Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [25]
Idiot, she thought, too late, the bones cold under her fingertips. What have you done? She froze, waiting for some magical doom to befall her, or the old bones to take her rash hand in a bony grasp, or a stone block to fall from the ceiling-something!
But nothing happened. Shandril peered around the cavern warily, and then shrugged and lifted out the skeletal arm. It dangled limply at the wrist. Small finger bones dropped off into the casket as she raised the arm into better light.
Then she saw. Faint scratches caught the light along the arm bone she held-writing of some sort.
Shandril peered at it closely for the first time, wrinkling her nose in anticipation of a rotting smell that was not there as she brought the bones close to her face. The writing seemed to be only a single word. But why would someone scratch a word on a bone, then leave it here? What did it all mean?
Squinting, Shandril made out the word. "Aergatha," she mumbled aloud.
Suddenly, she was no longer in the cavern. The bones cold in her hand, she stood somewhere dimly lit and smelling of earth. She could feel cold air moving against her face. Shandril barely had time to scream as cold claws reached for her.
Narm, the mage's apprentice, swung his staff desperately, white with fear. The skull-like faces of the two bone devils he faced grinned at him as he backed away, trying to keep their hooks at bay and to flee from Myth Drannor as fast as he could. The devils were making horrible, throaty chuckling noises, tremendously entertained by his struggles.
Thunder rolled overhead, and it was growing dark here under the trees.
Narm backed away desperately. Thrice they had tried to catch him between them, and only desperate leaps and acrobatics had saved him. By turns they would fade into invisibility, and he would swing wildly at the apparently empty air, hoping to deflect an unseen bone hook swinging for his throat or groin.
Once, his staff did crash into something, but the devil seemed completely unaffected when it reappeared, grinning, just beyond his reach.
Twice now he had been wounded, and he was nearly blind with sweat. Magic as feeble as his own was useless against these creatures, even if he had been allowed the time necessary to cast anything. Magic had not saved Marimmar.
Narm had watched the pompous mage be overwhelmed after a few spectacular spells, then torn slowly apart with those bone hooks-the same bloody weapons that even now were tormenting the two screaming ponies. These two devils were only playing with him. The elf and his lady had gI’ven fair warning, and Marimmar had scoffed. Now the Mage Most Magnificent was dead, horribly dead. One mistake, only one, and now it was too late.
Suddenly Marimmar's severed head, dripping blood, eyes lolling in different directions, appeared before him in mid-air. Narm screamed as Marimmar's rolling eyes focused on him. The mouth opened in a ghastly, bloody smile, and the head moved toward him. Frantic, Narm swung his staff.
The wood cut empty air. The head was gone, gone as if it had never been there. Illusion, Narm realized in helpless anger, as the hissing laughter of the bone devils rose around him.
Around him! They had gotten on both sides of him!
Desperately, Narm turned and charged at one, swinging his staff wildly, trying to batter it down and win free. It danced aside, still hissing, its scorpion-like tail curling at him. Narm sprawled in the dry leaves and dirt, rolled over, heart pounding, and jumped up to his feet with staff flailing about…
He was dead, dead anyway… he'd never escape… if only he and Marimmar had turned back!
Then there was a blinding flash and the world exploded. Narm hit something, hard. Putting