also went to tell Elminster of what has befallen us, and we shall see some aid,' Jhessail explained.
'And if aid doesn't come?' Narm asked.
'Then our inevitable victory will be a little harder,' Lanseril said. 'If you don't mind saying, what art do you currently command?'
Narm grinned. 'I am but an evoker, lord. I have left one cantrip of little use.'
The words had scarcely left his lips when there was a great crash and a roar of moving rock. Suddenly, the world was falling down on them again.
She hurt all over. Why had none of the tales of adventure ever mentioned the constant pain and discomfort? Shandril rolled over, slowly, feeling many aches and twinges. Stones must have fallen on her. Nothing seemed broken, thank the gods. It was dark, and it felt as if she were somewhere underground. She could tell by the cold flash of the beljurils around her that she was still in the dracolich's grotto. Where was Narm? Then a gem flashed nearby, and she saw a hand inches from her own. Narm!
Helpless tears blinded her. The hand was cold, lifeless. Then another flash of the magical balhiir showed the hand-black hair, thick fingers. It wasn't Narm. In relief and revulsion, she let go of the dead thing. Where to go? What to do?
There was the faintest of scraping sounds to her left. Someone was moving quietly over the stones. 'Who's that?' Shandril demanded of the darkness, feeling for her dagger. 'What do you want?'
'Molesting you sounds good' a broken voice croaked at her elbow.
Shandril jumped, startled.
The voice took on a gentler, more human tone in the darkness. 'Well met. I am Torm, of the Knights of Myth Drannor. No noise now. It is best that no one think you still live. I will be your eyes and ears and hands until we can leave this trap. Wait here.'
Shandril felt hope leap within her. She reached out only to feel rapidly receding cloth. 'Thanks to you, Torm. Why would you aid a stranger?'
The answering voice was fainter as it moved away. 'I have a weakness for fair ladies who reach for boot daggers and face the unknown. Now hush, and wait.'
She 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 search for us even now.' Torm whispered in her ear. 'Your Narm lives and is unharmed. I will take you to him as soon as the dracolich settles down. For now, we must abide here.'
They both sat, and Shandril again felt the dead hand. 'Torm, there's a dead man beside me.' She took Torm's hand and guided it down in the darkness.
'Gods!' he hissed. 'It must be Lanseril. Jhessail told me it was Lanseril carrying you.'
Torm slipped around her and Shandril heard him grunt in effort. He began moving rocks. 'I'll help. If you roll the rocks to me, I can stop them here and you won't have to carry them as far.'
'Dangerous,' she heard him hiss through set teeth.
Then, in a gem-flash, she saw another man crouching with a dagger. 'An enemy!' she hissed.
Behind her there was a sudden grunt and then a gurgling moan. Torm spoke aloud, 'A dragon cultist, no doubt. Now quite dead. Now, Lady, I need you to help. We must get Lanseril's body quickly. Never mind the noise; the time for quiet is past.'
Torm handed Shandril a hooded lantern and slapped a dagger in her hand. He moved Lanseril's body onto his shoulder, and they moved quickly through the boulders.
Their route rose and fell in the rubble. They heard the sound of battle several times but never encountered an enemy.
Soon they saw torchlight, and a voice from beyond bawled out merrily, 'Where in the Lady's name have ye been?'
'Around and about,' Torm called back. 'I found Shandril and she found Lanseril, but he needs help. Have you spells left?'
'Aye, if the accursed balhiir stays elsewhere,' Rathan rumbled, striding towards them. Jhessail was at his back, and Merith, and-Narm!
Wordlessly, Shandril rushed forward to embrace him, passing Torm like the wind.
He smiled and said, 'I raced back to tell you that some seventy riders are coming up to the keep above us; dragon cultists, most likely. Shall we hit them with spells or take them by surprise down here?'
'No magic remains to us that we can trust,' Florin told him grimly.
'Well'-Torm grinned-'I hadn't planned on dying of old age, anyway.'
Shandril and Narm held each other, feeling that they could take on anything as long as they had each other to count on.
Torm tapped Narm on the shoulder. 'If you ever find yourself tired and need someone to stand in for you, just call my name.'
The look he got made him roar with laughter. Somehow, Narm didn't see anything funny about the offer.
'The only place the few of us can defend against so many is that dead-end where Florin found you both. Let's move,' Jhessail said.
The torches flickered as they hurried through the twisting tunnels in wary silence. They saw no living creature. There was no sign of the balhiir. Finally, they reached the dead-end and readied their weapons.
'I presume you returned to Shadowdale to stow away your magic,' Florin asked Torm. 'Did you ask the aid of Elminster?'
The thief grinned. 'Yes, but he always suspects me of youthful overexcitement. I know not how serious he thinks our situation. I did mention the dracolich and that ought to intrigue him into putting in an appearance.'
'Done,' Rathan rumbled, getting up from the healing of Lanseril. 'He'll live a little longer.'
Lanseril sat up with a sigh and locked eyes with Shandril. 'Permit me to introduce myself, good lady. After all, if one must die, it is best to do so among known friends. I am Lanseril Snowmantle, of… of…' The druid's words trailed away and he fell back with eyes closed.
'Is he dead?' Narm asked in alarm.
'He's fine; just needs sleep. One must sleep to heal. But enough of imprudent druids… let us speak of the chosen of the gods-clerics. Myself, for instance.' He drew himself up grandly, girth and all. 'I am Rathan Thentraver, servant of Tymora.'
'Well met,' Narm said politely.
Rathan was bending to bring Shandril's hand to his lips. 'Lady, with all this running and butchering, there's scarce been time to get to know each other. Although I dare say ye two have managed it. I know what it is to be young, and in a hurry.'
'I must ask-you are a cleric,' Shandril said, 'yet you seem so-forgive me, ah, normal, much like the men I knew who came into the inn each night. Does worship of the Lady Tymora not change one?'
Rathan nodded at her question. 'We do not 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 or maces in weary practice. The Lady helps those who help themselves. She doesn't ask for change, she just asks for our best.'
'Yes,' Merith said, working on his blade with an oily rag, 'the gods are strange. Those who come against us now worship the monster that nearly slew us all.'
'The Cult of the Dragon,' Shandril said slowly. 'Why would anyone want to worship a dead dragon?'
'Don't worry about them,' Torm boasted. 'I keep around me a few magics that should… damn!' The sparkling mist swirled around him. 'Well, I had some magic,' he finished ruefully.
'Why did it leave us before?' Narm asked curiously, watching the coiling mist rise again above Torm, drifting along the ceiling over them all. It seemed larger and somehow brighter.
'I think it went to the greatest concentration of magic,' Rathan said, his eyes not leaving the balhiir, 'either the dracolich's hoard, or the spells of Rauglothgor. Seventy cultists, you said?' The cleric grunted.
'And a dracolich. Let us not forget the dracolich,' Merith added dryly.
'Enough. Something comes!' Florin said sternly. The ranger rose, lifting his two-handed sword as though it was a thing of feathers. At his back, the knights snuffed out lights and readied themselves for battle. Merith,
