Dagamier was unsure what Guerrand had in mind, but she did as he had ordered and animated the shadows from the other side of the main entrance. Shortly, several dozen shadows were flowing toward the fight.
As the first shadows slipped into the melee, the gargoyles and hell hounds paused momentarily, unsure what was happening. Then one of the hell hounds unleashed a blast of fiery breath at the shapes, but it crackled harmlessly through the darkness. Guerrand was ready on the roof and immediately loosed a sleeping spell at the attacking hell hound, which crumpled soundlessly to the ground. Startled by the apparent demise of one of their own, two other hounds tore into the shadows and fell prey to Guerrand's spell. Both lay motionless on the ground.
The remaining hell hounds and gargoyles slowly backed away from the advancing shadows. In the brief respite, Guerrand and Dagamier quickly reestablished their charm spells that usually controlled the guardian beasts.
The gargoyles returned to their perches, chittering softly, their sights anchored on the shadows in the courtyard. The hounds whimpered briefly behind the fence, then fell silent, red eyes watching.
Guerrand lowered arms that felt as heavy as if a bag of coins hung from each.
Dagamier's head tilted to regard him. 'What made you think of using the shadows?'
Guerrand shrugged. 'My brother and sister and I used to play a game when we were kids. Back when the garden was more than weeds, we'd wait until dark and then tell each other stories about what all the shadow- shapes really were. Rosemary shrubs became child- eating ogres under moonlight, and the like. Then we'd dare each other to go farther and farther into the garden. I tell you it was frightening, even though we knew they were only shrubs.' He shrugged. 'Everything looks different in darkness.
'It's hard to predict how long it will take gargoyles and hell hounds to catch on/' continued Guerrand. 'They're really more brawn than brain. Still, as long as they think the shadows will intervene, neither side is likely to cross the darkness of the courtyard.'
Tired to his bones, the mage took several steps toward the staircase. 'This episode has taught me two things, though,' he confessed. 'We must be even more vigilant about maintaining the enchantments over such creatures-take nothing for granted. And, starting tomorrow, while one of us remains in the scrying sphere at all times, the others will begin practice drills for battle readiness. We'll have no more scrambling for the doorway like scared rabbits.'
Dagamier held the door open for Guerrand. On her face was an unmistakable look of respect. It was a look the high defender of Bastion had long waited to see.
Chapter Four
Standing in the underground laboratory that had once been Belize's, Lyim continued to ponder the oracle's message. She'd said that Lyim's former master had the answer to curing the snake mutation. It was not a new thought. It wasn't idle curiosity that had prompted Belize to thrust his apprentice's arm into the portal that night on Stonecliff. The archmage had known full well the consequences of the action. He alone knew the exact cause of the mutation, so it was only logical Belize could have fathomed a cure, if he were alive.
The oracle told Lyim to look beyond the grave for his answer, to seek it from Belize's spirit. However, what she was suggesting was not usually in the realm of a wizard's power. Still, Lyim had never paid much heed to the distinctions between schools of magic. If ever a mage had broken the bounds, it was Belize. Lyim had once seen the master conjure a denizen of the Abyss- was Belize's spirit really so different from that?
The spellbooks and other texts not used at Stonecliff by the former Master of the Red Robes still lined the shelves in the underground laboratory. The Council of Three had reviewed them after Belize's execution, having burned those he'd used, but found nothing else related to Belize's attempt to reach the Lost Citadel. They had then turned their attention to removing the ghastly remains of Belize's gating experiments.
Lyim rolled up the left sleeve of his red robe and began pulling books down to the table. He held one open with his scaly right elbow and thumbed through the parchment pages with his left hand, looking for references to conjuring the dead.
The snake bobbed back and forth for a short time, eyeing the paraphernalia on the table. Then it suddenly lunged at a candlestick, knocking over the metal stand and the burning taper. Lyim snatched up the candle before it could scorch any of the potentially valuable papers spread before him. In the meantime, the snake's thrashing also knocked an empty glass beaker to the stone floor and scattered several quills. Lyim yanked the cursed arm back and held it well away from the disruption while he struggled one-handed to put everything back in its place.
It was tough, even after nearly six years, using his left hand for tasks. He still couldn't write legibly with it, so he avoided writing whenever possible, or used a minor cantrip to make notes. Eating was a one-handed embarrassment-food simply refused to stay on his fork. He had resorted to drinking most of his meals, since he could hold a mug well enough.
The real shame of it was, he rarely indulged in his favorite mug-holding event: partaking of ale at the many inns of Palanthas. His face, though thin and drawn, was still perfectly handsome. Women continued to follow him with their eyes and their bodies. Until they saw the snake. Their horrified stares as they drew back convinced him that even solitude was better than their disgust, or worse still, their pity.
Books, scrolls, parchments, it took Lyim days to sort through all that Belize had acquired or written. He lit a third thick beeswax candle in the windowless laboratory, letting his tired eyes linger on the soothing yellow flame. Was he grasping at straws by trying to conjure some flicker of Belize's essence? Was he just prolonging the moment when he would have to admit to himself that there was no cure for his hand? He had long ago decided that that day would be his last.
Lyim looked away from the candle, eyes burning from the sweet-smelling smoke. Wearily he pulled down one of the last books on the shelf, a smallish, homemade thing, bound together with a brittle leather lace. It looked more like a collection of vegetable recipes than a spellbook of any import. The words had worn off the cheap leather cover, but an intriguing, tooled illustration remained. The picture was crude, unlike the finely rendered designs Belize had done. It showed a skull inside two nested triangles, a symbol Lyim had never encountered elsewhere in any of Belize's writings.
The book crackled with age as Lyim opened it. The pages inside were apparently much older than the cover. The first page repeated the double triangle symbol, but also bore the book's title: Achnaskin's Guide to Summoning the Dead.
Excitement sparked to life in Lyim's chest. His left fingertips lingered upon the title while he willed himself to remain calm and focused. Only when his pulse had slowed did he allow himself to turn to the next page. At a glance the page had no illustrations and
looked black with crowded but carefully inked text, topped by a larger heading.
Lyim shrugged, thinking the advice only common sense. Still, he took it to heart before eagerly turning the page once more. There began the anticipated entry containing the incantation, under the large heading: The Spell to Summon the Dead. He began reading with an intensity he'd not felt in many years.
But before long, beads of perspiration joined the streaks that already flowed down Lyim's temples, pooling in
