Suddenly, the creature began to grow. It continued down the rear side of the rock, boiling, shifting, and growing taller. The black surface flecked off. Beneath was purple cloth. Rising tall, and stretching slim arms out, Symgharyl Maruel smiled at them triumphantly.

“So we meet again,” the sorceress said with soft menace. “Cower there, dear,” she told Shandril, “while I deal in art with this young lion of yours.” Her hands were moving like gliding snakes. Shandril looked back at Narm. His hands were also moving, but she saw in his face the brave despair of one who has no power left to hurl magic.

The Shadowsil hissed a word of power, then took the time to laugh. Shandril felt red rage boil up within her, and she leaped forward. At least she would have the satisfaction of seeing the sorceress surprised before she herself died.

Death in the (…)

On facing magic: Run, or pray, or throw stones; many a mage is a fraud, and you can win the day even while your heart trembles. Or you can stand calm and mumble nonsense and wiggle your fingers. Some few workers of the art are such cowards that they may flee at this. And as for others, at least when men speak of your death in days after, they’ll say, “I never knew he was a mage; all those years he kept it secret. He must have been a clever fellow.” Of course, some who listen may disagree.

Guldoum Tchar of Mirabar

Sayings of a wise and fat merchant

Year of the Crawling Clouds

The glowing globe was in Shandril’s hands. Without thought, she swept it up and smashed it with all her strength into The Shadowsil’s face-The sharp singing of its shattering was lost in Symgharyl Maruel’s rough shriek. Darkness fell. Shandril dropped the fragments she still held and drove a foot hard into the purple-robed belly. The screaming ended, and Symgharyl Maruel sat down suddenly. Narm was running toward Shandril. “My lady! Are you all right? Shandril?” At his words, the sorceress drew a shuddering breath and fixed one glaring eye on Shandril through the blood now running down her face. Symgharyl Maruel’s hands began to move.

“Oh, gods!” the young man moaned in fear. Shandril stood frozen an instant. But with The Shadowsil caught up in spellcasting, Shandril seized a rock and smashed it again into the sorceress’s face. The rock struck with a horrid, wet thud, and Shandril drove it down again.

“Leave us alone, you bitch!” Shandril screamed at the sorceress, as the rock rose and fell yet again.

The Shadowsil struggled to block Shandril’s attack. She fell backward until she lay full-length on the rocks, bloody and unmoving.

“Shandril?” Narm whispered anxiously, as he clambered over the Jagged rocks to reach her.

Shandril stared down, the rock falling from bloody fingers, and she burst into tears.

Narm held her with a fierce tenderness and stared down at the sorceress. Neither her spell nor his cantrip had taken effect. Perhaps Shandril had spoiled The Shadowsil’s spell with her rock attack, but Narm doubted it. Certainly nothing had spoiled his casting. A twinkling cloud of light around Narm was all that let him see the fallen sorceress in the darkness. Symgharyl Maruel lay still and silent. Was it that easy to kill so strong a wielder of the art?

Shandril mastered her sobs and held tight to Narm. As they stood together they heard the distinct scrape and tumble of rocks beyond the rockfall. Hope leaped in them both.

Shandril looked up through the twinkling mist. “Do we shout to tell them we’re here?”

Narm frowned and shook his head. “I think not. We may not want to meet the diggers. Let’s shout only if they stop digging.”

“Well enough,” Shandril said, “if you stay with me.”

Narm held her tight. “Think you, fair lady, that I am a rake?” he asked in mock anger.

“A lady cannot be too careful,” she quoted the maxim back at him.

He grinned. “Please make known to me, Lady, when this carefulness of yours begins.”

Shandril wrinkled her nose and blushed with embarrassment. Then her attention was caught by the twinkling cloud surrounding Narm.

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know.” The young man tried to dust the glowing mist away from him, but it clung close. “Strange…” he said, but then the rocks grated again. They stood and watched warily for the rocks they could see to move. Once there was a louder, rumbling clatter, and a surprised male voiced a cry.

Suddenly, a glimmer of yellow light appeared, flickering between two rocks. The light grew as more rocks were lifted away.

“We should hide!” Shandril whispered, drawing Narm down into a crouch among the stones.

Torchlight blazed at them before they could move. “Narm?” a voice came from the darkness. “Lady?”

“Florin?” Narm replied eagerly, rising and drawing Shandril to his side.

“Well met!” came the glad reply, as the man scaled the rocks toward them. Shandril recognized him as the kingly warrior who had walked with Elminster in the mists between the company and the mysterious men who guarded the mules. “I heard screaming,” he said. “Is all well with you?”

“We’re fine,” Narm replied, “but she who screamed-the sorceress-is not. She will work her art no more.”

“Aye? So it is,” Florin’s face was impassive. “Danger sought, danger found. You did well. Our foe lies buried, but may yet live.” He stopped for a moment to squint at Narm. “Hold, what’s that?” he asked. “A balhiir!” he exclaimed, drawing back in alarm. But he was too late.

The swirling, sparkling cloud around Narm boiled up like the plume of a campfire when wind draws it into long flames. The cloud struck at the ranger’s blade.

“A balhiir!” Florin gasped again, swinging his sword away. But the mist was already swirling around his blade in cold silence. The weapon grew heavier in his grasp as its magical blue light twinkled once and then dwindled away. The twinkling mist remained and seemed a little brighter.

“Whence came this balhiir?” the ranger asked.

“Is that what it is? I struck down the sorceress with a crystal sphere,” Shandril told him. “The sphere broke, and this came out.”

The ranger gazed at his blade in consternation, and then smiled. “By the bye, I am Florin Falconhand, of Shadowdale, and the Knights of Myth Drannor. Might I know you?”

Smiling, she said, “Shandril Shessair, until recently of Deepingdale and the Company of the Bright Spear, though I fear the company is no more.”

“Your servant, Lady,” Florin said with a bow. “You have loosed an ill thing on the world. This creature feeds on magic. Only the one who loosed a balhiir can destroy it. Will you aid me in this task, Lady?”

“Is it dangerous?” Narm asked, feeling his anger rise.

“Your lives both bid to be filled with danger,” Florin replied gently, “whether you kill this creature or not. Striving for something worthwhile and going to your graves is better than drifting in cowardice to your graves, is it not?”

“Fair speech, indeed,” Shandril replied, meeting his eyes. “I will aid you,” she said firmly, calming Narm. “But tell me more of this thing.”

“In truth,” the ranger told her calmly, “I know little more. Lore holds that the one who releases a balhiir is the only one who can destroy it. Elminster of Shadowdale knows how to deal with such creatures, but like all who use the art, he dare not come near something that drains magic. Items of power all seem to fare poorly against the creature; it foils spells, too.”

“Well,” Shandril asked, “why should such a creature be destroyed? Doesn’t it leash dangerous art?”

“Fair question,” Florin replied. “Others might answer you differently, but I say we need art. There are prices to be paid for it, but the shrewd use of the magical art helps a great many people. The threat of art rising, unlocked for, keeps many a tyrant sword from taking what can be taken by brute force.”