sudden flames hurled the men to blazing and broken deaths against the walls of the room.
Weeping amid the dying shouts and screams. Shandril lay sprawled atop Narm, feeling spellfire flowing steadily out of her. Twisting feebly, she tried to gather her will but could not stop the flow. The skull was draining her with frightening speed. A bright path of radiance, spellfire being sucked out of her forever, now linked her with the grisly thing as it floated low overhead, chuckling. Shandril struggled to pull free by willing a sudden surge of spellfire into the bone thing. It hissed at her in anger but the steady flow of its draining continued, and the fire within her was fading fast.
Narm lay lifeless beneath her. Shandril stared up at the grinning skull, and cold fear crawled along her spine. The only way to stop this skull slaughtering everyone in this town-in Cormyr, and even in Faerun-was to cut off its supply of spellfire.
And the only way to do that was to end her own life. Shuddering, Shandril crawled toward a dagger, fallen beside Thrulgar' s hand. The lich's spellfire suddenly flailed her as the skull realized her intent. It wanted all she had; she must not die yet. Tears nearly blinding her, Shandril gripped the weapon and slowly, determinedly, brought it to herself. Would dying hurt much? She swallowed, shut her eyes against sudden tears, and pressed the keen, cold edge against her throat…
The roar of spellfire that rose around her now was deafening. numbing; it shook her like a leaf… Could she complete the task? Angry spellfire thundered around her. Tears sizzled on her cheeks as the white heat dried them. She felt a sudden, chilling jab at her shoulder: the skull had set its teeth in her again. In the storm of flames, Shandril struggled on, trying to die…
Fourteen
When death comes unlooked for, it finds a way into the strongest fortress. It does no good to set extra guards al the gates.
'Ah, now we come to it, lass; 'tis time.'
'Time for what?' Storm Silverhand had been drifting off pleasantly to that place of dreams where gods whispered to mortals. Elminster had finished his tale, and the stars still glimmered watchfully overhead.
'For ye to guard me — remember, ye came on this ride to guard me?'
Storm rolled over and smiled sleepily at him. 'I still can't imagine what I can protect you against that you can't guard against better yourself.'
Elminster patted her bare shoulder affectionately and said, 'Stand guard over my body while I go dreamweaving.'
'Dreamweaving? You?'
'I know no better way of putting ideas into the minds of sleeping folk to sway them into doing certain things without clumsy coercion or betraying my hand in it.'
Storm nodded, stretched, and got up, shrugging on her leatherjacket. 'I knew it was too soon to take off my boots,' she said sweetly, stepping back into them with a sigh.
Elminster waved a hand. 'Ye won't need them-who's to see thy bare feet, out here in the night?'
Storm smiled. 'The ones who'll be attacking, of course.'
Elminster shook his head at that, and smiled. 'Ah, ye al-'
Then he broke off, swayed, and turned to her, his face suddenly grim. 'I must attend to things, it seems,' he said, snatching up his staff.
'Shandril?' Storm asked, her long sword already in her hands.
Elminster shook his head. 'Narm. When I trained him, I linked to him-and I've just felt him die.'
Storm's face paled. 'Old Mage,' she said quickly, 'may I?'
Elminster inclined his head. 'Of course.' The mists took them.
They were in a room of stone, strewn with fallen farm splintered and tumbled furniture, and small plumes of smoke and dying flames. Elminster seemed to know where they were. He was staring not at Narm's sprawled body, but at who lay atop him: Shandril Shessair.
She lay curled on her side, unmoving. A human skull hovered over her, its teeth locked on her shoulder. The flesh there shrank as they watched, dwindling toward bare bones. There was a line of blood at Shandril's throat, and the knife that had made it lay fallen by her open hand.
'By Mystara's bloody beauty!' Eyes blazing, Elminster was hurrying across the room.
The skull rose from its feeding, fixed its gaze on him and opened its bony jaws to hurl spellfire. The angry blast of spellfire tore through the Old Mage; its flames leapt out of his back and scorched the wall beyond.
Shocked, Storm saw him stagger, tremble, and then struggle on toward the skull. Elminster's body seemed to be alive with flames. He advanced slowly, fighting against the flowing spellfire like a man walking against a deep, fast stream. As he went, his staff blazed into life. Pulses of radiance raced along it to where the Old Mage's hands held it. When they reached his hands, he tossed the staff aside, grunting in pain. Storm thought he looked suddenly very old.
Elminster reached the skull, took it firmly in hands that caught fire, and hurled it against a wall. There was a roar of spellfire. Sparks as big as a man's hand-bigger by far than the blackened, smoking, ruined extremities the Old Mage was now holding up, groaning in pain winked and leapt around the room. Smoke rose where they touched.
Elminster's staff shattered with a noise like thunder, and the room was suddenly dark. A single, glowing light remained against the wall, growing slowly brighter.
The skull was cracked but still hung together, spellfire swirling around it. Storm swallowed, and then set her teeth and leapt at it, bringing her blade down.
The skull darted to one side. She pivoted and lashed out at it again. This time her blade just caught the edge of its jaw, and sent it tumbling end over end through the air.
Desperately Storm ran after the skull, trying to hit it before it could spit spellfire at her.
She failed. Flames roared out at her-and the bard flung herself frantically to the floor, landing hard on the cold flagstones. Then she was up, scant inches in front of the hungry blaze and dodging around the room, hacking at the darting, spinning skull as it spat swirling flames at her. She groaned, then screamed as spellfire burned her. Staggered, she slipped on a fallen sword and was burned again. The pain made her gasp, but she leapt over fallen townsfolk and fought on. She was burned again and again, the smell of her charred leathers growing ever stronger, Sweat ran down her limbs with the fury of her leaps and twists. She battled both the laughing skull, which hung always out of reach, and the agony inside her, which grew all too powerful as time went on.
Storm smelled her own cooked flesh as she raised a burned arm to drag her long sword around for yet another strike, trying to smash the skull in a corner. It ducked and weaved under her blade, and shot free-only to spin about and spit gouts of spellfire at her as she ran desperately along a wall. Fire was suddenly all around her again, and Storm rolled, scraping over an armored body she couldn't see. She fought to keep control of her stomach against the sickening pain of fresh burns. Though the pain made her weak, she kept up her attacks, trying to buy time for the radiance growing at her feet.
Shandril, whose body was glowing ever brighter. Shandril's eyelids fluttered as Storm rolled past her, and spellfire rained down all around. The bard staggered to her feet and faced the lich lord once more, circling to keep it from seeing Shandril. Storm's heart soared as she dished the air and forced the skull to back hastily away. Behind them both, Shandril stirred.
The bard could barely stand now. Spellfire roared past her ears, and she heard her hair sizzle. Storm stumbled, moaning in her agony, bracing herself against the fresh pain she knew would come tearing into
