Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [30]
Moreover, she was very thirsty and badly in need of relieving herself. Food would be nice, too. Shandril sighed again, brushed sticky, tangled hair out of her eyes, and got up. Adventure, hah. Unending pain, fear, and discomfort were nearer the mark.
That, she reflected, looking warily about as she loosened her breeches, and never relaxing, not even for an instant. She was not surprised to see something moving high up in the darkness at the far end of the hall, flapping toward her.
There were three creatures, all alike, she saw, as they flew closer. Ugly things with pointed, curving beaks and barbed, clinging claws reaching for her.
Bat-shaped wings covered with rusty brown, dusty feathers flapped nearer. Small yellow eyes glittered nastily at her.
Shandril sobbed a curse, struggled to her feet, laced and belted her breeches with hasty fingers, and ran weakly across the hall in the direction of the daylight, dodging blocks of fallen stone. It's not like this in travelers' tales, she thought ruefully as she slipped on loose stone and twisted her knee painfully. "Come to think of it," she said aloud, shocked to hear how very close to tears her voice sounded, "I've not seen a single gold coin yet." She clutched the bone that had brought her to this place and ran on.
The sunlight came from two high windows in the far wall of the great hall in which she ran. Beneath them she could make out the arch of a small doorway, a wooden door carved with some sort of beautiful flowing design. Then she realized in horror that she could see no pull-ring, knob, or even keyhole. Wings flapped close behind her.
She reached the door, ran desperate fingers around it, tugged vainly at the ridges of the carving and the edges, and finally hurled her shoulder against the thick, polished wood, gritting her teeth against the impact.
There was a dull crash and she was through the door, its rotten wood collapsing into splinters and pulpy dust. She twisted helplessly in empty air, falling in daylight, down, down into a well far below. Shandril glimpsed huge trees and vine-covered stone towers.
Where was she now? Wild, helpless laughter choked her as she fell, and from a nearby stone spire a woman with wings sprang into the air and flapped in her direction. Shandril had a brief glimpse of dusky naked flesh, cruel eyes, and a dagger flashing as the wings beat. And then she struck cold water with a crash that shook her very bones.
She plunged deep; only the icy water kept her from passing out. Shandril struggled weakly as she rose slowly to the surface.
"Lady Tymora," she gasped as her face broke water.
"Please! No more!" Overhead, through darkening eyes, she saw the winged woman gleefully swooping and darting, dagger flashing, gutting the three little horrors who had flown after her. From the stories she had heard, the little things were probably stirges, and the woman… the woman was some sort of devil.
A devil. She knew from the tales that devils were denizens of ruins. And the nearest ruins, she remembered the talk from her last few nights in The Rising Moon, were those of Myth Drannor, the splendid, ancient city of the elves. Gods preserve me!
Weakly Shandril splashed her way to the edge of the well and crawled out. Her arms felt leaden. The magical bone was gone in the dark water. At least, she thought slowly, crawling away from the well with fading strength, there's nothing waiting for me in the well.
Then she heard splashing behind her.
Rolling over to look hack, Shandril saw great tentacled arms reaching up from the waters she had just crawled from. A cluster of eyes goggled about on one dripping stalk. The others looked like giant squid tentacles. They were coiling about and slapping at the winged devil.
Shandril watched as the female devil was overmastered, breasts heaving for breath, feathers flying, long-fanged teeth snarling, and saw her finally drawn down. She was s*ill striking feebly with her dagger when the tentacles rolled over her and sank,