Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [37]
Out of the last wrappings floated a fist sized black gem in a brass cage. From the stone, a neck-chain dangled. Fzoul put out his hand for it; and the beholder nodded approvingly.
'Put it on only when you wish to see out of the lich's eyes and work your will on it. Your identity and mind is shielded from Manshoon, the lich itself, and all others; use your will to break Manshoon's only when you deem the time is right-that will probably come when he tries to use the lich lord against you."
"What, precisely, is a lich lord?" Fzoul asked carefully, eyeing the gem in his hand. It felt cold and heavy and seemed to watch him menacingly, looking up from his palm and awaiting its chance.
"A failed lich, of an ancient sort. It needs to feed on spell energy to continue its unlife, and takes the form of a disembodied, flying human skull, able to see, speak, think, and cast spells. The gem you hold contains the soul of Iliph Thraun; through it you can control the lich lord absolutely, even to drive it to its own clear destruction. Your will prevails over all other spells, items, and inducements acting on the lichnee."
The beholder drifted away. "I strongly recommend you keep that gem hidden; at all times beware the treachery of Manshoon and the ambitious wizards he commands. I am grateful for the meals you so thoughtfully provided; you should be grateful that I forgive you for the poisons you introduced into the first one; sadly for your ambitions, I have been immune to those particular killers for several centuries.
Farewell, priest."
Fzoul stood frozen as the beholder drifted out of the chamber. Whatever unseen barrier had blocked the open doorway was gone now, or had no effect on Xarlraun.
Then the priest suddenly set down the gem and slid it away from him with hasty force. As it skidded into a corner, he hurriedly cast a spell. And stood waiting, tense and watchful, hands raised to cast another spell. Silence. Fzoul let out a heavy breath, and drew in another. Time passed. He drew another breath. Nothing happened. The gem lay quiescent.
Still protected by his spell and looking very thoughtful, Fzoul regarded it. Then he suddenly strode to the door, and called for six upperpriests by name.
Turning, he cast another spell-and the gem was suddenly gone from the room. He nodded, satisfied, and then set off down the passage, snapping orders to the priests at hand; there was much to do.
Chapter 5
OLD ALE IN AN OLDER CASK
At last even the old wolf lies down under the weight of his years. He may be strong, but know ye: some years are heavier than others.
Annath of Neverwinter
Sayings of the North
Year of the Cold Soul
"Up, lass. I know you're exhausted, but it's walk exhausted or meet death right soon-so let's see you up, lass!" The dwarf's rough voice was close by her ear, one strong hand gentle on her shoulder.
Shandril was adrift in a horrific dream: burning all the friends she'd ever known with runaway spellfire.
Writhing and arching in the flames, they melted away to blackened, bare skeletons-except for their heads, screaming at her in anger and agony. She heard the rough burr of Delg's voice from somewhere near and reached out a lazy hand. Her fingers found bristling hair, trailed through it-and caught in a tangle.
"Aaargh! My beard!" The dwarf's angry growl was almost drowned out by a shout of laughter from Narm. Shandril came fully awake, opening her eyes to morning light in the woods and to the angry face of Delg inches from her own, dragged there by her grip on his beard. Horrified, she let go and brought a hand up to cover her mouth in confusion. A breath later, looking at Delg's injured expression, she used that same hand