Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [101]
Beliarge of the Zhentarim choked and sputtered. His eyes bulged, and as Shandril tore her blade free, blood rained everywhere, With futile fingers, the wizard clawed the air and his throat, the rings on them powerless to save him. Blood spattered on the floor and on Shandril. Some sprinkled the oval radiance of the gate-and it rippled like water and disappeared. The Zhentarim staggered, fell clutching at his gullet, made a horrible gurgling sound as he kicked at the floor, and then went limp. Shandril was alone again. She shivered.
For a moment she stared down at the rings on his fingers, but decided she did not want to touch those bloodied hands or search him for anything else, either. Using a corner of his robes to wipe the worst of the blood from her arms and the sword, she looked around the room once more, sighed, and walked to the hallway, She was not going to stand here beside a dead Zhent…. the gods alone knew what spells might be set off by his death, Elminster had warned her about that once. Even the magical gate was likely trapped somehow to keep Storm and Tessaril from coming through, or Shandril from returning, So where had the good fortune of the gods landed her now? A short flight of steps led down into the hallway, and from where they ended the passage ran straight and narrow to the remote distance, from which she now glimpsed some sort of light, Dark rectangles lined its walls-shuttered windows? No… paintings.
Shandril went toward the light, glancing up at the pictures as she passed, They were hard to see in the dimness, but the first few seemed to be portraits of noble folk, staring haughtily out of the frames at her. Then she carne to one that was blank, as if nothing had ever been painted on it, The picture after that was covered with a sort of fluffy white mold that smelled of old, long-dead, spices, All that showed through it of the portrait beneath were two large and piercing dark eyes.
Shandril shuddered at their glare and walked on, The next painting was bare-except for a large, dark stain near its bottom, Shandril drew back. The stain surrounded a slit in the canvas; it looked as if someone had thrust a sword through the painting. From that gash, the darkness ran down the wall. like blood flowing to the floor, A small sound came from back down the hallway behind her, A scraping sound, like a boot at a careless step, it echoed slightly around her. Shandril looked back-but the hall was empty.
Silence fell. When she stepped forward again, the echo returned, Her own footfalls were now reverberating through the hall, though she'd walked down the first stretch of it without raising any echoes, Magic? A trick of the air? Or was someone really pursuing her? Shandril frowned again, What was this place?
She stopped, looked back again, and decided the likelihood of pursuit was all too possible, She turned and went on again toward the light she'd been heading for-the end of the hall, a small, lit area where there were three closed doors, The warm yellow radiance seemed to be coming from the walls; she couldn't see any torches or lanterns. The dark-paneled wooden doors looked old and all the same, None bore any marks or labels, and no sound came from behind any of them, After a moment, Shandril took firm hold of the cold brass knob of the door on her left, turned it, and pushed, The door opened into darkness. Something small and cringed whirred out past her head, circling her for a frightening moment, and then was gone down the hall. Shandril looked at where it had come from, but the room was too dark to see anything. She listened, Nothing, She closed the door and turned to the portal on its rightIt opened into a dim, dusty room with a worn wooden floor, As she looked in, the light inside seemed to grow stronger, The room stretched off to her left; she saw ceiling beams and a confusing array of crates, barrels, and boxes covered with draped cloth, She closed the door and tried the center one, It opened easily, revealing dark emptiness, Cold night breezes wafted in around her; the doorsill seemed to be on