s [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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,
SPELLFIHE
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
ED GREENWOOD
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. Wtould 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.
Tb 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,
SPELLFIHE
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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]