Realms of the Arcane - Brian M. Thomsen [40]
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 crunchingly 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 inside. Dust and stone shards rolled in the center of the crater. Smoke rose from trees ignited by the thousand lightnings of the pulverized city.
Then, the sound of the impact reached them, a boom so profound that it knocked a few riders from their hovering mounts, and slew one griffon by shattering its breastbone. The riders were caught by already-overburdened griffons.