left in ye. Let go of it all, or it may slay thee.”

  Their gazes held a moment longer, and then he bent slowly to kiss her brow.

  His beard tickled Shandril’s cheeks, and his old lips were warm. They left her forehead tingling, and she felt somehow … stronger. Shandril drew herself up and smiled.

  “We shall tarry nearby,” he said. “Narm will follow thee, and we’ll guard ye both. Be ye ready?”

  Shandril nodded. “Yes,” she said, mouth suddenly dry. “Do it. Now.” She hoped the effort of keeping her voice steady did not show on her face.

  Elminster bowed and stepped back.

  Shandril raised her hands over her head and cast a quick glance back at Narm. Reluctance and fear filled his face, and he slowly stepped toward her. She gave him a bright smile of reassurance. This, at last, was something she could do.

  The balhiir winked and swirled closer overhead, as if waiting to be destroyed.

  “Forgive me,” Narm said, “but this cantrip will make you—uh, belch.”

  Her helpless laughter rang out across the cavern. Shandril was still laughing as the magic was cast. Her mirth became a loud eructation—and the balhiir descended and enveloped her.

  She saw, heard, and knew nothing but curiously coiling sparks and a mist that smelled faintly of rain on leather. The pain began. Sparks, fire, energy somehow flowed into her, stirring her, awakening something.…

  Shandril bent her head back to gasp for breath, arched and stared at the dark rock above for some time, heard herself sob, moan, cry out.… It hurt! By the gods, it hurt!

  The tingle grew along with the searing pain until her whole body shook and twitched. She had to fight to hold her hands out. She wanted desperately to pull back and clutch herself as the fire spread down her shuddering arms and across her chest. Shandril sobbed. Blue-purple flames licked up her outflung arms.

  Narm rushed forward, though the fire didn’t touch her hair or clothes. “No!” He reached desperately for her.

  Elminster extended a long, thin arm and caught hold of one robed shoulder. “Nay! Keep back, if ye love her!”

  Narm scarcely heard the words, but the hand gripping his shoulder was like an iron claw; he could not break free.

  Shandril’s sobs rose into a raw, high shriek. “Gods have mercy!” Flames leaped from her mouth.

  Elminster waved at the Knights to get down and seek cover.

  Fire raged down Shandril’s arms and flared up from her shoulders. She could not see; flames of blue and purple rose from her nostrils and mouth. Energy rolled restlessly around her arms and breast, coiling and flaring, drawing all of her in. Anger blazed in her, coiling behind her throat and snarling forth in roars like Rauglothgor’s.

  Flames rolled before her nose. Startl
ed, she ceased her cries. She cast a burning gaze at Jhessail. The flames reflected from the mage’s beautiful, anxious face as pain spread across it. Waving hasty apology, Shandril looked away. Her veins boiled; her body shook. Something writhed snakelike in her, awakening fear. She couldn’t control it! She’d bring death to these new friends, to Jhessail, Florin, the great Elminster, Narm … No!

  The flames rolled away, and she could see Narm’s face. The reflected flames danced on it, his eyes meeting hers and darkening in pain.

  Elminster stepped in front of her love. His eyes met hers gravely, wise and knowing, calmly urging her on. How like Gorstag’s those eyes were—kind and jovial, roughly wise and knowing.…

  Shandril closed her eyes and clenched her teeth to fight the coiling thing within her. Heat and pain rose sharply, squeezing her heart in a blazing grip. From somewhere a world away, came shouts and the clang and shriek of swords meeting in anger.

  She fell onto rocks, and sharp pain exploded in her knees. White heat built within. She burned, shuddering, but she could master it. Exulting, Shandril rose.

  Blades flashing, Florin and Merith fought many men in the narrow mouth of the cavern.

  Shandril’s heartbeat was deafening in her ears as she ran forward. The elf and the ranger drew aside, steel flashing. Florin raised his blade in solemn salute as she rushed past.

  Shandril shouted. White lightning lanced from her hands, mouth, and eyes and crackled ahead of her. Wherever she looked, men burned and died. She heard screams and drowned them out with a long, triumphant shriek of her own, a howl that rose high and swept men away in flames.

  When she let it die away, the cavern before her was blackened and empty, except for dead foes in sizzling armor, blades smoking in their crisped hands.

  Oh gods, what have I done? Six, seven … twelve … how many? Is there no end to them?

  Shandril recoiled, fighting the fire within her. As she stood there, hands spread and smoking, a skeletal neck swung down into the cave mouth. A chilling gaze stabbed at her. Rauglothgor the Undying opened his bony jaws, and the world exploded in flame.