Torrid rainwater pummeled the shields atop his feathers and fur. Peregrin's wings unfolded. Already the tension of battle was easing from them. Josiah hauled a new battery of spells into his mind.
Here, beyond the edge of the floating city, the storm was black and omnipresent. Whirling winds… endless night… popping ears… The violent darkness defied direction sense.
Feeling sudden vertigo, Peregrin began to bank back toward the city. A strong crosscurrent lashed the rain sideways. He deepened his angle into the gale. A warm updraft enveloped him. He continued his turn, rolling over.
His wings lost lift. Griffon and rider plunged.
Peregrin foundered. Each flap of his wings dragged them faster into the fall. One wing caught upon the chaotic air, but the other lashed emptiness.
Josiah clung tight all the while. Hands full of saddle and wand, he shouted spell fragments into the buffeting air. Useless.
They spiraled downward.
Downward… At last, Peregrin knew up from down. He folded both wings, nosedived, and then spread his plumage. Feathers found purchase, and he soared out of the dive.
He breathed deeply, calming himself. How far have we fatten?
Neither griffon nor rider could glimpse the ground. Peregrin glanced upward, seeing the city high above. Faint golden specks swarmed about it, griffons regrouping for another attack.
Sorry, Josiah, sent Peregrin.
It's a thunderstorm, the mage said, the worst skies for a battle.
The griffon was already straining his wings to rise toward the floating rock. / don't suppose you brought any levitation magic…
The mage's reply was slightly chiding. I'd not considered this possibility. Then he sent, Don't strain too hard. I imagine we're out of this fight.
The storm's already done half the battle for us, anyway. Another five miles in this squall and Lhaoda would be destroyed, with or without us, thought Peregrin.
Yes, the mage responded wryly. He seemed to consider as he repeated, Yes. Why haven't they steered clear ofit?
Perhaps they can't steer clear, Peregrin replied. Perhaps the storm has damaged their navigation center.
Josiah perched a hand above his eyes and looked upward at the shimmering outline. He gave a gasp, and sent the image in his eyes to Peregrin: the city was much closer than it had been moments ago. Peregrin could not have risen this far this fast.
The only explanation was that the city was falling.
Falling? We haven't done that much harm, the griffon responded. He sent back the view from his own, much sharper eyes:
Firelit billows of spray rolled around the edges of the city. The torrent was so strong that it added a deep thrumming drone to the cacophony of the storm. Falling.
Peregrin fought his way forward through the streaming darkness, struggling to get out from under the thing.
Our fliers wouldn't have slain the levitation council, Josiah thought. That's against all the treaties. There hasn't been such a massacre since… His thoughts trailed away as he assembled a quick casting and began the arcane gestures.
It's not in free-fall, Peregrin pointed out. His surging muscles bore them clear of the descending city. It hasn't capsized. Somebody's trying to hold it aloft.
Josiah finished the casting. A chill went through the man and continued on, into the bird-lion. It's not just somebody. It's everybody. Their whole levitation council is still alive. They're gathered at the center of the rock, trying to hold it in the skies.
Peregrin made a long, slow turn, just beyond reach of the sinking city. The rock filled half the black, stormy sky above. Tith Tilendrothael's griffon riders swarmed the enclave. Did the Lhaodagms deplete their spell banks? Is there a magic barrier, or a negating sigil, or something?
The mage shook his head. No, nothing like that. Magic is cascading from that rock, but it's being drawn away, straight down. It's as though the storm has carried them-carried us all-into a dead-magic zone.
The city filled the whole sky now. Peregrin shied farther back. In moments, the rock swept with ponderous and terrific motion down past them. The rolling gray mists at the margin of the city were larger than tidal waves and roared like cyclones. The enclave's black underbelly was replaced by a bright city in ruins-fire, lightning, smoke, bodies, rubble…
Stunned, terrified, Peregrin hovered in the churning storm and watched the receding city.
'If this is a magic-dead area, why did my scrying spell work? And our attacks and defenses?' Josiah wondered aloud. 'And why are the cavalry still engaged?'
Griffons darted into and out of the ruins-birds plucking berries from a burning bush.
They're saving them, concluded Peregrin. They're pulling out as many Lhaodagms as they can before the thing hits ground. They'll be dragged down with it.
Peregrin tucked his wings, diving into a steep descent behind the plunging city.
Josiah crouched tightly against him and tucked his head beside the bird-lion's neck. He trembled, from cold or nerve or both.
The griffon plunged. Sodden paws trailed streams of water upward in their wake. Still, the city receded, agonizingly distant. Peregrin spread his wings and drove himself in its wake. He did so again. With each pulse of drenched feathers, the city grew gradually closer.
Josiah hissed. There'll be only a moment between the cloud base and the ground. Can you pull out that fast?
Instead of responding, Peregrin redoubled the labor of his wings. Rider and mount approached the city. Individual lightning strikes stood out against the wreck of stone walls and roofless honeycombs. Peregrin let out a shriek of effort. The wind and the storm stole it away.
Not enough time. They'll hit before we reach them, Josiah sent.
There's time, came the griffon's terse reply. The air's still icy and thin. It doesn't smell like steel yet.
You know you can't trust those cues, Josiah replied, not inside a thunder cloud.
The griffon gave a feline shrug and flapped again. A breath of hope filled him. Look, they're pulling away. That's two squadrons, at least. Gold flecks of catflesh were lifting off, flying clear. A score of them… two score… Each bore some wriggling resident of the falling city.
Hope lent new strength. Peregrin flung himself down the roaring chimney of air above the city. The clouds thinned. Two more wing strokes, and he broke through the smoky turbulence. A street soared up to crunch-ingly meet them. Peregrin swooped from his dive and roared out along it, heading for an old woman who was crawling from ruins ahead.
Pull up! advised Josiah.
Peregrin did not.
The clouds drew away. Rainy light flashed over the city.
She's too far away, the rider sent. Pull up.
The griffon's wings tore through a pillar of smoke. Beyond the city's horizon, the green fields of Netheril rose. The enclave was listing over…
With lion limbs outstretched, Peregrin snagged the crone. His tawny arms flexed, and the woman was embraced against his chest.
'Pull up!' Josiah cried.
Peregrin did, and just in time. The city dropped suddenly away.
It plunged, tumbling. The embattled ruins showed one last time before the enclave rolled entirely over. The rock broke free of the rain and glared for a moment in the slanting sun. Lighting followed it down, as though the cloud sent skeletal fingers to draw the city back. Stray charges leapt in three places to the surging forests below. The enclave spun once with slow grace. Its shadow blinked upon a dense woodland. Then it struck ground.
The monolith fractured into a hundred thousand jag-edged boulders, which bounded up from the point of impact and rushed outward, felling whole forests. The wet outside of the stone had cracked open to reveal a dry
